ChapterOne
HAMPSTEAD HEATH, LONDON EARLY SPRING, 1815
Aman’s wits were an ephemeral thing, and apt to abandon him at the least provocation.
Kit’s had fled somewhere along the road from Kent to London. He couldn’t say for certain where it had happened, but by the time he arrived at Prestwick Cottage, they were nowhere to be found.
Otherwise, he would have known better than to open his front door. He would have realized, before his fingertips touched the door knob, what he was likely to find on the other side.
Or rather,who.
“Well, Prestwick? Do you mean to keep me standing out here all night?” Darby slouched against the door frame, one dark eyebrow quirked. “Or are you going to invite me inside?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? On the one hand, Darby was a good fellow, despite being an unrepentant rake, but on the other hand… Darby was an unrepentant rake, despite being a good fellow.
Not that Kit objected to rakes. If a gentleman chose to haunt London’s seamy underbelly, as he’d done himself for the better part of the last six years, he did so knowing he couldn’t stir a step without stumbling over some grinning rogue or other.
Scandalous rakes were all very well in their proper place, at the proper time.
But Kit’s doorstep wasn’t the proper place. Not anymore.
“Well, Prestwick?”
“Give me a moment. I’m trying to decide.”
Darby straightened with a huff. “That’s a fine welcome for your oldest friend. For God’s sake, you can’t mean to leave me out here. I’ll catch my death in this cold.”
“Let it be a lesson to you, Darby, not to turn up uninvited,” Kit grumbled, but he was already waving Darby inside. “How did you find me?”
“By the most ingenious method imaginable. You see, you’re the Earl of Prestwick, and this…” Darby waved a dramatic hand around the entryway. “Is Prestwick House. And here you are. Astonishing, it is not?”
The Earl of Prestwick. He should be accustomed to the title by now, but after a year, it still hung awkwardly on him, like an ill-fitting tailcoat. “This isn’t Prestwick House. It’s the cottage.”
“So it is.” Darby glanced around the cramped entryway, but when no servant appeared, he tossed his coat, hat and walking stick on a nearby table. “Hiding, are you?”
“Not very well, it seems.” He might have known Darby would waste no time finding him. He’d arrived in London mere hours earlier, but Darby was nothing if not resourceful. “You may as well have a brandy, now you’re here.”
“Ah, that’s better, Prestwick. For a moment I was worried you’d turned into an utter savage after such a long time in the country.” Darby followed him into the study, and threw himself into a chair near the fire. “How was Kent? As dull as ever?”
“Kent was quiet.” Too quiet.
“London isn’t.” Darby accepted the glass of brandy Kit held out to him. “Just as well, too. I daresay you’re dying for some amusement, after a year of rusticating.”
Rusticating? Was that how thetonreferred to mourning now? It was admittedly a distressing word, one that conjured up all sorts of unpleasantness, and thetondid prefer to avoid unpleasantness. “I didn’t return to London for amusement, Darby.”
“You’re likely to find it, whether you want it or not, but very well, Prestwick. Why did you return, if not to pursue your usual debauchery?”
Kit drew in a deep breath. Once he said it aloud it would be real. There’d be no turning back then. “I came for the season.”
Darby had raised his glass, but his hand froze halfway to his lips. “I beg your pardon? Did you say theseason?”
“I did, yes. I intend to marry, Darby.”
“Marry?” Poor Darby looked appalled, and despite himself, a grim smile tugged at Kit’s lips. Darby was the second son of a wealthy viscount, and like many second sons in London who had nothing much to do aside from amuse themselves, he regarded marriage with the sort of horror usually reserved for things like gentleman’s corsets, and the plague.
Kit had been the same, when he’d been a second son.
Alas, he was now a first son. Or rather, the second son of a second son who suddenly found himself, through a brutal process of elimination, the single remaining legitimate Prestwick male, and thus, the Earl of Prestwick.
