Prologue
1815 — The Duke of Ryleigh’s Ballroom
Lady Gabriella Lynwood, youngest daughter of the Duke of Ryleigh and sister of the Marquis of Dorset, grinned widely then spun in a giddy whirl before the full-length looking glass in her bedchamber. “This is the most beautiful gown in all of Christendom.”
Her friend Lady Rebecca Thatcher was the Earl of Rivers’ only child and little broke through her too-serious resolve. She stood off to the side, her eyes on the ivory froths of her own gown frowning. “I don’t know, Gabs. This gown is not me in the least.”
“It’s definitely you,” Gabby retorted. “You are just unused to dressing for society events.” This was Gabby’s come out debut and she had insisted Rebecca be allowed to share it with her. Her father was somewhat, um, absentminded, and her brother? As starchy and proper as any brother in line for a lofty title could be. In other words, tiresome. Gabby turned her gaze back to the mirror, running one last look over herself. “You should attach yourself to my brother.”
Rebecca had moved behind Gabby and stood a head taller where Gabby was able to meet her friend’s horrified expression in the glass. “What? No!”
“Why not? Sebastian’s not so bad. I suspect you could chip away some of that over-responsibility demeanor of his. Besides, when Papa expires, he’ll be a duke.”
Her shudder was visible. “I have no wish to be a duchess. How can you suggest such a thing?”
Gabby shrugged. She stepped to the side, tugging Rebecca forward. “You’ll need your gloves to hide that horrid scar on your arm.” Her own words hit her ears and she winced. “Ohhh, I’m—” The mark on Rebecca’s arm was entirely Gabby’s fault, and her words reflected she was much too used to dealing with her siblings. Rebecca was nothing like them. “I’m sorry—”
Rebecca gave her a quick hug. “I know what you meant.”
"I truly am the most insensitive person to ever live,” she moaned.
“Don’t fret so.” Rebecca ran a critical eye over her reflection.
Gabby braced herself for what was coming. Her friend was the least vain person of her acquaintance.
“My hair is falling.” She touched one of the tendrils near her ear.
“That’s how it is supposed to look, you ninny. It softens your appearance.” Brita, Gabby’s maid, had managed a fantastic feat even though Gabby’s and Rebecca’s hair was dressed almost identically. “You look stunning. I vow, you won’t have a single slot free on your dance card. Don’t listen to anything I say. You deserve to wear your scars proudly.”
Rebecca’s shoulders slumped. “Ye gads. I have to dance too?”
A giggle escaped Gabby. “Certainly. You and Sebastian would make a striking couple.”
Rebecca dropped her head in her palms. “Stop. Please, just stop. Marriage is not what I wish to do with my life.”
That brought Gabby out of her preening. She inhaled deeply, then spoke softly. “What is it you wish to do?”
“Help mothers who have too many children and so little choices. There is… so much poverty while we have so much.”
The shift in the atmosphere changed drastically from exuberant to somber.
Gabby moved to the settee and sat. Not gracefully either. Rebecca was right. “That is a very noble wish. One I wouldn’t mind assisting you with,” she said slowly, surprised to find she meant every word. Rebecca lowered next to her and Gabby reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ll do it,” she promised. “We’ll make this dream of yours come true. Somehow.” She stood and shook off the solemnness. “In the meantime, you and I have a debut to attend.” She went to the vanity and snatched up their gloves, tossed Rebecca’s to her. “We shall have a fabulous time. You’ll see.” She pulled on her own and checked her appearance one last time before spinning again. “I shall snag the most handsome and richest man in the ballroom tonight.”
“Yes, you likely will,” Rebecca muttered, pulling on her own gloves.
Gabby dragged her out the door. “We shall make him fund our efforts.”
~~~
James Winthrop, Earl of Huntley, resisted an urge to loosen his cravat. He was in polite company which meant discomfort was the issue of the day, or night, as it were. He gazed out over the throng of dancers, amazed at the jovial atmosphere when a battle raged across the Channel in war-torn France. He was twenty-two for God’s sake but felt as if he was as old as Father Time.
His work for the Crown had led him home. Otherwise, he would never have been forced to attend such a frivolous event.
Baron George Welton, who couldn’t have been eighteen, stood next to him, drinking brandy and speaking too loudly. But James was an expert at appearing interested while simultaneously tuning one out.
Shufflebottom strolled up. The marquis had the Prince Regent’s ear, and was also known for his frivolity. The ruffles at his wrists and neck were most telling, along with his mustard-colored waistcoat. He slapped the baron on the shoulder, causing the baron’s drink to slosh over the rim of his glass but Welton didn’t seem to notice.
“Mmm.” The tone of Shufflebottom’s voice had James’s head whipping around. “This year’s debutantes have me tempted in giving up my bachelordom.”
