Chapter One
September 1816
The Year Without a Summer
“I fear the worst, Auntie.” Miss Jane Hancock pulled her pelisse protectively tighter to ward off the chill of an unnaturally brisk September morning. “Mr. Rutley never calls a meeting unless he wishes to torment children or beat small animals.”
Mrs. Hester Byrd squeezed Jane’s arm with reassurance. “Chin up, my dear. You have weathered vicious storms before. What further menace could he offer?”
Jane regarded her father’s younger sister with a sigh. “I do not know. However, given our dismal financial obligations, I entertain some dire notions.”
She shifted her attention to the crowded, muddied pavement in search of Rutley’s office in the heart of London. The towering presence of St. Paul’s Cathedral lifted her gaze. She launched a brief prayer toward the church before returning her focus to the bustling street. Her abrupt halt nearly caused Hester to stumble.
“Jane? You act as if you’ve seen the devil.”
“Worse, Auntie. It’shim.”
Jane stared daggers at the familiar man emerging from a carriage not ten steps ahead. Adam Ashford. The mortal enemy. The fountain of all ills. He tipped his impeccable top hat to the driver, straightened his stylish cravat, and turned. As he locked smoldering brown eyes with hers, his smile melted into a scowl that squared his jaw. They glared at each other for five interminable seconds before Aunt Hester fractured the stalemate.
“Mr. Ashford. How unexpected to encounter a neighbor so far from the confines of Oxfordshire.”
He nodded grimly toward Aunt Hester. “Mrs. Byrd.”
A sharp elbow from her aunt freed Jane’s gritted teeth. “Mr. Ashford.”
“Miss Hancock.”
The exchange of greetings proved more spat than spoken. Jane leaned toward her aunt. “When I said I feared the worst, I did not anticipate such an unfortunate scenario.” She spoke loudly enough for Ashford to overhear. “We do so well to avoid one another back home. A chance meeting in London can only be considered a bad omen.”
“Clearly,” he said. “I would have consulted a witch, had I known. However, as you were here, Oxfordshire was short of witches.”
“And now clearly short of asses. I wonder who will pull the manure cart in your absence?”
“Perhaps one of your many suitors.” He paused. “Oh, apologies. I forgot. You have no suitors.”
No thanks to you,she thought. She flashed a smile meant to slice. “If suitors are all of your species, sir, then I prefer a dog. At least they possess the good sense to cease howling from time to time.”
He opened his mouth but clicked it shut and pivoted to stride away. Jane’s smile dissolved as she watched his retreating form. She scrutinized his expensive top boots, tight breeches, and snug spencer that hugged shoulders more becoming of a boxer than a proper gentleman. What an arrogant dandy, so smug in his station! Only the slight unruliness of his auburn hair detracted from his dapper appearance.
“Jane.”
She blinked and looked at her aunt. The woman smiled wanly. “The first rule of effective feuding, dear, is to never ogle the enemy.”
Jane flushed with guilty indignation. “I am certainly not ogling Mr. Ashford. I merely offer cold disregard.”
“If you insist.”
A wicked retort died on her lips when Ashford abruptly ducked into a familiar door ahead. Rutley’s office. A wave of dread swept over her. Had Ashford conspired with Rutley to finally ruin the Hancock family after four generations of trying? Aunt Hester’s tense grip seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. Jane swallowed alarm, straightened her spine, and followed Ashford’s path to the office and through the ornate green door.
A moment passed as her eyes adjusted to the dim, wood-paneled interior lit by a pair of meager oil lamps. She found three men scrutinizing her with wildly different expressions. Ashford narrowed his eyes, clearly surprised by her entrance. Mr. Rutley, an aging whip of a man, devoid of hair and empathy, smiled like a serpent preparing to dine. A third man—middle-aged, tall, and grim—regarded her as if assessing the quality of market cabbage. She did not realize she had stopped until Aunt Hester prodded her toward Rutley’s desk. The motion of her feet loosened her tongue.
“What is this about, Mr. Rutley?”
“No pleasantries? Right, then. I am not one to beat about the bush anyway.” He motioned to the stranger at his side. “This is Mr. Barlow, whom I have contracted for legal counsel on this particular matter. You should know that he is one of the most effective solicitors in all of London.”
“Themost effective,” Barlow corrected. “You need not understate for the sake of my humility. I can endure the praise.”
Aunt Hester laughed. “You appear to offer yourself praise enough, Mr. Barlow. More seems redundant.”
