Prologue
Wake Court, Shropshire, 1867
When Ann Wake, born Ann Cardmaker, entered his household for the first time, she carried in her hands a poorly printed family Bible, upon which sat a doll.
Edmund, Lord Montfort, initially couldn’t speak. He was too disturbed by the doll’s ragged attire and beaded black eyes. It was not the plaything of a silly young woman but the cherished friend of a child.
And this posed a problem. Edmund Wake had just that morning married a slip of a girl snatched from the schoolroom. A girl of only sixteen who escorted her doll into the house where she would reign as mistress.
Despite the importance of the day, she wore a threadbare work dress and had pulled her thin hair of an indeterminate color, likely somewhat red, into sad pigtails.
Edmund, in truth, had not orchestrated the dubious union — he being double Ann’s age and many times her consequence. The whole affair was a tragedy: Edmund’s feckless brother, Crispin, had seduced the neighboring girl. Crispin had then mysteriously fallen from his horse after a night of drinking and carousing at a local public house, And this left the small matter of the girl. When her father visited him and suggested she might be pregnant with Crispin’s child, Edmund quickly resolved it. He would marry the chit.
But he would not touch her, would not even gaze upon her, on account of her age.
He kept that promise to himself for fourteen years. Until he discovered her in bed, in his own house, with her lover.
Chapter 1
London, 1881
“Pretty as a picture,” said Edmund Wake, the Marquess of Montfort, as he gazed upon the newborn girl with the most darling of cheeks.
“Isn’t she,” said Adam Chevestrer, proudly cradling his first official child — after siring several aristocratic heirs for money. “Just like her mama.”
After a generous luncheon of her mama’s milk, Lauren Chevestrer looked at her papa with a dazed, cheerful expression. She’d squalled in the church during her christening, but a nap after the blessing and cessation of all activities involving water improved her mood considerably.
Lucy Chevestrer — née Makeblythe — was holding court before two duchesses and a viscountess, already a stunning social success despite starting life in an orphanage, then working as a lady’s maid.
“Mrs. Chevestrer seems to have taken to her new roles with aplomb,” observed Edmund, attempting to look away from the neckline that displayed how bountifully Lucy’s milk had come in. He needed a tup or he’d end up punched by the happy husband and father.
“Montfort,” said Laurence Balistarius, Duke of Astwell, as he joined them. Edmund had never liked the man, but some recent activities had suggested there might be more to him than Edmund had assumed — or perhaps he’d turned over a new leaf with the help of the Forest, the townhouse that served as the meeting place of the Grand Bucks, a secret society of men who periodically gathered to wear stag masks and share a very willing woman.
“Astwell,” Edmund replied. “I couldn’t help but notice that the child’s given name is similar to yours.”
Astwell chuckled and exchanged a knowing glance with Chevestrer.
“One of Laurence’s waistcoats suffered some damage early in my wife’s confinement,” said Adam, skirting over some details that Edmund could fill in easily, being a somewhat new father himself. “Seemed only right to recognize his sacrifice.”
“It was a favorite of mine. I suggested ‘waistcoat’ as a suitable name for the child, but I was instead told I must serve as namesake,” said Astwell, clearly pleased.
“We had hoped to see Lady Montfort today,” said Lucy Chevestrer, joining them at last. “Not that we aren’t happy to see you, Lord Montfort.”
Edmund chuckled. Mrs. Chevestrer’s forthright talk bucked convention but served as a refreshing antidote to the stifling conversation one usually had when amongst thehaute ton. In time, these new families and modes would rule society.
“I fear she resides in the country for the sake of her health. I will pass along your well wishes.”
***
On the way home from the baptism of Miss Lauren Chevestrer, Edmund couldn’t help but feel melancholy. His son, born last year to his then-mistress, bore his name — but only because she wished to ensure he would recognize the boy as his own. As if he’d let his only child live without support!
He had a son, a hale and hearty lad he collected weekly from his former mistress’s house, but Edmund would never be able to hold the babe proudly before his friends, as Adam had today. Society did not accept illegitimate children, even beloved ones like Eddie. Their mere existence might insult one’s wife and legitimate issue.
His wife, Ann — living these fourteen years in Shropshire, where he’d left her the day of their marriage — had not responded to the letter he’d sent apprising her of Eddie’s birth. He’d have hated for her to get wind of the news from some other source.
It was the first letter he’d dispatched in the course of their marriage. They’d not consummated the union, and Edmund had not even visited the estate where she’d lived these many years since their wedding. When one year passed after their nuptials with no report of a child or loss, Edmund assumed that he’d been soft at best with her father, tricked at worst.
And now he was 47 years old with a son he loved but no heir. A legal wife, but no helpmate.
