April, 1816

The trouble with London in the spring was the profusion of weddings.

The buildings remained as majestic as in other seasons, but people thronged the streets. Children and people who should have been sufficiently old to resist sentimental notions on marriage scattered petals with glee over the tilestones, even though any observer could see they didn’t know the couple.

Charlotte Butterworth directed the horses to move briskly past St. George’s, and the cart ground over fallen petals. Blossoms swathed the trees in pink and ivory and a thick floral scent Parisian parfumeurs no doubt strove to imitate filled the air. It was the sort of spring day which sent artists into a flurry of activity, and she passed more than one furrowed brow as someone peered over an easel. Some people might laud the compilation of colorful petals on the ground, but Charlotte had always found it an improvement when petals were attached to flowers. The petals that flitted through the air and landed on her dress, gloves, and bonnet with no discrimination, were certainly not an improvement, and she attempted to sweep them away while holding the reins.

I’m going to be late.

Charlotte had worked out the precise time it took to go from her parents’ home to Dr. Hutton’s office, but she had failed to take into account that this was prime wedding season.

Normally, Charlotte never made mistakes. Normally, though, she didn’t receive stern letters from physicians demanding her presence. Still, at least her miscalculation could be explained by the fact she always took her daily ride in the afternoon, when any engaged couples were safely wed, sated from their wedding breakfast, if nervous about everything else.

One day it might be you.

Charlotte pushed away the thought. Bluestockings were objects of jokes rather than marriage proposals. Her sister Georgiana was already on her third season, with not even the most tenuous of prospects, and mama had always said it would be easier to marry Georgiana off than Charlotte. A passion for gardens was easier to explain than a passion for numbers.

She entered Grosvenor Square, averting her eyes lest any of the ton recognize her. Her family’s groom might be sitting at the back of the cart, but he would be deemed an imperfect chaperone. She might be considered socially inept, but she knew no one could discover her destination.

My family has enough to worry about.

Besides, though crime in London might be high, Grosvenor Street was no cesspool of infamy. Charlotte was prone to driving by herself in Norfolk, and by the time she returned, her family would only be just rising.

She lifted her chin and urged the horses forward, ignoring the occasional upward eyebrow from someone accustomed to the unwritten rules of high society to being followed. She brushed aside the twinge of guilt that she’d assured her family’s maid she was only going to call on a friend.

It will be nothing, Charlotte assured herself. Absolutely nothing.

At last, she entered Hyde Park. She did not linger, no matter how pleasing the view of trees reflecting over the Serpentine or how spectacular the shades of blossoms were. No doubt she’d have the opportunity to see artistic renditions of the scenery later, proudly displayed by some matchmaking mama as testament to her son’s sensitive nature, as if a habit of dabbing brushes with watercolors could make people overlook a violent temper and coffers emptied at the nearest gaming hell.

Unfortunately, Rotten Row was not devoid of people. The bright sunshine had evidently inspired some members of the ton to personally exercise their horses. They veered their heads toward each collection of flowers with regularity. Women had selected sumptuous gowns, adorned with flounces and netting, for the occasion. They seemed unconcerned that neither flounces nor netting were conducive to outside enjoyment, and Charlotte felt self-conscious in her sensible gray muslin dress.

The sunbeams remained pleasantly warm, and the birds chirped spontaneous symphonies. Everything will be fine. The office’s letter had been stern, but that merely meant the writer might be well-suited to be an exasperated governess or tutor.

Nothing more.

Her chest still squeezed, and she pressed the horses to hasten.

*

CALLUM ATTEMPTED TO ignore the pain in his head and drew the curtains shut. The velvet fabric was an inadequate barrier to the sounds of festivity. Hades’ Lair could normally be counted on to be a luxurious retreat, but today laughter penetrated even that fortress of disrepute.

“I despise weddings,” Callum grumbled.

Wolfe snorted and lifted his gaze from a letter. “I believe you’ve expressed that opinion before. I take it you don’t want to marry my sister at St. George’s?”

Damnation.

When Callum had agreed to marry his guardian’s daughter, he’d been seven. Marriage had been an abstract concept, but now it was rather less so.

The new Earl of McIntyre might be his best friend, a bond most people would classify as the close variety, but they’d known one day they would be closer. One day they would be true brothers.

He sighed. He remembered his childhood vow to seek revenge on Wolfe’s father. His guardian had died during the war.

“It’s too early to consider a venue.” Callum forced himself to laugh.

“You’ve waited long enough.” An icy tone flitted through Wolfe’s voice. It was a tone with which Callum was familiar. Wolfe’s father, the late Lord McIntyre, had used it often on himself. Callum had never expected Wolfe to direct it at him, and a chill crept up his spine.

“The war is over,” Wolfe said, as if Callum could ever have forgotten he no longer needed to dodge sword slashes and cannonballs. “Celebrate. Be merry. Be married.”

“Of course. One day.” Callum gave Wolfe one of the charming smiles for which he was known. Unfortunately, perhaps because Wolfe was male, or perhaps because Wolfe had known Callum all his life, the man was unmoved.

“See that it’s by the end of the summer,” Wolfe said, and even though his friend’s eyes had a habit of habit of sparkling, they appeared stern. “Isla is not getting younger. You can live in that great big castle of yours in the Highlands. You’ll love it.”

“Yes.” Callum nodded his head with a vigor he hoped Wolfe couldn’t feel was feigned.

Callum knew Wolfe was right. Isla was his destiny, and he shouldn’t be dawdling about St. Peter’s gates, when everlasting happiness lay nearby.

It was just—

His chest tightened.

He didn’t love her.

“Don’t worry about the debt. My father always intended to void your parents’ debts once you married Isla,” Wolfe said airily, but if he intended to convey generosity, Callum only heard a threat. “We’ll be family.”

Callum didn’t want to nod.

Everyone had been talking about his nuptials to Lady Isla practically once he’d stopped barreling about in padded pudding caps, constrained by his leading strings. They’d lauded the good fortune they’d been born in the same year and remarked on how lovely Lady Isla’s dark hair would appear besides Callum’s fairer strands. Duty, they told him, would never be so pleasant.

And indeed, Lady Isla met any criterion for excellence. She was beautiful in the same way her brother Wolfe was handsome. Her features were strong: a straight nose, wide-set eyes, and an athletic figure formed from years of running over the Highlands. She was everything he should desire, and yet... He hadn’t chosen her.

Callum’s stomach soured. The fact was likely explained by the quantity and variety of drink they’d indulged in. Nothing else.

“Wolfe?” A voice sounded outside. The pitch might be low and melodic, the sort of alto other men might easily describe in exuberant terms, but it sent a rush of worry through Callum.

Isla.

She was here, in this dashed gaming hell. He supposed her presence here might be made respectable because her brother was one of the proprietors and because she was not searching for a husband.

The temperature of the room surged, and Callum rubbed sweat from the back of his neck, conscious that his hand shook, as if the action were novel. He darted his gaze at the door. “I-I have an appointment.”

“Nonsense,” Wolfe said.

Callum rose and backed toward the door. Perhaps the voice belonged to a different woman. More than one madam had barged into the gaming hell, armed with business plans, a proposition Wolfe, and he had always refused.

But if he were wrong...

I’m being foolish.

But his legs still swayed. He remembered that blasted meeting with his former guardian all those years ago. He remembered his conviction the old earl had murdered his aunt.

Now he wasn’t certain. Had he imagined her presence after all?

And yet marrying Lady Isla, making all his late guardian’s dreams come true, seemed suddenly impossible.

Perhaps he could investigate the matter.

Callum and Wolfe might have played cricket as seven-year olds, but everything had changed from the time when the crown of achievement had been praise from the nearest gardener.

Callum had been able to avoid pondering Aunt Edwina’s death.

The war had occupied his attention. The blood might have washed away from the flat plains of France and Belgium, the soldiers who had given their cries of agony might have long been buried, and Callum and his regiment might have returned to British soil, confident they’d saved the world from a belligerent border expander, but now the faint memories of his life before the war haunted him.

The returned officers and he frequented the same clubs and the same gaming hells, trying not to dwell on the fact the last time they’d worked together it had mattered, but now nothing they did mattered.

They had good memories, of course, but even those memories were important to forget, to not dwell on the fact that the most worthy thing one had done in one’s life was killing former members in Bonaparte’s Grand Armee de Paysans, one’s worth to the army determined by one’s ability to lead one’s troops to take lives with a similar, merciless ease.

No. Callum had found it easier to drink and feel the burn of whisky tumble down his throat. Whatever Wolfe’s faults, and his father was chief among them, Wolfe was diverting. Callum had known that the old earl would have abhorred his son running a gaming hell, and Callum had been happy to assist. Better that than to recall the pummel of a bullet through one’s skin, pondering whether one’s body could resist an overwhelming compulsion to faint, despite the pain and ever-increasing sense of lightheadedness, so one could continue to live, continue to kill, continue to fight for Britain.

But now things had changed.

Wolfe desired him to make good on his engagement to his sister.

Callum needed to think.

He couldn’t wildly accuse Wolfe’s father of murder.

Perhaps he should marry her. Wolfe was his best friend after all, and Lady Isla was decent.

And yet—

I need time.

Callum hurried from the room.

“Wait,” Wolfe shouted, but Callum didn’t want to wait. He didn’t even look behind him. Instead, he rushed through the corridor, wishing the club had been somewhat less successful, so the corridor would lack the multitude of sharp-edged furniture.

Finally, he pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the corridor. Fragrant scents invaded his nostrils, as if to distract him from the seriousness of Isla’s presence. She’d been safely away in Scotland, but now she was here, everything had changed.

Callum sent a longing glance at his curricle. He was almost tempted to grab some horses from the stable and hitch them up himself. Still, that would take time, and time was not something he possessed.

He dashed through the streets. People could stare; it didn’t matter. Dukes were allowed eccentricities. It wouldn’t do anything to hamper people’s interest in thrusting their daughters at him, and so far even running a gaming hell hadn’t compelled the proprietresses of Almack’s to refuse entry into that most lofty and lackluster establishment.

He sprinted toward the park, until his footsteps finally pounded on dirt rather than cobblestones and a floral scent invaded his nostrils.

“Vernon!” Wolfe’s voice was unmistakable and barreled toward him, even though the earl was supposed to be in Hades’ Lair, perhaps flummoxing his servants with requests for tea with which to entertain his sister.

Callum darted his gaze about Hyde Park. If only he’d run toward the city after all. Parks had a dearth of hiding spots. Flowers might be pretty, but their small size was not conducive to successful hiding. The trunks of the trees were similarly imperfect. Callum was no scrawny dandy. Muscles like his had a habit of being visible, a fact made evident by the number of debutantes and married women who fawned over him, even when they were not yet aware of his title and its accompanying significance.

Muscles were entirely without use now. There was no steed on which to jump, and certainly no roof upon which to clamber, in a manner more familiar in adventure stories written by the like of Loretta van Lochen. There was only grass, flowers, trees and—

Trees.

Perhaps he might not be successful in hiding behind a tree, but he could certainly climb one. He dashed away from the path, and then scrambled up a tree, thankful for the expertise in tree climbing he’d gained in Scotland. His brother Hamish had strived to conform to Lord and Lady McIntyre’s expectations, but even Hamish hadn’t been able to resist the joys of scaling the chestnut trees that lined the estate.

Callum pulled himself onto a bough. His legs still dangled, and he crawled further along the bark surface and found a less discernible perch.

Yes.

This worked.

Wolfe still sprinted toward him, but his gaze was darting about the park and not up toward tree limbs.

Good.

Callum relaxed against the familiar rough texture of the branches. The blossoms were rather less familiar. Spring days had a tendency to shower, and Callum struggled to remember if he’d ever climbed a tree when it had been in full bloom.

Though a tree covered with blossoms should be as convenient as a tree covered in leaves, the tiny pink and white buds, no matter how often their beauty was extolled, irritated his eyes. They fluttered about, drifting down around him.

Leaves never did this. Leaves were far superior.

Callum shifted his position on the branch, but no place was secure from the consistent flutter of white and pink petals. His nose twitched.

Blast.

Callum was the Duke of Vernon. He came from a good Scottish family. He wasn’t going to succumb to a sneeze. That was the sort of thing that might have him lose his balance and lead to immediate discovery. Callum had attended the theater. He knew how these things happened.

His nose twitched again, and his eyes stung. The pink and white petals clung to his attire, and a bird tilted his head at him, perhaps disgruntled at the oversized company.

“Vernon!” Wolfe hollered. “You must be here somewhere.”

At least Wolfe had not chosen to call him by his Christian name like some naughty boy. That seemed a meager consolation, and some of the well-dressed members of the ton halted their strolls in curiosity.

Callum needed to slip from this tree. He needed another way to avoid Wolfe. He needed—

Callum’s gaze dropped on a cart, coming along the lane. Some chit was urging her horses forward. She’d installed her groom in the back of the cart, and Callum grinned.

Unlike Callum, this woman was not attired for an evening indulging in vices. Instead, she was dressed in a far more appropriate morning dress. The murky brown garment could be the definition of practical, and her fichu left everything to the imagination.

The woman had evidently decided to brave the park with no chaperone.

Well, she’d left room for him.

Jumping into a strange woman’s cart was unideal, but at least he wasn’t jumping into the carriage of someone he knew. One would rather get tired of apologizing. Imagine if one of the proprietresses of Almack’s had been riding below. Not that a proprietress would be riding by herself.

Perhaps this was some servant, tasked to circle the park while her mistress misbehaved with some Corinthian. He glanced at the woman again. Yes, that must be it. Her attire lacked the flourish of most women of the ton. There was a definite dearth of flounces on her gown, and her sleeves did not possess the requisite fullness women had prided themselves in all season.

Callum inhaled and released his hold on the branch. If Wolfe saw him now, it wouldn’t matter; he had an escape vehicle. He plummeted through the air and, with a thump, came to an abrupt halt beside the woman. He did not land on the ground beside the cart, a fate a less accomplished person might endure. He brushed his breeches. His bottom might ache, but that was a minor matter. He turned to his new companion and grinned.