Prologue
Mrs. Grey’s salon in Mayfair, London March, 1817
On a gilt-leggedchair upholstered in satin, Viscount Hartley Montford crossed his arms and stretched out his long legs. Then, with a glance of apology at the elegant lady seated beside him, he settled them into a neater but less comfortable position.
Lady Florence Ainsworth turned her graceful head and raised slender dark eyebrows, which always spoke volumes.
He resisted a defensive shrug. A damnably unsuitable chair for a man of his size and build. It creaked when he moved.
Standing before the audience in the stuffy, overly-perfumed salon, a jeweled hand resting on the pianola, Mrs. Garvey, the famous pigeon-breasted coloratura soprano, was in the throes of a dying aria. Hart could only hope that the end wouldn’t be long in coming.
Thankfully, she soon finished with an appropriate flourish to wild clapping around the salon and cries for an encore.
The guests rose and moved toward the supper room.
Hart and Florence stood, and he waited as she gathered her shawl, fan, and reticule.
“Ready to leave?” he asked, eyeing the door which represented their means of escape.
“In the midst of her performance? Mrs. Garvey is to sing again, Montford.” Her gray eyes narrowed. “Surely you won’t leave before she has finished her repertoire?”
Hart doubted Mrs. Garvey would miss him in this enthusiastic crowd. He could think of an entirely better way to spend an afternoon. “I intend to do just that. May I escort you home?”
The sensual look in her eyes spoke of possible pleasures awaiting them. “Certainly. After the performance. I have ordered champagne chilled for our return.”
The offer of champagne seemed a metaphor for something even more delicious, but Hart was annoyed. Florence was well aware of his distaste for sopranos. He had accepted her invitation, believing it to be the celebrated violin virtuoso, Niccolò Paganini, who it now appeared had not come to London. Something of which Florence failed to advise him. The widow of a much older man who gratified her every whim, she expected the same from Hart. That didn’t bother him until now when a battle of wills rose between them. If he agreed and endured another long-winded dose of Mrs. Garvey, he could enjoy Florence with all her flawless beauty. Tempting as that was, he disliked being treated like one of her lap dogs.
“Forgive me.” He held her hand in its soft glove and pressed a kiss on the back of it.
She pursed her lips and turned away from him.
Hart headed for his hostess, Mrs. Grey, to apologize. As he left, he imagined another visit to the widow’s charming bedchamber would probably not be in the cards. Donning his evening cape and taking up hat, gloves, and cane, he was surprised at how quickly he’d recovered from the disappointment.
When he reached his lodgings, his valet, Leonard, handed him a letter from his father’s address, which lacked the marquess’s seal.
Hart sat down at his desk and slit the paper with the letter opener. His father’s secretary wrote that the doctor attending him advised the marquess was failing.
“Dear God!” Hart had thought it was rheumatism. He did not know things were this serious. He pushed back his chair and called for Leonard, who brewed coffee in the small kitchen.
His valet popped his head through the door. “My lord?”
“Pack a portmanteau, Leonard. I must go immediately to Pembury. My father is ill.”
“I am deeply sorry to hear it. Shall I accompany you?” Leonard adopted a hopeful expression which reminded Hart of Rasputin, one of his favorite hounds, sitting at his feet as he dined on steak.
“No. I don’t imagine my stay will be of long duration. If I need you, I’ll send for you.”
“Very well, my lord.”
In the late afternoon, Hart drove his curricle out of London into the clean fresh air of the Kentish countryside. While he had loved his mother dearly before she’d passed away, his childhood home held little attraction for him. He and his father did not get on, and rheumatism had not improved his disposition. They argued about Hart’s preferred lifestyle, which his parent saw as dissolute, having apparently forgotten his past mistresses while Hart’s mother was alive. His father had been a bully. Hart, as a young boy, had tried to protect his mother from him and often got a beating for his pains. Once he settled down, he intended to remain faithful to his wife. Which was why he’d decided not to marry until he was ready.
Hart’s reluctance to spend more time at the estate he would one day inherit had been a source of resentment between him and the marquess.One day?Hart realized with a chill that day could be near. His dislike of his father no longer seemed to matter. He suffered a heavy dose of guilt at failing to appease him, and it appeared it might be too late. Hart hoped he’d have time to reassure him the estate was in safe hands so he could peacefully go to meet his maker.
Chapter One
Pembury, Near Tunbridge Wells, April
Hartley Montford, Marquessof Pembury, and the other five pallbearers carried his father’s coffin into the dank smelling family vault.
