Chapter One
1812
“Beg your pardon?” Ariadne Hargrave snapped her fan closed. She turned to her sister, Marigold, with narrowed eyes. “You said he didwhat?”
The family carriage trundled through the still crowded streets of London while heading west. The whole family of four was heading to the opening ball of the Season.
While adjusting her spectacles, Marigold Hargrave repeated herself. “They say the Duke of Holloway killed his wife because she couldn’t give him a son.”
Ariadne was not surprised that her bookish sister knew this. At nineteen years and with a love for books rather than company, the third-born sister was more of a bluestocking than the belle of the ball.Thattitle went to Celestine, the second-born, after Ariadne.
“Are you saying that he confessed to the thing?” Ariadne’s eyes were as round as saucers.
“Not to my knowledge,” Marigold shook her head. “He did not confess, but most of the ton thinks he did it.”
“Where did you hear this from?” Celestine asked, frowning.
“My friend Lilian, when we were discussing Aristotle’s Rhetoric last week at Hatchards over tea and crumpets,” Marigold said, then added. .
“Then again, there is another rumor that she died from a lung sickness, so I would take the untimely death rumor with a grain of salt. They also say he had a child, but very few have seen her.”
Puffing out a breath, Ariadne fanned herself, “Then I am confused. Either her death was a tragic natural death, or it was murder; there is no middle ground. Either he killed her, or he did not.”
“What is true is that his scars are so macabre that they call him the Beast,” Marigold added. “He’s also reclusive.”
“That does not bode well, seeing as it is his house that is hosting the ball and his rooms that we’re to stay in for the night,” Ariadne muttered.
“Girls,” their mother, Ophelia, the Viscountess of Fairbook cut it sternly. “This is not a time for hypotheticals or gossip. It is thefirst night of the season, and your mind should be on positioning yourself to find good matches.”
Even though she did not see it, Ariadne felt her mother’s eyes on her. Her mother wanted her to set an example for her siblings; that was nothing new or unexpected. Half her life, she had mentored the other three when her mother was not able to; now, though, she had another duty.
Marriage.
As the first daughter of a Viscount, it was her duty to marry and marry well enough to give her sisters a step forward to find their own matches.
You must find an accomplished lord, with a good reputation, a good family, and a stable income that can help launch your sisters into higher society,her mother had told her earlier that evening.
As materialistic and shallow as those words were, Ariadne knew it was the way of the world, the way of the ton, and the inevitable future for the gentle-born ladies like her.
“I hear Lord Cumberland is attending,” Marigold whispered to Celestine, but not quietly enough for their mother not to overhear them. “Maybe we can dance with him.”
“Absolutelynot,” Ophelia scolded the two. “The two of you are to stay as far as from that reprehensible rakehell as is physically possible, do you hear me?”
“I know they say he is as handsome as the angel Lucifer was in heaven, but he is certainly the devil now. His escapades have been splashed across every paper from here to kingdom come, and the number of ladies he has ruined is beyond count.” Celestine whispered.
“May I remind you that a lady’s currency in the ton is your accomplishments and your spotless reputation. Both of which will vanish if you tangle with the likes of him,” Ophelia warned.
While the two murmured their promise to avoid the well-known rake, Ariadne looked over to the silent one in the group, Isolde. At eight-and-ten and just debuting, the girl looked uncomfortable in her stark while gown, as Ariadne had four years ago.
Of all her sisters, Ariadne worried for Isolde the most. She was rough around the edges, very bold and forthright, unlike Marigold, who was much more demure and shyer, or Celestine, who had mastered the art of tact and subtle flirtation.
Isolde was much more comfortable in breeches and shirts, fencing and horseback riding than in dresses and corsets, comportment and French lessons. She was prone to speaking her mind at the worst possible times and prized independence fiercely.
I do love her, but what lord would cater to those characteristics? Then again, who am I to talk? Most days, I have my hands in the dirt of the herbs and flowers I grow.
“Look sharp, girls,” their mother said. “I believe we’re arriving.”
Peeking out the window, Ariadne spotted a long line of drive, lit by gas lamps, heading to a massive countryside manor of the duke they had just been discussing. As dark as it was, she could not discern the color of the brick, but the multipaned windows gleamed with the light from within.
