Prologue
“Oh,” Lady Marjorie Forrester muttered, taking a hasty step backward to avoid Lord Belcast and his wildly unpredictable walking cane. “Well, a good day to you anyway, my lord.”
Pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders against the October chill, she even gave a polite half curtsy at his swiftly retreating backside for good measure before she continued up Bond Street. One never knew who might be observing, after all. The Season had ended weeks ago, and only those lords and ladies with the most urgent business chose London over the countryside and hunting, but Mayfair was never empty. And so she kept her eyes level, her chin high, and her expression a pleasant half smile. Ladies didn’t show perturbation. Everyone knew that.
Everyone, Viscount Belcast included, also knew that a gentleman didn’t ignore a lady and nearly trample her, either—which meant, clearly, that he didn’t see her as a lady. He should have; she’d been to boarding school and a reputable finishing school, after all. She knew which utensils to use when, in which order guests entered a dining room, just how many waltzes could be played at a soiree without risking scandal, and a thousand other things merely awaiting the proper moment to be enacted.
And so she remained a perfectly refined, poised lady on the outside. Inside, though, Marjorie seethed. She tightened her fingers around the ribbons of her reticule and clenched her jaw. For nearly three months she’d faced this daily nonsense, and for nearly three months she’d told herself that eventually Lord Belcast or Lady Ingram or Lord Albert Masters or someone would look her in the eye and nod or tip a hat or inquire as to how her day was proceeding. Clearly, though, she’d miscalculated.
Keeping her steps measured, she strolled past the milliner’s where she’d intended to purchase a new straw hat, and instead turned up Brook Street in the direction of the supremely fashionable houses on Grosvenor Square. It made no sense to purchase a hat when no one would ever acknowledge her existence, much less her choice of chapeau.
Two houses from the corner she passed through the open wrought-iron gates and up the half-dozen shallow steps to the grand double doors of Leeds House. As she reached the top step the left-hand door swung inward and the long-faced butler standing there in black livery inclined his head.
“My lady. We didn’t expect you back so soon,” he intoned.
Marjorie put on a smile. “I decided the day was too pretty for shopping,” she said. “I’d rather spend it out in the garden. Winter will be here before we know it.”
“Of course, my lady. I’ll have Mary fetch your gloves and pruning shears.”
“Thank you, Michaels.”
“And Mrs. Giswell is in the breakfast room. She… expressed surprise that you’d gone out so early—and without an escort.”
“If I’d required anyone else’s presence, I would have requested it,” she returned, disliking the brusque tone she heard in her voice and too annoyed still at London to be able to suppress it. “Please tell her that she can do as she wishes for the remainder of the day. I won’t be going out again.”
The butler nodded, then cleared his throat. “If I may, Lady Marjorie, I believe it will only be a matter of time before your esteemed peers see you for the gracious young lady you are.”
She’d become completely transparent, then. “Thank you for saying so, Michaels, but I think we both know the truth.”
Everyone knew the truth. She’d simply become the last one to acknowledge it. A few months ago, when she’d been Lady Sarah Jeffer’s companion and living in a tiny room in a tiny house that smelled of cats and mildew, she’d been perfectly acceptable. Perhaps she hadn’t attempted to shop on Bond Street, but no one had pretended not to see her. Lord Belcast had even nodded at her once, even if it had only been to acknowledge that he’d nearly stepped on her.
“They haven’t had the privilege of speaking with you, my l—”
“There you are, Lady Marjorie,” the exceedingly proper voice of Mrs. Giswell exclaimed.
Inwardly Marjorie winced. “Yes, here I am,” she said with forced lightness, when she would rather be punching something. “I’m off to the garden, as a matter of fact.”
“Michaels said you’d gone out. I know I do not need to remind you that the sister of a duke does not go anywhere without an escort. Particularly a sister who is barely one-and-twenty years of age and unmarried. If you wish to be accepted by your peers, you—”
“I would do well to be seen with a proper companion,” Marjorie finished, since she’d memorized this particular speech weeks ago. “Especially one who served as a companion to Princess Sophia.” She didn’t quite understand why Hortensia Giswell held up that bit of her employment as exceptional; Princess Sophia was the sister of the Prince Regent, of course, but there were also all those nasty rumors about an illegitimate child. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Giswell had left the royal household, though. Either she’d failed in her duty, or more likely, she found the scandal too unladylike for her sensibilities.
“Precisely,” Mrs. Giswell returned, clearly not reading Marjorie’s thoughts. “I know my way around etiquette and protocol. And, if I may point out,youwere the one who hiredme.”
“I recall,” Marjorie said, sighing. And she’d done so with good reason. Not only did Society dislike her in general, but even under the best of circumstances she would be considered too young to run a household on her own. Everyone knew a young lady did not introduceherselfinto Society, either—she always had a mother or an aunt or at the least a more mature female as family or friend who would show her about.
She, however, didn’t have anyone to step in as her mentor. And until very recently she’d never thought a mature female would be required, except to serve as her employer. Young ladies of her station—well educated, but three or four sidesteps away from the peerage—became either governesses or companions or the wives of shopkeepers. If she’d found a successful barrister or a parson, well, that would be the epitome of the level of comfort she might have hoped to find. And so she’d applied to be the companion of Lady Sarah Jeffers, a minor earl’s youngest sister, and had spent eight months fluffing pillows, hurrying out to purchase hair ribbons or sweet biscuits, and pushing cats off her lap. Until just under three months ago, she’d thought to spend the remainder of her life being someone’s paid… slave. This morning, she remained unconvinced that her new circumstances marked much of an improvement. Yes, she was the one doing the hiring, but she could well imagine cats in her future.
“Well, if you wish to stay by my side and protect my reputation today, Mrs. Giswell,” she said aloud, “I’ll be pruning back the rhododendrons in the garden.”
“You still need a new bonnet to wear to Lady Faresie’s breakfast,” the older woman countered. “She invited you, and so you must not embarrass her.”
Marjorie sighed. “I think she invited me precisely so her other guests will have someone at whom to point and whisper.”
“That is very likely. And it is still your first invitation to a proper gathering. In my opinion, youmustattend. At this time of year you won’t be facing the heart of thebeau monde,but the fringes. You won’t have a better opportunity to begin to fit in.”
That encouraging talk followed Marjorie all the way out to her garden, which spoke well for Mrs. Giswell’s determination even if it also made her own head pound. All of the opportunities in the world wouldn’t matter if Society had already decided that the sister of a jumped-up duke didn’t deserve recognition.
Heavens, when she’d read that Harold Leeds, the Duke of Lattimer, had died and apparently left no heirs, she hadn’t even dreamed that she and her brother might be Lattimer’s last surviving relations. Gabriel certainly hadn’t considered it; he’d been far too occupied with the war on the Peninsula to even read London newspapers. But there they were, the army major who became a duke and the lady’s companion who became a duke’s sister.
