Chapter One
Brighton, Late July 1815
Brighton! thou loveliest neighbour of the wave,
Whose stately cliffs the rolling surges lave,
Where roseate health, amid the breezes play,
Whose gentle breathings cool the fervid ray
Of scorching summer.
–Brighton. A Poemby Mary Lloyd, 1809
WITH A SHARP SNAP,Glynnis Talbot closed the book she’d borrowed from Miss Widgett's circulating library and set it upon the table before her. While the long poem about Brighton painted an accurate picture of what she’d seen so far, it didn’t bring her any closer to her true aim, nor for that matter had the costly expense of coach fare and a sunny hotel room.
Glynnis was ready to tear her hair out, which would be a shame as she considered her dark and glossy locks to be one of her more stunning features. London had been a disaster when it came to snagging a husband, Bath had been woefully barren of eligible bachelors, and now Brighton was giving her a fit of the blue devils. Moreover, she was nearly out of blunt. To put it plainly, she was a hairsbreadth away from being entirely dished up, mucked out, and penniless.
A viscount’s only daughter ought to have a generous allowance and a substantial dowry. She had neither. Unlike her ne’er-do-well brother, she hadn’t gambled her money away, nor spent it on lady-birds and lightskirts. She had used every penny to keep their London home running as best she could. However, Rhys had the saving grace of a face that could charm the skirts off a woman while sharing her coin purse, too! He was considered by one and all as a bang-up dashing cove! Moreover, his impending title kept him a valuable commodity on the marriage market for those females wishing to one day become a viscountess.
Glynnis had the family good looks to be sure, sable-colored hair and even darker brown eyes. However, no title and no money made her less desirable than any number of marriageable young ladies who had one or both, even if they were dowdy or tart-tongued shrews.
During the past London Season, without a wealthy patron to sponsor her and with her parents remaining steadfastly in Wales, she’d been shoved aside like three-day old haddock instead of valued as a young lady with good humor and a tad more than a feather-brain.
Why, all she wanted was a halfway attractive buck — naturally plump in the pocket — someone with whom she could get leg-shackled.Why was that so hard?
After her brother spent a month’s allowance from their parents by the end of a single week, Glynnis had given up trying to keep their London home and gone uninvited to Bath, hoping to find a single man who would appreciate a woman of sense and style. While residing with a spinster great aunt who enjoyed eating slip-slops for every meal, she’d discovered the resort to be populated by elderly couples and widows, mostly staying there for health reasons.
The foreshadowing of her own future — frighteningly embodied by her fussy, gray-haired Aunt Mimsella with too many cats roaming her small home — caused Glynnis to take flight after a week and a half. While her aunt believed she’d gone home to Llandeilo, just north of the Swansea Bay in Wales, Glynnis had decided to try the seaside town where the Prince Regent was known to bring an abundance of noblemen in August for his birthday. Thus, Brighton was her last hope to find a suitable mate before another year had passed.
Unable to come up with the rent for one of the nicer homes on the Marine Parade, or even the noisier but popular location of the Steyne, she had taken a room at the gracious Old Ship Hotel, sharing it with many of the London gentry. With most of its public rooms designed by that much admired Scottish architect Robert Adam, Glynnis was in the lap of luxury, which she could ill afford.
Everything was meticulous — the ornamentation was small and light, even whimsical, in a classical style that conjured up the ancients while feeling fresh and beautiful. Her third-floor room, although modest in size, was tastefully furnished, and the only disadvantage was its view of Ship Street instead of the sparkling ocean.
With merely a handful of the hotel’s bedrooms facing the sea, and those being reserved by the wealthier guests, she hadn’t the means to look out a window with eight pretty panes of glass directly to the sea. Yet even with an inferior view, the weekly rate of her lodging was draining her funds too quickly. By the time she got word to her parents in the south of Wales and hopefully was sent some small gingerbread in return, she would be begging for farthings on a street corner like Mad Tom!
Besides, her parents thought her still in London. If they knew she’d left the safety of her brother’s so-called protection, they would be furious. For his part, Rhys thought her still in Bath. And thus, she’d firmly reprimanded herself over the past fortnight for not being patient and staying with Aunt Mimsella an extra two weeks. Instead, to avoid a dreadful fate of cats and watery porridge, she’d arrived too early for the nobs she sought.
In the past few days, however, traveling carriages had started filling the boulevards of Brighton, and she could see quite a cross-section of its population below her street-side window, including the newest arrivals from London. Moreover, the coach that stopped regularly at the Old Ship was depositing ever more guests, from dandy prats to purse-proud goldfinches.
Finally, she could concentrate upon her latest ambition — to meet and fall in love with one of the single nobs booked into an ocean-facing room or, although less likely, a member of thebon tonin one of the rentals along the wide Marine Parade that ran beside the sea, down to the Royal Crescent at its end.
At last, after nearly two weeks’ wait, there would be someone at whom she could set her cap!
An hour earlier, she’d heard rather than seen the Prince Regent arrive. A large fuss was made and folks started to cheer along the Grand Parade a few streets away, leading to the prince’s strangely exotic Pavilion. People all over Brighton had picked up the merriment and joined in withhuzzahsandhoorahs.
