CHAPTER 1
Mayfair, London, March 1813.
Elspeth Keating, or Elsie to her friends and family, had reached London. The bright sparkling centre of the society. It was soon to be the start of the Season—the height of fashion for the whole world, theton, the home of grand masquerades, and all things elegant. She had been a romantic for all her twenty-four years, so Elsie was excited about the possibilities of balls, an opportunity to sway on the dance floor to a melodic piece of music, whilst a handsome lord whispered sweet nothings to her. And failing that, at least she would be able to see some of the beautiful dresses the ladies of thebeau mondewore.
One look at her older sister, Margot, told Elsie that this was not why they had come to London. But it was hard to remember such things when the carriage they were in rattled noisily past tall townhouses, their glass windows sparkling in the lights of the carriage, untold parties hidden away in them. Elsie felt butterflies bubble up inside her.
“It will be a great change from Berwick-upon-Tweed,” Elsie said. This was an understatement as nothing could be moredifferent from journeying to a duke’s house, witnessing some of the Season in such contrast to their quiet, seaside hometown of Berwick-upon-Tweed, where they’d left their parents and younger brother, William.
“Indeed.” Margot sucked in her breath. She looked tired, and as much as she tried to hide it, Elsie could tell her sister was worried. This journey was doubly taxing for her—it had been revealed via letter that Vicar Arthur Keating, the man who had raised Margot, was not her father. In fact, Margot’s real father was Algernon Fitzsimmons, Duke of Ashmore. The duke had written, commanding Margot’s presence in London, and Margot had arranged to go with Elsie as her enthusiastic companion. To Elsie’s mind, Margot was her sister, regardless of who her father might be, and nothing would change that. It might explain why Margot was a good nine inches taller than Elsie’s diminutive build. Otherwise, they both had brown hair, and a similar colouring, although occasionally Elsie resented Margot’s green eyes compared to her own boring brown.
This was to be a great adventure, anything to get away from the predictability of home, arguing with their annoying younger brother, or worse, the possibility of being sent off to Edinburgh to stay with Grandmother Keating. As well as being a romantic, Elsie had an audacious streak, and to her mind, London was the perfect place. Margot had decided that they were destined for a spinster’s existence. Her sister was set on that future for them, although why Elsie’s pretty, clever, and sharp sibling wanted to limit her life so much was daft. As much as she fought against the idea, Elsie feared, deep down inside her, this would be her fate too.
“I think we’re nearly there,” Margot said. She too had been tracking the changing buildings and then looked across at Elsie, the nerves, the concern, and fear visible.
All Elsie wanted to do was reach forward and tell her sister that, if the old duke wasn’t kind or decent and didn’t honourMargot as much as he should, then Elsie would be happy to kick His Grace in the shins. Regardless of whether she would be thrown in the stocks or tower. It would be worth it.
On their arrival at Bolton Street, Elsie let Margot take the lead—it made her sister feel in control. Besides, Elsie reminded herself, she was there as support and could only attack the old duke if he was truly mean to Margot. But there was no sign of such brutality upon being ushered inside the smart townhouse, of which the style, to Elsie’s eyes, was stunning. The home had everything—luxurious carpets, vibrantly coloured wallpapers and richly appointed wooden furniture in every room. A sudden bolt of anxiety twisted through Elsie, a selfish one, that Margot would love this world more than the vicarage they had been raised in and leave her behind to become aton-ish lady.
There seemed to be some surprise amongst the duke’s household at Elsie’s presence. What if they sent her away?
On entering the duke’s study, Elsie was struck by how much older the duke looked. Ill and drained despite only being in his fifties, he looked at least ten years older, and dread seemed etched on his face. Given Margot’s height, he wasn’t very tall. His eyes darted between the two of them, and he frowned, seeming to be caught between which one he should be looking at, before settling on Margot.
During the following interlude, Elsie tried to stay as quiet as she could, leaving Margot to confront the man who was her father. The duke seemed rather caught on discussing “his” Julia—which was what he kept calling their mother despite Margot’s request to refer to their mother as Mrs. Keating. To Elsie’s mind, it was clear the duke still held a candle for their mother.
The interlude was a brief one, but they were informed there was the promise of an inheritance for Margot.
“I will tell you everything when I know you a little better.” The duke’s tone was final. “Dinner will be at eight o’clock. Tomorrow I will have my papers in order. You are dismissed.”
Margot got to her feet. She could see her sister was done with the discussion, and when they slipped out of the study, Margot squeezed her hand.
There was a servant waiting in the hallway, who Elsie recognised as the butler. The man said, “This way to your chambers.” Elsie felt another strange pulse of worry, never having the privilege of her own bedroom before. She had always shared with Margot, for all their lives, both at the vicarage and when they had gone to Edinburgh.
Margot gave her an encouraging smile. “We will meet for dinner.”
Elsie was led to her chamber, and once inside threw herself down on the bed, without even bothering to remove her boots, closed her eyes and willed away her troubles.
To her mind dinner was a dull affair, with the duke asking a few sparse questions before launching into his plans for Margot. She would receive a Season. Elsie sat up straighter, happy at the idea of what her sister might enjoy. It would be lovely if Margot might find someone of interest to her. Of all the men they’d seen in Edinburgh, not one had been right. For all her severe properness, Margot deserved some fun, and perhaps the duke was going to deliver on some of his parental responsibilities.
“Elsie needs to have one too,” Margot said. “If I am to be escorted by your chaperone and have these things, as well as posing as your goddaughter, then Elsie should have the same.”
It was a touching moment, and Elsie was about to refuse, but then the duke nodded, and Margot shot Elsie a happy look. Excitement danced through Elsie, and this agreement seemed to symbolise the end of the meal because the duke escorted them through the house, towards the stairs.
As they walked in silence, there came the sound of a raucous noise from a neighbour’s party.
Ashmore said distastefully, “Oh that is Langley, just another one of his parties. You had best avoid him when you’re out andabout. He’s got a frightful reputation as one of the fastest young men in Town.” With that, the duke waved them upstairs. Elsie wondered how on earth he could be so dismissive of such a scandalously interesting person.
Nonetheless, she returned to her bedroom where she fell into a dreamless sleep, but this was interrupted when screams woke her. Stumbling from her chamber, Elsie staggered down the staircase towards what sounded like her sister shouting, horror beating through her at what might greet her.
It was not a sight she could have ever imagined: the duke, a man she had barely met, lay sprawled out on the carpet, the butler propping him up.
Hurrying over, Elsie saw the injury, the pooling blood, and her eyes lifted to meet the butler’s. “Has a doctor been sent for?” Elsie’s voice was faint, and she slowly looked down at His Grace. The man was wan, his eyes frantic, and Elsie took his hand.
“My sister?—”
“She will find him,” the duke said, and when Elsie looked up, it was to see the butler nodding. Margot had gone after the attacker? Was she mad? Elsie tried to pull away, but the duke’s grip was tight. “Look after her. She is so like her mother. Tell her—tell her—I’m sorry for what I did to her.”
That look of his would stay in her mind for hours, and Elsie hoped her mother would not mind her saying, “I forgive you.” She squeezed his hand.
