CHAPTER1
A LADY SUFFERS A SURPRISE
April 1815, Weatherstone Manor, Mayfair
The last strains of the orchestra’s final selection reached Persephone’s ears when the dowager countess spotted her town coach and waved at the driver. He had managed to position her equipage in a most convenient location in the queue of other vehicles awaiting their owners in front of Weatherstone Manor, the Mayfair location known for always hosting the first ball of the Season.
Parker tipped his hat as he opened the coach door. “My lady,” he said, offering his gloved hand in assistance.
“You know me too well if you’ve timed your arrival for this very moment,” Persephone commented as she placed a silk-gloved hand in his and took the step up and into the velvet-lined coach.
“I never left, my lady,” he replied. “Nice night to watch the stars.” He closed the door before his mistress could reply and then bounded up and onto the driver’s seat. A moment later, and the coach pulled away from the pavement.
Persephone settled into the blue velvet squabs and sighed in relief as she extracted her feet from her dance slippers. Wiggling her toes, she had a thought to simply leave her shoes off when it was time to make her way into March House. Who would notice if she entered the townhouse barefoot?
In the middle of taking a deep breath, she stopped and sniffed. The air inside the coach bore an unfamiliar scent. A cologne unlike anything her late husband had worn. Walter’s usualparfumbrought to mind leather and musk, a rather manly odor for a gentleman who wasn’t.
This cologne was spicy. Citrusy. She sniffed again and then gave a start when the sound of a snore suddenly filled the coach.
“Who’s there?” she asked in alarm as she straightened on the bench.
A snuffle-snort was followed by a moan and a groan and a “bloody hell”.
Stuffing her feet back into her dance slippers, she pressed herself as far into the corner of the coach as she could. “I say again, who is there?” she asked, managing to sound more annoyed than frightened.
“Where the hell am I?” a male voice asked from the other side of the coach. From the way the prone form moved—a long lump rising on one side—Persephone realized the man had been sleeping and was now propped up on an elbow. She reached over to the window curtain and drew it back so the light from the coach lantern illuminated the interior.
“Ack!” the man complained as he lifted a hand to shield his face from the sudden glare.
Persephone gasped. “Lord… Lord Wilmington? Is that you?” She dropped the curtain, but the gathered panel remained parted enough to allow some light into the coach.
Another moan and groan sounded as he moved to sit up, although his head ended up in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. “If I am, you have my permission to shoot me. Put me out of my misery,” he whispered hoarsely. The coach jerked hard when the wheel dipped into a hole left from a missing cobble, and he barked a curse.
“Lord Wilmington?” she repeated.
He lifted his head and regarded her in the dim light. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lady,” he said.
“Jack, it’s me. Persephone March,” she replied. “What are you doing in my coach?” Other than the sound of the spinning wheels and the clopping of hooves on the cobbles, there was silence for a time, and she wondered if the intruder had passed out.
“Your coach?” he murmured before he groaned again.
“Whatever is wrong with you?”
Jack straightened and allowed his head to fall back onto the top of the squabs. “What day is this? It feels as if I’ve drunk an entire bottle of brandy. And not a good one, either.” One of his hands went to the side of his head to hold it, as if it required assistance in remaining on his neck.
“It’s the first Tuesday after Easter,” she replied. “Lord Weatherstone’s ball?” she added, sure that would give him enough information to sort his loss of time.
“I… I don’t recall being there,” he murmured before he inhaled sharply. “Wait. Yes, I do. I arrived at the same time as the Marquess of Reading,” he commented. “I remember being thirsty... went for the punch...” He straightened. “That’s it. Someone must have poured a good deal of brandy into the punch,” he stated.
Persephone scoffed as she leaned forward in an attempt to get a closer look at her passenger. “Jack, trust me when I tell you the punch was definitely not spiked. A bit too much orgeat, but... there were no spirits in it,” she said as she placed a hand beneath his chin and lifted it slightly. “Although you dolookas if you’re drunk,” she accused.
“I feel like I was,” he replied, grasping her hand to bring it to his lips. He pressed a kiss on the back of it. “Not now, though.” He let go of her hand, and Persephone quickly pulled it away.
Jack pushed his hand over his head, his fingers leaving furrows in his dark hair as a wince crossed his handsome features. “If it wasn’t alcohol, then how do you explain this splitting headache? And my tongue feels as if it...” He paused, his grimace accompanying a most unpleasant sound.
“If you’re going to be sick?—”
“I am not,” he assured her. “But I do think I’ve been... poisoned or... or drugged or something,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to struggle to remember anything from earlier that evening.
