Chapter One
Whitehall, London. November 1813.
Lieutenant John Perrinhad considered this cool, autumn day like any other. There was no indication that his life was about to change forever.
For the last nine months, he had been supporting undercover naval forces in Sussex and Surrey and curbing the dangerous practice of smuggling across the south coast of England. Unusually, he resided in London, eyes and ears pricked for news or foreign agents who might come up to Town to sell their bootlegged wares.
John was proud of his work for The Crown. It supported him. It meant that, by the age of thirty, he’d have enough money for a comfortable living. He had not considered himself a catch, but in the next few years, he might be fortunate enough to marry.
“Montacute,” someone called in a loud, shrill voice. John glanced up from his stack of papers. The yell ripped through the quiet halls of Whitehall, alerting everyone to the speaker’s presence.
The lord, who also happened to be John’s superior, appeared, frowning at being yelled at in such a manner. The baron was one of the most severe and respected lords. He managed a great deal of the navy’s affairs, chiefly stopping treasonous smuggling across the country. A telltalefrown marred the baron’s features at this most ill-opportune interruption. John could not remember seeing Montacute looking more displeased.
To John’s immense surprise, in marched Lord Dobbs, his forehead veiny, his grey hair wild, and his fashionable clothes mussed. The older man had adopted a militant fighting stance as he made his way into the study. Having attended several parties as Montacute’s guest, John had been blanked and ignored by the lackadaisical Lord Dobbs several times, but he had never witnessed nor imagined the man in such a state.
Montacute moved closer to Dobbs, his initial surprise well-hidden. “Your lordship.” He gave the very slightest of bows, his displeasure coming out in waves. “I do not believe we had an appointment. As you can see, I am occupied.” Montacute’s dark, furious eyes flickered over to John. “Please call on me at my club when I will be at my leisure.”
“My lord.” John stepped forward, hoping he could usher the nobleman away.
Witnessing, let alone receiving, the kind of fury Montacute was capable of was not something Dobbs could handle. John gripped Dobb’s arm meaning to escort him out, but his breath froze when he saw the woman who stood behind the irate man.
Pale, but still standing tall, was Lady Catherine, her blonde hair windswept and her large, sky-blue eyes tearstained. There was something inescapably sweet about her, recalling the daintiest of cakes or loveliest of posies. She was the youngest daughter of Lord Dobbs and regarded as a pretty piece by the ton. But thebeau mondemust be idiots if they could classify Lady Cate as merelypretty. Even with red eyes and a ruffled dress, she was stunning in a way that transcended the physical. There was something angelic about her. It made John wish to wrap his arms around her and protect her from every slight and ill fortune that might mildly interrupt her day.
“My lady.” He bowed and noticed Lady Cate’s lip wobble as she gazed upon him.
“You are going to have to fix this,” Lord Dobbs bellowed as he shook John off and walked into Montacute’s private domain. The baron’s usual calm demeanor was no more, as John moved protectively toward Lady Cate. He offered her his arm. Silently, the two of them followed the baron and Dobbs into the study.
Were he of her station, John would have asked her ladyship what had caused her tears. He would have gladly offered her comfort. She had always been so considerate of him at those dinners, when so few of the ton spared him a glance. There had been too many nights he had walked back through London dwelling on the moment he had caught her eye and seen a little trace of a blush. Or made her laugh with one of his stories from his youth—the bobbing of apples with his cousins or his sisters. More than once, Lady Cate had stopped herself short, having made some offhand comment about John joining her in a visit to Hachette’s Bookshop, or a talk at the British Museum. However, as the son of a lowly banker, John tried not to dwell on any of these interactions or give himself false hope.
“It’s your bloody cousin,” Dobbs continued cutting into John’s reflections. At that, Lady Cate sucked in her breath, clearly pained. Unthinkingly, John led her to an empty armchair. He settled her into the squab seat and stepped back respectfully.
She gave him a weak smile. “I suspect, sir, you will not regard me with such kindness shortly.”
John frowned, not comprehending her words, but before he could reply, her father started yelling again.
“The bloody libertine has ruined her. Your wretched cousin!” Lord Dobbs stepped closer to Montacute.
It was a mistake. With a small movement, Montacute twisted the irate lordling’s hand back and escorted the now purple-faced Dobbs into a seat.
“I suggest, given your daughter is present, that we refrain from any profanity,” Montacute coldly replied. He released Lord Dobbs, who, for the first time, looked a touch repentant.
“It is my fault,” Lady Cate suddenly cried, blushing wildly, “that my father is angry with me. I must apologize for our untimely interruption. You see…” She glanced at John, who wished he had anything of use to say.
“Where is Hepworth?” Lord Dobbs cut in. “You must know where he is. He’s your bloody cousin.”
Comprehension hit John. Mr. Alfred Hepworth. Libertine. Charmer. Wastrel. Gambler. Rakehell. Rogue. Montacute’s younger cousin and heir had been called all of these things. Any connection to a young lady spelled inevitable social ruin.
John might be a novice atbeau monde,but he knew enough. The papers knew too. Their gossip would be enough to stain anyone’s cheeks with embarrassment if they read half of what Mr. Hepworth was accused of.
When he turned to Lady Cate, he caught her crying again.
“What Beauchamp was thinking inviting such a rakehell, I’ll never know, but he has had the advantage on my gel. Simple house party—there to make up the numbers, his wife said. Easy for them, as they’ve only got sons, so nothing to fear from such wretched company.” The vein continued to pulse on Dodds’s forehead, as the lord stared between Montacute and Lady Cate. He sneered as he glared at his daughter before he continued with an unpleasant vehemence. “She is ruined by Hepworth, I say. Seen by dozens of guests canoodling. The shame. None of her sisters ever gave me such grief. And so, he must marry her. Oryoumust.” Lord Dobbs glanced at Montacute with a slightly optimistic emphasis.
Neither of the lords spoke. John shifted forward. He slipped from his waistcoat pocket a plain white handkerchief which he pressed into Lady Cate’s hands, before surreptitiously stepping back again to rest against the wall. Would good manners dictate that he leave? John was not sure, but he did not wish to leave Lady Cate here. Not when she looked so distressed, so in need.
“Where is the rogue?” Dobbs asked. “If I were a younger man, I would challenge him with a duel. I would take great joy in such a fight—” He raised his hand as if he was about to deliver a killing blow with a deadly blade.
The idea should have made John smirk. Hepworth had allegedly fought two and never been caught. If anything, it seemed to only add to his allure. By contrast, the rounded figure of Dobbs stood little chance in such a fight.
