CHAPTER1
London, England.
March 1819
There was a stench in the overcrowded office, one that had Lady Winifred Musgrave, nearly gagging. Sitting in her husband’s cousin’s solicitor’s office was not her idea of a jolly time, and Winnie needed air immediately. She would rather be anywhere but in the office with a man who took pleasure in ripping her future from her.
No doubt he was already counting the commission he would receive from the duke.
Mr. Harris’s manner was casual, offhanded even, and if she didn’t know any better, Winnie would have sworn they were discussing something mundane like a stroll in Hyde Park or the current Prime Minister. Anything other than the loss of her home.
“I’m afraid, my lady, that you, your mother, and aunt must vacate Brown Manor in three months. Since you are not with child, you will not be allowed to stay.” The balding, bulky solicitor delivered the blow simply, with a hint of glee. “The terms of your marriage agreement were clear—everything that your father bequeathed to you during your marriage belonged to your husband. Now that Mr. Musgrave is deceased, everything belongs to the Duke of Richmore.”
Blinking several times, Winnie forced back the tears that threatened to fall. One tear, one lip quiver, and men believed they owned you, and Winnie swore to never be another person’s property again.
After being married to Graham Musgrave for seven years, she was perfectly acquainted with being treated like an object and not a person. Her husband Graham Musgrave—God rest his soul—had been a despicable wastrel of a man who was handsome, confident, and entitled. Born the only male relative to the Duke of Richmore, he’d moved through the world as though there were nothing or no one he could not have. It had been a wonder, really, that he had wanted her at all. Winnie was beautiful, to be sure, but she possessed a quiet beauty that was nothing like her husband’s preference.
Often Winnie would stay up late wondering why such a man chose her, and the answer was simple: her robust inheritance. Though Graham had the Richmore’s powerful name, he did not have the Richmore funds.
Now Winnie was sitting in front of an indifferent solicitor in fear of losing the only thing her father bequeathed her to a man she had never met. It was no wonder that the next words out of her mouth were a complete fabrication.
“I am with child.”
Winnie held her head high after she spoke, careful not to show any signs of weakness. One twitch, smile, or any movement would give her away. Instead, Winnie looked Mr. Harris directly in the eye and silently challenged him to rebuff her.
He blinked several times, his mouth gaping open like the fish she used to catch with her friends in Nottingham. She would’ve laughed if she weren’t trying to keep her composure.
“W-well…Are you certain?” he asked.
The problem with everyone in thetonknowing your husband was a whoremonger, Winnie then realized, was that she would be thoroughly questioned when word reached society that she was with child. So, she had better be convincing.
Tilting her head to the side, Winnie observed the portly man, deliberately raising an eyebrow. It was her body, after all; of course, she was certain—certain her husband hadn’t touched her in their entire seven-year marriage.
At four and twenty, Winifred Musgrave was a virgin.
But that was a piece of information that Winnie had kept to herself. Graham had died a fortnight earlier, alone. She had rarely seen him at all, except once in the last six months. He only stayed an hour to berate her on her spending habits and reiterate what a poor excuse of a wife she was.
Winnie was thankful that her husband’s last visit was before his untimely death. It did not matter that she barely spoke a single word to him. The only thing that mattered was that he visited. There was no opportunity for anyone to know what went on between a husband and a wife.
No one except the servants, perhaps, but Winnie knew the staff at Brown Manor was loyal to her. Her father had purchased the home in Surrey for her mother to entertain on weekends during the season. It was close to London, but still outside of the city. They had gifted it to Winnie upon her marriage.
It was a haven when her father passed away, and her mother’s health took a turn. The servants had cared for her, her mother and her eccentric aunt, like they were family. Every servant at Brown Manor had known Winnie since she was a girl.
Now, Brown Manor belonged to the Duke of Richmore, and she was determined to do anything to get it back.
“Of course, I am certain,” she said, finally answering the solicitor’s question.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. “You must be examined by a doctor of His Grace’s choosing—”
“I mustn’t do anything. I will not have some strange doctor poking around me, harming my child.” She crossed her arms, feeling the truth of her statement.
She had learned early in her marriage that the key to being an excellent liar was believing it. Graham was the best liar Winnie had ever met. Her husband could lie and smile like a stage actor. So much so that he convinced her father to trust him with a girl of seven and ten.
Winnie dared not smile or even fidget as she waited for the shocked man to say more. She held tight to her indignation because if she were truly with child, Winnie wouldn’t allow a strange doctor to examine her.
“His Grace will insist on an examination.” Mr. Harris patted his balding head with a handkerchief. He was sweating profusely, his eyes shifting around the room as if he was waiting for the duke to burst in and demand she be inspected right there on the solicitor’s desk. “In order for you to remain in residence and receive a widow’s portion, you must be examined.”
Richmore. She had never met the man in seven years of being married to his heir and only relative. Now she would lose everything to him.
