Chapter 1
Brixham, Devonshire, England
October 1816
“I can’t do it.” Harriet Chase stared at the dark brown woolen breeches spread out on her bed, starkly contrasting with the colorful patchwork coverlet.
“Yes, you can.” Her younger brother Gabriel perched on the edge of the bed and leaned back on one elbow, patting the coarse fabric. “You just slip one leg in, then the other, and pull them up. I do it every day.”
Harriet bit her bottom lip. How had it come to this, things sunk so low? Bad enough the economies they’d already made. Madame Zavrina, owner and headmistress of Torquay Academy for Ladies, couldn’t have picked a worse time to pass on. How could someone so fastidious about proper behavior have been so foolish as to not have a will and make provisions for the continuation of her school, not to mention continued employment of all her teachers? Without Harriet’s income as a teacher, modest as it was, her family had already been forced to dismiss all their staff except two maids.
But wearing men’s breeches? Even if they did belong to her adolescent brother.
Madame Zavrina would roll over in her grave. At some point in almost every class, every day, every one of the teachers—including Harriet—had pontificated on proper behavior for ladies of quality. Wearing breeches most certainly did not qualify as proper.
“Want me to step out? I can pop into the hall, make certain Mama’s still in the parlour.”
“No, I don’t think that would help.” Harriet lifted the fall of the breeches and fingered one of the horn buttons. The garment wasn’t entirely foreign to her—she had sewn them for Gabriel last year, after all. But the thought of pulling them on, between her legs, wearing a masculine garment… She let go of the button.
Gabriel smoothed the fabric. “They’re not that different from the drawers Amber Barrow-Smith wore under her gown to the assembly last week.”
“Yes, and did you see that no one would dance with her? No wonder she was expelled from the Academy last year.”
“There was Reggie Dwight, and Sir Stanley Danielson, and Lord Walcott.” Gabriel counted them off on his fingers. “They each claimed two dances with her.”
“Rakes and rogues, all of them.” Harriet waved her hand and began pacing. “Not a marriage-minded man among them. They only danced with Amber because they thought she was fast. They thought they could steal a kiss from her.”
Gabriel nodded. “Reggie planned on trying to get more than a kiss. I heard him in the card room.”
“My point exactly. Someone as honorable as Sir Percival would never dance with a girl he thought was fast.” Harriet paused to shake her finger at Gabriel. “And what, pray tell young man, were you doing in the card room?”
Gabriel joined Harriet in her pacing. “You think Sir Percival wouldn’t come up to scratch if he found out you ever wore breeches?”
Harriet rubbed her temples.
Gabriel waved toward the window, gesturing at the road leading downhill to the harbor and the open sea that lay beyond, away from the world she’d always known. “Well then, how do you expect to make this grand trip? You can’t go to Spain by yourself dressed like a girl, even with a maid.” He let out a gusty sigh and rested his hands on his hips. “I guess you’ll end up staying in this tiny village for the rest of your life, an ape-leader. A spinster like Miss Galloway. Except Miss Galloway won’t be picking oakum with us in the poor house after they turn us out when we can’t pay the mortgage next month.”
Harriet stiffened her spine, her chin jutting out. She spun away from the window, a sharp rebuke on her lips, when she noticed the twinkle in Gabriel’s eye. How often had he goaded her into doing something outrageous with just this kind of teasing?
She wagged her finger at him, and he ducked his chin. Turning back to the window, she stared out at the harbor, absently fingering the H-shaped pendant that hung on a silver chain around her neck. She’d worn it every day since Papa had sent it home five years ago, accompanied by a cryptic note that said it was the key to her future, and a map he’d drawn that purported to lead to a treasure he’d hidden while on leave in Spain.
A key to a bank box would have been more helpful.
In the distance, the tide had turned and ships were heading out to sea, their sails filling, nimble sailors climbing aloft to unfurl the topsails. If she couldn’t even bring herself to try on her brother’s breeches, there was no way she could disguise herself as a cabin boy to earn passage to Spain and retrieve the treasure Papa had hidden during the war. If she couldn’t get the treasure, she’d have no dowry. No dowry, no marriage, no paying the mortgage. With so many unemployed sailors and soldiers now home from the war willing to do any sort of work, she and Mama hadn’t even had any luck taking in laundry to help earn money. The thought of living at the poor house made her shudder.
If Papa hadn’t died, he would have retrieved the treasure himself. There’d be no need for Gabriel to leave school and begin an apprenticeship with the cobbler to keep him from seeking work on a fishing boat, no need for Mama to give pianoforte lessons despite her aching arthritic fingers, no need for Harriet to tend fishing nets with other women from the village, and they certainly wouldn’t worry about even having a roof over their heads.
If Harriet had a dowry, Sir Percival Finlay wouldn’t hesitate to propose. As Lady Finlay, she could provide a proper education for Gabriel so he could one day earn enough to support a wife and family, take Mama to the healing waters of the Pump Room in Bath, and make certain they all had a home.
If she had a dowry.
She had to go get the treasure.
But how?
“How are you going to get to Spain?” Gabriel flopped back onto her bed, his fingers clasped behind his head as he stared up at the water-stained ceiling. “And even if you do find the treasure, don’t forget only half of it is ours. The other half belongs to Lord Sheffield.”
Their father’s dearest friend, who had perished in the same battle as Papa.
