Page 1 of The Luckiest Lady in London

Prologue

For as far as he could trace back in time, Felix Rivendale had spent half an hour each day with his parents before teatime. And as far as hazy childhood memories could be trusted, he had always looked forward to and feared that time equally.

Every afternoon, his governess brought him to the door of the parlor. He’d scratch timidly at the heavy oak panel and be told to enter. His beautiful mother, seated in her favorite chair, would put aside her embroidery, rise, and open her arms to welcome him.

He always crossed the room as fast as his legs could carry him, and always stopped just short of the huge perimeter of her skirts. It wouldn’t do to run smack into Mother. Her hoops would fly up behind her, he had been told, and that would be a very awful thing to happen.

Felix was careful. He didn’t want anything awful to happen. Gingerly, then, he navigated his way around the tricky skirts and up the chair. This was his favorite part of the day, to be ensconced beside his mother and enveloped in her heavenly scent. She’d ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek and call him, to his delighted embarrassment, “muffin cake.”

Immediately, however, came his least favorite part. His father, who had been observing them keenly, would storm to a far window and stand with his back to the room. His mother, so affectionate until that moment, would smile an odd, rather chilling smile, cease all her petting, and return to her needlework. Felix was allowed to watch her quietly, which he did, a little miserably, constantly aware of his father’s turned back.

By his fifth birthday, he had decided that there was something wrong with him. He must be the cause of all the tension, which became more palpable, more breath-crushing when his parents were forced into close proximity with him. The daily half hour before tea was bad enough, but Sunday mornings, with all three of them sitting side by side in the front pew of the parish church, while the sermon droned on and on, were pure torture. Their desire to get away from him was a palpable weight upon his chest; every breath felt like inhaling needles.

At six he came to a shattering conclusion: His parents hated each other.

But after two more years of stealthy yet intense observation, he revised his previous verdict. It wasn’t quite true that his parents despised each other. His mother could not stand her husband, but the latter didn’t find her as loathsome as she did him. In fact, the marquess was always the one who started conversations, which were usually cut short by the marchioness’s chilly replies that barely fell short of discourtesy. He also bought her gifts, which she tossed into the bottom of her trunk without opening. Felix knew because he liked to sit in her rooms and touch her things when she was out of the house for her daily drive, imagining that she was sharing her time with him, imagining that the scent of her came not from lingering molecules of perfume in the air, but from the very fabric and folds of her gown as she let him snuggle next to her.

One afternoon, not long after he turned eight, he found a new packet in the trunk, a large, square black velvet box. Inside, nestled against cream satin, a magnificent necklace of rubies sparkled like crystalline drops of blood. He set the necklace next to the long strands of black pearls, the diamond earrings, the many rings and bracelets and brooches and jeweled hair combs—beautiful, exquisite things, each and every one.

Why wouldn’t his mother forgive his father?

Once, belowstairs, Felix had seen a footman give a chambermaid a small ring, saying that it wasn’t real gold, only made to look so, but he hoped to be able to afford a better one in the future. The maid had jumped into his arms and kissed him with great abandon.

Not even real gold, and the girl had been in seventh heaven. Why didn’t his father’s gifts please his mother in the same way? He decided to find out from the marchioness’s maid.

The story she told flabbergasted him.

Once upon a time, ten years ago to be exact, Mary Hamilton had been the most beautiful debutante in London. She had many admirers, Gilbert Rivendale, the Marquess of Wrenworth, among them. But she preferred another gentleman, who unfortunately had not a sou to his name. The marquess proposed and was politely turned down. Undaunted, he went to Sir Nigel, Mary’s father, and offered him an astonishing sum for his daughter’s hand.

Sir Nigel had a weakness for the gambling table; his gaming debts had pushed him to the brink of bankruptcy. The marquess’s offer was readily seized upon. Sir Nigel commanded Mary to marry according to his wishes. When she refused, she was locked in her room, with no means of reaching her beloved.

She capitulated after four months of house arrest, living on only water and bread. Two months later, she became the Marchioness of Wrenworth.

The marriage, however, was doomed from the start. She abhorred the marquess passionately for his part in derailing her dreams. Since her father died not long after the wedding, she decided to dedicate the remainder of her days to making her husband forever rue the day he laid eyes on her.

The marquess was first given to believe that he had finally attained the sweet wife of his dreams. Then, bit by bit, she began to chip away at the happiness she had bestowed upon him, until in a great strategic blow, she let slip that Felix might not be his.

Felix did not run from the room, but it was only because he had become incapable of all movement. Jess Jenkins, the maid, had related the story as she cleaned the marchioness’s combs and brushes. When she was finished, she said, “Don’t feel so bad about it, young master,” and left to join the other upper servants for their own tea, served in the housekeeper’s parlor.

Felix, on the other hand, did not eat the rest of the day. That night he woke up from a nightmare. In his dream, he was being sent away from home. He couldn’t sleep again, even after he had made his way to the kitchen and wolfed down two stale scones for his gnawing tummy.

The next day his nightmare was confirmed. His father spoke of sending him to a preparatory school, now that he was fully eight years of age. Felix’s stomach roiled with fear. He kept beseeching his mother with his eyes. She said nothing.

He lived in a state of terror for the next month, checking his wardrobe twice a day to make sure his things hadn’t been packed yet. But nothing happened. No more was ever said of boarding schools. His tutor, Mr. Leahy, showed few signs of imminent departure. And at last, Jess Jenkins told him that his mother had refused to let him go.

He was incoherent with relief and gratitude.

The bad dreams, however, did not cease. He awoke always around half past eleven and could not go back to sleep before three. So instead of tossing and turning in his bed, after his midnight snack, he took to walking the grounds of Huntington and looking at the stars.

Soon he was learning the constellations with the help of Mr. Leahy’s books. There was something marvelously soothing about the movement of the stars, progressing through the firmament solemnly and predictably with the march of the seasons, unaffected by the human tumults that had Felix in their relentless grip.

The domestic situation deteriorated slowly and steadily. The years did little to mellow the marchioness’s icy rage. The marquess plunged into ever-deeper despair.

Felix tried to placate both of his parents. He gave presents—bouquets of wildflowers for his mother, rocks bearing fossilized leaf prints for his father. The marquess barely glanced at his gifts; the marchioness cooed over the bouquets and Felix himself.

And then the tension between all three would turn more poisonous than ever.

Gilbert Rivendale was squatly built, with pale hair, pale eyes, and indistinct, forgettable features. Felix, on the other hand, was often praised as an uncommonly beautiful child, his mother’s spitting image: dark hair and deep green eyes, tall and slender of build.