But now the war was over and Frederick was dead. Eliza had heard from Damien that Nicholas had returned finally to London, but it would have been vulgar to admit her comparative lack of feelings for Frederick at this point. She had been fond of him, to be sure, and his had been a comforting presence, but love? No. It was Nicholas who had always held Eliza’s heart captive, Nicholas who had gone abroad with that token firmly in his possession, Nicholas who was utterly unaware of its burden and apparently oblivious to Eliza herself.
And now that Frederick was gone, Eliza’s lie stood barrier between herself and her desire.
Eliza did not doubt that Mrs. Whittemore was laughing at her, wherever that good lady had discovered her place in the hereafter to be.
Alone in the pale yellow breakfast room of Damien’s London house, Eliza did not find that her own disposition matched the sunny hue of the room.
She had come to London with high hopes, but thus far, there had not been a single opportunity to speak to Nicholas since his arrival in town the week before. In fact, her brother had shown a shocking return to the dissolute behavior of his youth in the past week, perhaps due to Nicholas’ influence. It seemed to Eliza that the two men were determined to visit every establishment of dubious repute in London. No decent woman could follow the pair on such a course and she had little opportunity to speak with even her brother, given that he was either out with Nicholas or sound asleep when home.
Why were men so obsessed with pleasure, even at the risk of their own welfare? These two had survived a war, though certainly Damien had sustained an injury to his leg that would never heal. Even so, she could not understand why they were so determined to drown their sorrows. They were home, alive, and more fortunate than most.
She knew that voicing any objection would only make her sound like the prim widow of a parson, but Eliza was concerned by their indulgences. Their mother, also in residence, remained blithely disinterested in her son’s habits or disposition. There was nothing of import in the dowager’s world beyond the cultivation of roses. It was a marvel that she had come to town at all, and Eliza could only assume that a quest for a clipping from a rare breed of rose was behind her mother’s choice.
Eliza read her brother’s newspaper while she lingered over her tea, a habit of which Damien was aware but disapproved. The dowager duchess did not know that Eliza read the newspaper and would have disapproved much more vehemently if she had. There was little chance of that lady discovering the truth, though, since she never left her rooms before noon. Eliza could not imagine why anyone would be concerned: the political news was sufficiently dull that it could not be unseemly for her to read about it.
She was just about to put the paper aside when her gaze fell upon an advertisement.
Ladies! Does your husband prefer his mistress’s bed to yours? Is your betrothed to be found with actresses and widows? The Ladies’ Essential Guide to the Arts of Seduction can teach you the skills your governess, your mother and your sisters never shared. Be assured that all enquiries after this volume are treated with the greatest discretion.
Eliza could well imagine that it would be intriguing to know secrets such as these. Why, a woman with such skills would never be overlooked by a man whom she held in affection.
Eliza’s own amorous experiences with her late husband had been less than idyllic and certainly not particularly informative. Not only had Frederick been a man of the cloth but he had possessed a moral adversity to pleasure: their couplings had been few and of short duration. Rendering the marital debt had felt to Eliza like a chore Frederick was obliged to perform, and thus it had become one to her.
They had met abed so infrequently that it was no surprise they had never had children. Though Eliza had always wanted a family, she had come to doubt that Frederick shared her ambition. If she wed again, she desired it all: love, a family and a secure future.
At this juncture, it seemed likely that she would never marry again.
Intrigued, Eliza read the advertisement again. It was only logical that there might be more to the deed than she knew. It also made sense that those who knew the secrets found pleasure in it. Why else did people so often indulge? Eliza did not doubt that the ladies who frequented the same establishments that her brother and his friend had taken to patronizing would know all such details.
She wanted to know them herself.
Oddly, there was no address in the advertisement.
How peculiar.
Eliza did like a good puzzle. She supposed the advertisement could be a hoax or a jest, but hoped it was genuine. She read the short paragraph again. It appeared that it was a book she sought. She wagered the volume did not appear in any library, so it must be the author she had to find. Sadly, there were no hints as to that person’s identity.
Eliza had to assume that the author was a woman. What kind of woman would know of such matters? While the author could be any woman of a certain age with knowledge of intimacy, this last detail—that she had written them down to share with others—hinted at an uncommon measure of audacity.
Could the author be a courtesan? Eliza felt a little thrill at even the daring possibility of conferring with one. She had never spoken to one of the Cyprians who flitted through society, though she had seen them at a distance in her debut year and knew something of them. Frederick had been scathing about their immorality—Jezebel appeared regularly in his sermons, almost inevitably after they made a rare visit to London—but Eliza had never been so convinced of their evil. It seemed to her that the transaction took two parties, one male and one female, and it was unclear to her which bore the greater blame for any resulting sinfulness. Courtesans were reputed to be educated and clever, which would make one precisely the kind of woman capable of writing not only a book but this particular reference.
Did she dare to ask her brother for a list of potential candidates?
The dowager’s bell rang, summoning Hastings upstairs. The girl was always prompt in responding and sure enough, Eliza heard her brisk footsteps in the upstairs corridor. The front bell sounded and Higgins moved crisply to respond. Doubtless some other soul intended to leave a card. The silver salver was thick with them each morning since their arrival in town, evidence aplenty that the Duke of Haynesdale’s eligibility was tempting to many an ambitious mama, and this despite his injured leg and his rediscovered tendency to be a wastrel. Doubtless, some even declared his limp and cane to be dashing, though Eliza guessed her brother’s fortune was the true lure.
While Higgins dealt with the caller, Eliza studied the newspaper from front to back once again, but found no further references to this mysterious Essential Guide.
If her brother did know more—he knew everything, it often seemed—he might not share his knowledge with Eliza. She was fairly certain he would disapprove of her question.
There was altogether too much disapproval at the current time, her own notwithstanding.
“Of course, he is at home,” declared a man firmly in that moment, interrupting Eliza’s thoughts. Her heart leapt at the familiar deep tones. “I carried him here myself not four hours ago. His Grace may not be awake, but he is most assuredly at home. Fetch him, if you please, Higgins. I will not tolerate his excuses after my assistance to him just hours ago.”
Nicholas!
“But, sir, I must insist,” Higgins protested, to no avail. Eliza often thought the man should have despaired long ago at the herculean task of securing protocol in Damien’s house. Such established habits had disappeared completely with her father’s demise.
The dining room door swung open before she could feel more sympathy for Damien’s loyal butler.
