Volume the First
Chapter One
London, England
Late April 1819
Lord Hugh Aldershot, Viscount of Tremberley, wasn’t lonely. It wasn’t loneliness that drove him from his residence and into a gentlemen’s club that, before tonight, he had hardly remembered belonging to. It certainly wasn’t loneliness that led him to indulge in not one or two but four tumblers of Scotch—itself not a rarity, after all. And it definitely wasn’t loneliness that caused him to stare out the broad window of the club with an expression that might look, to a mistaken passerby, quite melancholy.
After all, he couldn’t be lonely. He had his best friends, the Rank Rakes, his set since Eton, whom he saw more days than not. He had invitations to all the best balls and soirées happening this very evening, at the height of the London season, a privilege that many would, no exaggeration, kill for. Not to mention, he could have chosen to pass time with one of the demimondaines currently renowned for their beauty. Or take a tumble with a comely lady—of any class. Yes, the latter amusements were more the respective purviews of the Marquess of Leith and the Earl of Montaigne, two of his best friends, who had very particular penchants for the type of women that they liked to bed. He himself didn’t need to pursue a new courtesan every fortnight or find a fetching chambermaid around every corner, but he certainly could have and had done. No, most of all, he couldn’t be lonely, because he could always do what he liked most for pleasure and a warm bed. Find a ravishing woman in interesting circumstances—his friends would say complicated—and embark on a two-month affair that left him, at its end, sated in a way that he could not quite capture in words.
And yet he found himself staring out the window of what he supposed was his club after all and feeling for the first time in his life, at the age of two and thirty, a bit….at sea.
He knew what the problem was, of course. He just didn’t like to admit it. He was happy for John. And he adored Catherine. The Duke and Duchess of Edington seemed to have unlocked the secret to matrimonial bliss. He teased them about their joy. He told them they should sell viewings of their connubial happiness to society mamas with wayward, titled sons who shunned marriage. The young saplings would have breakfast with John and Catherine and be convinced that they had better marry. Their felicity could make a fellow feel a bit de trop, that was all. But it wasn’t their fault. They did everything they could to not make him and Leith and Montaigne feel that way.
Still, he couldn’t deny that things were different now than they had been. And it wasn’t the same sort of change for Monty and Leith because they still had each other. They were all best mates, but he and John had always been a bit closer and Montaigne and Leith had their own special bond. But now John had a whole new life—a bigger life. It wasn’t that Trem was jealous or wanted more…attention from his best friend. It just meant that, on nights like this one, when he didn’t particularly feel like entering into a complicated liaison or going to a ball or even seeing Montaigne and Leith, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
Lost in these reflections, Trem did not at first pay heed to the strange sounds coming from the other end of the club sitting room. Finally, however, the noise had grown loud enough that he was forced to look in their direction. They were coming from the back corner, an area partially obscured by a row of armchairs. At first, he did not recognize the unfamiliar sounds. And then he realized what they were.
They were the sounds of a grown man. Sobbing. Fairly blubbering, actually.
Smirking, he leaned in and tuned his ears to the noise.
“…she doesn’t…love…me,” the man said, his aristocrat tones slurred by drink.
“Come now,” said another, much more sober-sounding man, who Trem recognized as the Baron of Drent, a nice fellow at least a half decade younger than himself whom he remembered from school. “Why don’t you take a rest? Just close your eyes.”
“Can’t… Must reach her… You don’t understand, Drent…” the other man continued. “She is the most…beautiful woman…I have ever seen.”
Trem stifled a laugh, wondering what dangerous woman of the demimonde had reduced this young lordling—whoever he was—to such a state of idiocy.
“I’m sure you’ll prevail eventually, mate,” said the other man, irritation lacing his voice. “She’ll come round.”
“No….” the other answered, his voice sounding quite young. “I’ve sent her…so many letters… Doesn’t respond… Doesn’t want to see me… If the duke knew, he’d kill me.”
Trem’s pulse spiked. Dear God, were they talking about a gentlewoman? A lady of the ton? What duchess had tarried with this young lackwit?
Drent laughed. “If her brother knew, he’d make her marry you.”
Holy hell, they were talking about a gentlewoman. And not a duchess, but a duke’s sister. Who was it? He leaned in to hear more. It could be only a small number of women but no likely candidate sprang to his mind. If he had known his club would always have this much fresh society intelligence—which he had to admit he had always liked more than he should—he might have begun frequenting it earlier than tonight.
He had to know the identity of the drunken, jilted man. Trem peered over the armchair that blocked his view of the men and saw that the speaker was the Earl of Hartley. He looked very deep in his cups, indeed.
“Can’t,” Hartley groaned. “Want her to want to marry me. Want her to choose me.”
Trem snorted. The Earl of Hartley had been known for some years now as one of the best catches for young debutantes, despite the rumors that still swirled, after his inheritance of the title, that he wasn’t his father’s son. He imagined several disappointed ladies would take pleasure in the young lord’s pain at present.
Despite his princely looks and good title, Trem had always found Hartley a bit juvenile. And it wasn’t that he had particularly high standards. Montaigne, after all, was one of his best friends.
In short, Trem wasn’t surprised that he would be whinging about a woman, given that he had a rather whinging personality.
It was surprising, however, that that woman would be a lady.
Trem leaned in so as not to miss anything else.
What woman of the ton had Hartley compromised?
“Best woman I’ve ever had… So sweet…” Hartley continued to slur, seeming only half aware of Drent. “Best face…best arse…”
