Chapter One
Ashford
Talbot residence
Louisa Talbot shuther eyes as she drew in the aroma of warm, honeyed milk. She could never get used to country hours. She had trouble sleeping so early. She had trouble sleeping, period. A warm glass of sweet milk usually helped. As did lavender-scented pillows, but she’d forgotten her favorite pillows in London and the ones the servants had prepared here lacked the same soothing potency. It was either mulled wine or milk tonight.
“It’s good that I learned to heat my own milk,” she mused. She’d done so almost as soon as she was tall enough to reach for a pot that hung on the wall. Not that she was allowed to back then, but she still loved to sneak into the kitchen to watch their cook prepare their meals. She’d even learned to bake bread at one time.
Andshe could fry an egg to perfection.
There was something magical about the kitchen at night, when not a soul roamed about, and candlelight cast flickering shadows over the well-worn surfaces. But more than meals, this was where all the gossip took root. Louisa herself had oftentimes stoked the flames of these little sessions. Until her stepmother had caught her and scolded the servants. After that, she’d abandoned their daytime teas.
Alas, she missed those times.
She held the cup with both hands, allowing it to warm her palms and she shifted more comfortably in her seat at the rough wooden table. The entire space smelled of spice, bread, and the last remnants of the evening’s dinner.
Comforting.
Perhaps this was why she was drawn here. Of all the rooms in the house, no matter the estate, the kitchen held the most pleasant memories.
A kitchenfeltlike home.
And she could use a bit of homely comfort as her mind drifted back over her recent conversation with her friend, Theodosia King, who had visited to drop the stolen betting book of White’s onto her lap. What on earth was she supposed to do with the thing?
Keep it hidden, yes.
But the Duke of Mortimer could come calling and request the book at any moment.
The. Duke. Of. Mortimer.
Hewas another matter entirely.
Louisa almost laughed.
A Cavanagh set foot in a Talbot residence? How spectacularly ridiculous. Their families were sworn enemies and had been for decades. Years and years of bad blood had spilled between them until it flowed like an unnavigable river dividing them into two territories. And to try to cross this river would mean being drenched in blood. Not that she kept up with all the accounts of wrongdoing and offense, but she’d heard her father bluster over that family’s existence since she could remember, warning her to stay away from anyone bearing that cursed surname.
Plus, she’d simply rather not rub shoulders with a man such as him.
There were three sorts of men she avoided at all costs: fortune hunters, criminals, and men with great power—them most of all. Certainly the powerful included kings, princes, and dukes, but it wasn’t limited to them. Thankfully, one could spot a powerful man yards away, which of course, suited Louisa since it made them easier to avoid.
Memories of a dark, enclosed space flashed across her mind before Louisa forcibly pushed them back down. She took two swallows of milk, willing her racing heart to slow.
“Botheration,” she muttered. “Why did that memory have to resurface right now?”
Almost ten years had passed since her kidnapping on her tenth birthday. She could remember very little about that episode except the darkness—she recalled an abundance of that. And the memory brought along with it a rather harrowing feeling. It was also after that her struggle with sleep had started.
As the years crept by, she had glimpsed more of the world—her father’s world—and the truth began to take shape, cold and inescapable. That night had never been about her. She had simply been a pawn. A means to an end. A hostage to their ruthless ambitions.
Such was the dark world of powerful men at times.
Men such as Mortimer.
Fortunately, their families were mortal enemies the likes of Shakespeare’s Montagues and Capulets, though with only proverbial bloodshed. However, Louisa was no Juliet, and she doubted the duke could be mistaken for Romeo.
In all likelihood, His Grace would call on another heiress to collect the book from her in his stead. She needn’t worry that he would cause havoc in her family by calling on her. Did she?
Urgh.
