Chapter 1
London, 1880
“Lucy, open the door, love.”
Noted businessman Adam Chevestrer heard a noise and grew hopeful that the door would finally open to him, but the scraping turned out to be the setting of a bolt.
He slumped against the townhouse wall, wishing he smoked so he’d have some way to pass the time as he waited for Lucy Makeblythe, lady’s maid and apple of his eye, to talk to him. He’d risen from the slums to become a leading mogul of the high street, but he wasn’t currently high in Lucy’s estimation.
It had been months since he’d seen her, and he was growing frantic that she’d locked him out for good. After what they’d shared in a ducal hallway—
The bolt scraped again, and the door opened slowly.
“I heard you’ve been making a racket at my servant’s entrance,” drawled a voice from inside. “I’ve been told to send you off.”
There, in the doorway to his kitchen, leaned Laurence Balistarius, Duke of Astwell.
“Don’t look so smug,” said Adam, shouldering his way in and taking a seat at the scarred work table used all day by the duke’s and duchess’s staff. Thankfully, it was late at night and the servants had all gone to bed already, hence Adam’s visit.
“Tell me: was your brilliant idea to holler like a fishwife until you stole Makeblythe’s heart, or did you have some other plan that I can’t fathom despite my exceptional intelligence?” asked Laurence, settling at the head of the humble table.
Adam regarded his friend. “You’re a real smug prig now that you’re happily in love, you know that?”
The duke accepted the jab with good humor, having just come down from the bed he now shared with his wife — to which he hoped to return most expeditiously. He owed some of that happiness to Adam. He’d give his friend five minutes.
“I’m required upstairs,” said Laurence, smiling as he thought of what had been promised when he left his wife Julia’s side, “so we should discuss your strategy. Quickly.”
Adam looked at his hands, trying to formulate a response. “Strategy? I’m rich, she’s a maid. I’ve tried to tell her how I feel. Is this not enough?”
Laurence regarded Adam with horror. “Jaysus, man! Are you proposing with a balance sheet?”
“Who said anything about proposing?” asked Adam, alarmed at the sudden escalation.
“Proposing an arrangement then,” said Laurence. “It’s not the eighteenth century. You can’t expect a fine girl like Makeblythe to come rushing into your arms because you’ve a splendid carriage and patronize my tailor.”
Adam slumped, shooting his cuffs. “He’s an excellent tailor.”
“That he is. Now, what’s your actual plan?”
“Return every night until she agrees to speak with me?”
Laurence nodded no, as if confronted with the most hopeless of cases. Thankfully, he knew something about how to recover from being a hopeless case.
“Why are you here, anyway?”
“Because I want to speak with her?”
“What would you say to her if she was the one sitting at this table?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” said Adam, scoffing.
Laurence looked to the heavens, as if asking for patience. Under his breath, he said, “Pretend that she is listening nearby, then. What would you say to her?”
Adam was not a stupid man. His heart beat faster knowing that she was near, likely eavesdropping on their conversation. He gathered the last shreds of his composure and spoke a little louder.
“HavingknownLucy,” he said, letting the verb fill in some blanks for the duke, “I would like to know her better. Spend time with her.”
Laurence leaned back in his chair, allowing the light from the gas lamp to caress his aristocratic nose. “What are you saying, man? You want to take her for ices?”
