Page 3 of The Misfortune of Lady Lucianna

“That is a question for him. You saw him, right, Ophelia?” Luci looked toward Ophelia, her loose hair cascading over her shoulder.

The color drained from the girl’s face, making her pale complexion turn almost green.

“Tell her what you saw,” Luci demanded. “You were standing right here.”

“I—I—I was reading.” Ophelia turned to Edith, her book held tightly as if it could protect her. “I swear it, Edith, I did not see anything. I was reading about Xavier and—“

“What is going on here?” Townsend, the Abercorn butler, bustled into the foyer, his hair askew as if the noise had pulled him from slumber. “Your Grace!” His eyes widened on Tilda as he rushed across the room to where she lay. His hands moved to find her wrist and settled. “No pulse. She has no pulse!”

The servant shuffled to his feet, teetering for a moment before gaining his balance after the shock of seeing his new mistress dead at the bottom of the grand staircase—on her wedding night.

“Petunia, Petunia!” Townsend shouted, his tiny feet rushing toward the kitchens. “Petunia! We must summon His Grace. Petunia, where in all that is holy are you, woman?”

Doors opened, and voices sounded above from the guests’ wing as Townsend continued calling for Petunia.

In any other situation, the scene before Luci would have incited a least a slight chuckle as the butler mimicked a bird in flight. There was no humor to be found—for anyone.

“Oh, Your Grace!” Townsend said, staring toward the top of the stairs. “Please, do not look. This is not for your eyes.”

The duke stepped into view at the top of the stairs. He’d likely only retreated to the shadows down the upper hall and waited for the alarm to be sounded. However, he was still garbed in his wedding day finery with a tumbler in his hand. It could not be… He’d worn a red robe only moments before. He started down the stairs, a grey lock of hair falling before his narrowed glare as he scrutinized the scene below.

As if he hadn’t watched Tilda fall backwards after pushing her.

Luci’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and her face heated in rage.

The man had pushed his new bride down the stairs and had the audacity to lumber upon the scene as if he were unaware of the death his shove had caused.

Tilda deserved better. Certainly more than the devil-may-care attitude of the scoundrel she’d wed.

Luci would see the man punished, if it were the last thing she ever accomplished.

Chapter 1

It is hereby announced that this writer has born witness to the Marquis of Camden scandalously parading his mistress about in polite society. As this writer can also attest, Lady Camden and Lady Lucianna were also in attendance at the soirée the marquis saw fit to escort his mistress to. Shame on a man who does not value family over his own pleasure.

-Mayfair Confidential, London Daily Gazette

Hanover Square, London

March 1815

“Preposterous, senseless rubbish.” Roderick Crofton, the seventh Duke of Montrose, pushed the London Daily Gazette away from him on the breakfast table and scowled at his now cold morning repast. “Nothing but a scandal sheet, I tell you. Get this out of my sight.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” A footman hurried forward to remove the paper. “May I bring you anything else? Tea, perhaps?”

Tea? No. Roderick did not desire tea. He craved a newspaper that took an interest in reporting true and accurate facts regarding current events, not another gossip rag that took great pleasure in ruining upstanding gentlemen.

Not that Roderick personally knew the Marquis of Camden; however, the Mayfair Confidential had set its sharpened teeth upon him only two months prior.

“Your Grace?” the footman asked once more.

“No, no, Joshua.” Roderick waved his hand in dismissal. “Unfortunately, you cannot provide what I need.” When the servant’s shoulders slumped, he continued. “However, that is no fault of yours, I assure you.”

When Joshua took his place against the wall, Roderick took hold of his utensil and pushed the cold eggs about his plate. If he did not consume at least half the food, Cook would likely chase him down and demand he eat—or else. He’d never discovered what she meant by “or else,” and he damn well didn’t plan to. He speared a sliver of pheasant and placed it into his mouth and then chewed slowly. Perhaps it would appear he’d eaten more if he remained at the table longer. Blast it all, but he was no longer a boy in knee breeches.

He did not need a woman, no matter that she’d known him since birth, following him like a clucking chicken. If Roderick found he was not hungry, then he would not eat.

Period.