Prologue
March 1813
Lily & Grove Dress Shop, London, England
“Have you heardthe news?” Lady Harmsworth asked in a hushed tone that was not very hushed at all. A loud, boisterous woman whose voice was outsized only by her bosom, she was incapable of whispering. Or of keeping any tidbit of gossip, no matter how small or inconsequential, to herself. As it so happened, there was nothing smallorinconsequential about the rumor that she had been itching to divulge ever since she and the hard-of-hearing (for obvious reasons) Lord Harmsworth had arrived in London in advance of the much-anticipated Season.
“What news?” Lady Topple was quiet and as flat-chested as a piece of parchment, but she did like a good piece of tittle-tattle. Teetering on the verge of spinsterhood at the age of five and twenty with no prospects on the horizon (for obvious reasons), she lived vicariously through the scandalous lives of others... when she wasn’t tending to her alarming number of felines.
“Is this in regard to that governess running away with the vicar? Because if it is, I’ve already heard it.” Standing on a dais in the middle of the dress shop with her arms raised above her head as a seamstress circled around her with pins, Lady Farthing—the eldest of the trio—snapped her fingers and pointed at breasts that both time and six children had dragged down to an intolerable level. “Higher, dear. If they’re not touching my chin then you’re doing it wrong.”
Lady Harmsworth gave a loud, vaguely insulted sniff. “Everyonehas heard about the governess and the vicar. But what about the Duchess of Southwick?”
“The Duchess of Southwick?” Lady Topple repeated, looking confused. “What about her?”
“You’ve mixed up your names again,” Lady Farthing said derisively. “The only thing interesting about the Duchess of Southwick is that she managed to land a duke. That girl is even more boring than Lady Topple, if such a thing is possible.” She paused. “No offense meant, Lady Topple.”
“None taken,” Lady Topple mumbled, glancing at her lap and very much wishing she had thought to bring one of her cats.
“For your information, Ihaven’tconfused my names.” Lady Harmsworth crossed her arms. “I have it on excellent authority that the Duchess of Southwick will be in town for the Season this year.”
“That isn’tnews,” said Lady Farthing. “That’s what is expected of her. The bare minimum, really. And don’t get me started on her wardrobe. Those bland colors she prefers never fail to make me nauseous. Why a woman married to the wealthiest man in England would willingly choose to subject herself to beige withthathair color is beyond me.”
“She’ll certainly never be renowned for her fashion,” Lady Harmsworth agreed. “But maybethiswill get her noticed.” Her mouth curled in a conspiratorial smile. “The Duchess of Southwick is coming to London... and she plans to take a lover.”
In the stunned silence that followed, someone could have heard a pin drop from the line of stitches that the seamstress was desperately making in an attempt to heave up Lady Farthing’s bosom.
“That’s absurd,” Lady Farthing said at last, but there was just enough doubt in her tone to allow Lady Harmsworth’s words to take root. For that was how gossip grew. In twisting vines and leaves, it slipped into whatever crack or crevice it was able to find. Then it stretched, and it expanded, until even the strongest, sharpest spade couldn’t dig it out.
“She wouldn’t dare,” Lady Topple gasped. “She’ll be ruined. The scandal—”
“Will be gargantuan.” Lady Harmsworth licked her lips in anticipation. “I dare say even larger than when the Earl of Hollinbrook married his scullery maid after her belly began to swell. As if we were supposed to believe that she’d suddenly taken a liking to chocolate.”
“Higher,” Lady Farthing instructed the seamstress before she sighed with exasperation and yanked the needle and remaining pins out of the poor girl’s hand. “Here, I’ll do it myself.” She ran a new piece of thread before turning her attention back to her friends. “Her husband would never allow such a thing. The Duke of Southwick, made a cuckold? When pigs take to the air, perhaps.”
“He has a mistress,” Lady Topple pointed out. “The French stage actress. I can’t recall her name.”
“By the time you do, he’ll have already moved on to the next,” Lady Farthing said with a touch of bitterness that did not go unnoticed by those in the room, all of whom were privy to the not-very-secret fact that Lord Farthing had a mistress of his own. “Because that is the privilege of men. To do as they please, with whom they please, whenever they please it. But a duchess should know better.”
Lady Harmsworth shrugged. “Maybe she assumes that no one will find out.I’mnot going to tell anyone. You know how I abhor gossip. Such a fickle business, spreading unsubstantiated claims of wrongdoing before they’ve even occurred. You can ruin someone’s life that way.”
“But...” Lady Topple picked at a scab on her neck where one of her beloved cats had scratched her. “You just told us.”
“Yes, but I’m not going to tell anyoneelse.” With a sniff, Lady Harmsworth turned up her nose. “Honestly, who do you take me for?”
*
By noon, thenews of the Duchess of Southwick’s pending affair had traveled through seven notable households and a teahouse on Brunswick Street. The brewing scandal was on the tip of every tongue, and it was a horserace to share the titillating gossip with anyone that hadn’t heard it yet.
By the dinner hour, there was hardly a person in Grosvenor Square and the surrounding boroughs that hadn’t learned of the duchess’s daring plan.
She was going to take a lover!
She was going to demand a divorce!
She was the king’s secret mistress!
All right, no onereallybelieved the last one. Mostly because King George was both blind and mad, and a little bit because it was well known that the Duchess of Southwick hadn’t ventured away from her husband’s country estate for the better part of eighteen months.
