London, May 1802

“A child’s birth should be a moment of joy, not misery.” The words cut through the busy hum of chatter in the dress shop, reaching the young woman in the adjacent fitting room.

“This girl’s origins are the most miserable, and the most abhorrent,” a second woman trumpeted. “Our society has no place for those with such sordid beginnings, if you ask me.”

The voices coming from beyond the curtained doorway cut Jo Pennington deeply, pricking open the wound that had been bleeding for her entire life. As she stared into the mirror, she had no doubt the two women knew she was within earshot. They had intentionally dispensed with any façade of courtesy. The volume and pitch of their conversation underscored their words.

“Indeed,” the first woman agreed. “I have it on the best authority that the girl’s mother was a baseborn courtesan!”

The seamstress pinning the lace to Jo’s sleeve was pretending not to hear, but her flushed face spoke of her embarrassment.

“‘Courtesan’ is too fine a term,” the second woman replied. “I know what happened. I’ve tried to put the memory from me, but I was there. And I can tell you the girl’s mother was from the lowest dregs of existence. I hesitate to use such disgusting expressions, but we must see the world for what it is, even though it shocks those of us with refined sensibilities. The woman was a slatternly doxy wallowing in a ditch. A stale and shiftless vagrant adding to the world’s burden. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, she was ‘a decayed strumpet.’”

Jo squeezed her eyes shut. She knew only too well the identity of the second woman, though she struck a different pose in the presence of any member of the Pennington family. Lady Nithsdale had indeed been a guest at Baronsford’s Summer Ball when the rain-soaked Countess Aytoun carried a hungry, mewling infant into the midst of society’s elite, only hours after Jo’s mother died giving birth in the mud beneath the cart of a kindly old woman.

But now Lady Nithsdale, loathsome and hypocritical, stood in the salon adjoining the dressmaker’s fitting room, loudly proclaiming all she remembered and even more that she’d invented.

How quickly the clouds blotted out the sun!

Only an hour ago, Jo had been basking in the joys of lively Oxford Street, with its large, bright shops filled with hats and bonnets, slippers and shoes, ribbons and lace. Eyeing the latest fashions in the company of her adoptive mother and sisters, she’d been so happy. While her mind had been on her intended and on her upcoming wedding, eleven-year-old Phoebe and eight-year-old Millie had been cheerfully cajoling Lady Aytoun into the absolute necessity of having matching dresses made for them from the colorful array of fabrics hanging in graceful folds behind the fine, high windows.

And now this. Again. Ten days before the wedding.

Jo forced herself to focus on the image of her fiancé’s handsome face. On his dark blond hair, his smile and his contagious laughter. On his broad chest and shoulders within his crisp naval officer’s uniform. On his large, warm hands holding hers in the darkness of a carriage. But even that could not blot out the hurtful, penetrating sound of polished malice.

“And yet I hear she’s to marry a baronet’s son.”

The second woman barked out a derisive laugh. “Your ears have not deceived you, my dear. She’s to marry Wynne Melfort, a strapping navy lieutenant with more than a few eligible young ladies competing for his attention this Season.”

“Melfort must be poor, I imagine. Second sons do need to make their way in the world, and the Penningtons are as rich as Croesus.”

“I assure you money is the only motivation for this match,” Lady Nithsdale asserted, the sneer in her voice clearly discernable. “The Earl of Aytoun has transformed a pauper child into an heiress worth twenty thousand pounds.”

Waves of shame washed through her, leaving her cold and ill. The young seamstress continued as quickly as she could, pinning the lace to the silver-hued wedding dress. As Jo stared into the mirror, unshed tears welled up, clouding her vision, and the delicately embroidered shells and flowers blurred.

“I heard they managed to have her presented at court, and as Lady Josephine Pennington,” the first woman continued. “I recall a day when money couldn’t buy that.”

Jo had been haunted by similar whispers since being presented in her first introduction to London society. Today’s assault was only different in its openness and intensity.

Before this year, her parents had successfully deterred her from attending the salons and ballrooms of the Season. Knowing that her obscure parentage would surely be a topic for the gossipmongers of London, they’d never wanted to expose Jo to society’s cruelty. Year after year, they’d persuaded her to stay at their estate in Hertfordshire or at Baronsford, the family home in the Scottish Borders. But at twenty-one years of age, with dreams of finding a husband, she’d won their anxious approval.

And then, immediately, she found Wynne. Or, he found her. Perhaps his initial attraction to her had been her dowry, but immediate sparks had flown between them. She knew they both felt it. Within a month Jo realized her weak-kneed reaction to the young naval officer was only partly due to his good looks and the intense blue eyes. Their minds were in harmony. Their trust complete. The ability to bare their souls, reveal the long-buried aches, and celebrate the victories joined their hearts as one. And then there was his protectiveness.

The memory of their walk in Kensington Gardens this past Saturday came back to her. They’d been watching the military bands when Jo became aware of the feminine whispers. The voices made no mention of names, but it was perfectly clear that the topic of the conversation could only be Jo Pennington.

Recognizing her discomfort, Wynne had grown angry. Hints and vague innuendo and subsequent denial notwithstanding, he’d been ready to call out one of the husbands. During the few weeks of their engagement, she’d become more aware of his growing frustration. He was willing to confront and challenge anyone in defense of her honor.

But she couldn’t allow it. It was not in Jo’s nature to let him make a scene. Idle talk, she’d told herself over and over. It would go away. The gossips would find a new target. She didn’t need any additional notice. And she’d rather die than have anything happen to him.

“Of course, what else should one expect of the Penningtons?” Lady Nithsdale scoffed. “The earl and his wife are no strangers to scandal. That family is quite fortunate that anyone in polite society recognizes them at all. You’ve surely heard the shocking tales of their first marriages.”

“Tell me.”

As the vile woman proceeded to expound on the Penningtons’ family history, Jo’s lip quivered. The pain cutting through her was sharper than anything the previous comments had inflicted. The lifetime of love and kindness she’d received at the hands of her parents, the affection she felt for her four brothers and sisters, as well as the extended family, made her wish she had the strength to tear down those curtains and claw the faces of the two women on the other side.

Her chin sank to her chest. Why couldn’t they just go away?

“I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid,” Jo said to the seamstress. “Pray, help me out of this and into my dress again.”

“But, mistress, the modiste wishes to see you in it.”

“I’ll come back in a day or two to finish the fitting,” Jo told her, retrieving a coin from her reticule and putting it into the young woman’s hand.

A few moments later, she slipped through the curtained doorway. Refusing to look in the direction of Lady Nithsdale and her confidante, Jo could not escape hearing the snickers of the two women as she fled.

“Why, there she goes.”

“Lady Josephine.”

She didn’t slow down as she passed a clutch of seamstresses standing around a bolt of scarlet silk, and went out into the front room of the shop. Since childhood Jo had been taught that life was hard enough and that there was no place in it for such malevolence. But these women had grown up in a different school. Lady Nithsdale and her lot had no souls.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Jo looked up at her mother waiting in the front of the shop with her two younger sisters. She’d promised to show them the dress once the lace was pinned to the sleeves.

“Where is the dress?” Lady Aytoun didn’t wait for an answer. “Something has happened to upset you.”

“Nothing has happened,” Jo lied. “I think the pastries we ate aren’t sitting well. Pray let’s go home and come back another day.”

Millicent’s gaze moved to the doorway into the salon. Jo thought for a moment she’d need to stop her from going in and demanding to know what happened and who was responsible.

“Please, Mother. I’d like to go now.”

“As you wish.”

Lady Aytoun acquiesced, but her dark frown reflected her true feelings as they left the shop. Her family, and now Wynne, wanted to protect her. But Jo couldn’t bear the humiliation of a public confrontation. There could be no victory. She couldn’t change the circumstances of her birth.

Settling into the carriage, Jo took a few steadying breaths to calm herself.

All the gossip amounted to nothing, she told herself for the thousandth time. The past didn’t matter. Wynne had chosen her. He’d asked for her hand in marriage, knowing full well of her parentage. Her future with him didn’t need to include the likes of Lady Nithsdale. She closed her eyes and tried to think only of him. Of their future together, away from London’s ton.

Phoebe and Millie’s chatter was a welcome distraction, and it served to keep Lady Aytoun from asking any more question on their way back home.

By the time their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the mansion facing Hanover Square, Jo had buried the incident at the dress shop deep with all the others. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door. Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, Jo stopped to remove her gloves and hat, and her gaze was drawn to the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall where she could hear men’s voices.

“Hugh is back!” Phoebe shouted gleefully, running in that direction with Millie on her heels.

Jo smiled at their mother, feeling the same exuberance as the two younger ones over the arrival of their brother. Only a year apart in age, Hugh and Jo had been inseparable since childhood, until his schooling required that he stay away for much of the year. And now he was serving as a cavalry officer for the king.

“I’m happy to see your upset stomach is already improving.” Her mother smiled, heading toward the open set of doors.

Before Jo could follow, an elderly footman approached with a letter. “While you were out, m’lady, Lieutenant Melfort left this for you.”

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

“Only that he was sorry you weren’t at home to receive him.”

“Thank you,” she said, breaking the seal.

She wanted to see Hugh, but Wynne was not one to write her letters. She wondered if this had anything to do with this coming Thursday. His parents and brother were to join them for dinner.

She paused at the entrance to the alcove. The letter was brief. The lines danced before her eyes, but certain words and phrases came into a sharp focus.

. . . wedding arrangements . . . I foresee a life of misery for both of us . . . we must break off our engagement entirely . . . Ever your servant . . .

“No.” The room tilted. Her body became numb as she reread the words in a rush of denial. Wynne’s face appeared in her mind. The moments they spent together were lies. His affection, his declaration of love, all lies. Jo’s dream of her future vanished like a drop of a rain on parched ground.

As her tears stained the letter, a strong hand took hold of hers, steadying her. Looking up through a blur, she recognized her brother Hugh’s worried face.

* * *

To the east above London’s steeples and rooftops, the sky glowed blood red, denying any promise of the sun’s appearance. The green meadows and woods of the park remained vague, indistinct, reluctant to emerge into the murky dawn light. Nothing stirred, not even the low-hanging cloud obscuring the Serpentine. Hyde Park was quiet at this hour. Deadly quiet.

The stock of the dueling pistol felt smooth and cool in Wynne Melfort’s hand. Tearing his gaze from the weapon, he looked across the dewy ground at the red-coated foe standing in the mist, silent and still, twenty paces away.

Hugh Pennington had come to kill him.

Wynne couldn’t blame him. He was Jo’s brother, and he was a man who would always defend her honor.

“Take your places, gentlemen.”

The notion ran through Wynne’s mind that neither of them should be here. He shouldn’t have let it come to this.

But how else could he have made her understand? His orders had arrived yesterday. His ship was leaving for Newfoundland.

He loved Jo, but if they wed, what kind of life was he leaving her to? His parents would provide a place for her, but their claws weren’t any less sharp than the rest of the ton.

Wynne couldn’t marry her because he couldn’t protect her.

“When I drop my handkerchief . . .”

Too late for that now, he thought. Honor. Jo’s honor was at stake. And Wynne knew what he had to do.

When the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, the two men raised their pistols. In the distance he heard the bell tolling in the tower above St. George’s Chapel.

Wynne shifted his aim, and the muzzle of Hugh Pennington’s pistol flashed in the morning mist.

* * *

The readers of the Tittle-Tattle Review, scouring the rag for gossip, found confirmation of what was already common knowledge in London. The third entry referred to the duel between Hugh Pennington and Wynne Melfort:

It has come to our attention that on Saturday last, two well-known gentlemen faced each other with pistols in the misty dawn light beneath the tall and ancient elms in the northern environs of Hyde Park. Captain H.P. shot Lieutenant W.M. over a matter of family honor. W.M. was carried from the field. At the time of publication, it is unknown whether the wounded gentleman would survive the night.