Prologue
Victoria Square
London, England
December 1892
One would think it was a time of merriment in Victoria Square. Her mother’s laughter rang throughout the townhouse with none of the pomposity it normally projected in social occasions. Tonight, it tinkled like the crystal flutes being tapped together in repeated toasts and was as effervescent as the champagne filling those glasses.
Even from her bedchamber two floors above, Lady Piper Brudenall knew it was champagne. The distinctive pop of the cork had reached her ears numerous times over the last few hours. Her mother was indeed partaking of a hearty celebration.
Rejoicing in the death of the man Piper had cherished like a father for the past five years. Anger for the cold, conniving woman below brought more heat to Piper’s cheeks than the fire raging in the hearth. Open flame had nothing on the hatred burning in her heart. Randall Addington may have been no more than a viscount and stepfather—both facts the source of countless hours of mockery and disparagement on her mother’s part—but to Piper, he’d been the calm in the storm. The peace amid the furious whirlwind that was Celeste Brudenall Addington, Viscountess of Sedmouth.
Despite the sins of her mother, her stepfather had showered his love upon Piper. Called her the daughter of his heart.
He deserved better than this.
Better than a wife who took joy in becoming a widow.
Piper hadn’t even been allowed to attend the funeral. Though it was true that few young ladies did so in this day and age, the service had been a private one. A solemn and all-too-brief prayer over a stark coffin before it had been set into the cold earth of the Sedmouth family plot. Yet she hadn’t been permitted to attend.
To mourn.
She hadn’t been allowed to do much of that at all. If her older brother were present, perhaps things might be different. She might have had arms to comfort her. A shoulder to cry upon.
Instead, before a single shovelful of dirt had been cast into Sedmouth’s grave, Celeste commenced preparations to leave the viscount’s country estate in Basingstoke behind in favor of London society.
And plot her next move.
More than likely, the object of her mother’s latest ambitions was below right now. Piper could discern a reverberating baritone rumble between breaks in Celeste’s bright tittering. No doubt he was imbibing copious amounts of champagne when he should be wary of the viper’s nest he’d entered.
A light tap sounded at her bedchamber door before it opened a crack. Through the gap a pale, solemn face caught the glow of the gas sconce on the wall. “M’lady?”
“Yes, Edith?”
The maid swallowed hard, pity clouding her wide eyes. “Your mother would like you to attend her in the gold drawing room.”
Piper closed her eyes, praying for strength and patience. “You may tell my mother that I’m in mourning for my stepfather even if she is not.”
Edith nodded. “I understand, m’lady. In that case, I’m instructed to inform you that a pair of footmen will be sent to carry you down if you don’t come of your own accord.”
A part of her liked to believe her mother wouldn’t dare go to such measures. Unfortunately, that part of her was the portion that dwelled in hope and delusion.
Glancing down at the letter she’d composed, Piper wondered if the plea she’d written there, too, was nothing more than fancy and fantasy.
‘Harry, please! Where are you? Haven’t you heard the news? Oh, dearest brother, you promised you’d take me away from here. Why haven’t you come?’
Piper set her pen aside and capped her ink bottle. “Tell my mother I will be down shortly.”
The maid sighed with visible relief. “Yes, m’lady.”
* * *
“There she is!” The unspokenfinallywas evident in the tight undertone of Celeste’s voice.
There’d be reprisal for dawdling, though Piper had managed no more than a quarter hour before another, more insistent knock had sounded at her door. No doubt there’d be a few harsh words as well for her appearance, as she’d sacrificed none of those fifteen minutes to pretty herself for the sake of company.
In a drab black gown with her equally black hair bound by a haphazardly tied ribbon, her eyes red and swollen from crying and her nose bright as a cherry, her presentation reflected her unsettled emotions perfectly. And she was glad of it. Her mother’s indecorous breach of proper mourning etiquette deserved no better.
