Chapter 1
London, 1817
At first it was a whisper, a breath of sound that crept through St. George’s like a mist.
As the gathered guests grew aware of Miss Lenora Hartley’s arrival, it became a tidal wave of voices that slammed into her where she stood at the back of the church.
She eyed the churning sea of faces that turned in her direction, dread snaking under her skin. For it was not smiles or curiosity or politeness in their eyes, but pity and an almost horrified glee.
Lenora’s gaze snapped to the altar. Lord Landon was not there. A sweep of the area confirmed it. The dread that simmered under the surface transformed to a boiling panic, the ground beneath her feet as unsteady as sand in an outgoing tide. With effort, she kept her serene smile fixed firmly in place, yet her fingers convulsed in the wool of her father’s sleeve.
Not again.
Just then there was a burst of movement from the congregation. A woman in pale violet darted into the center aisle and hurried toward her. Margery. Lenora nearly sagged in relief to see her friend. The look in the young widow’s eyes, however, had Lenora’s panic returning tenfold.
“My dear,” Margery said with forced joviality. She leaned forward to kiss Lenora on the cheek. Her next words, whispered hurriedly in her ear, turned Lenora’s blood to ice. “Go back to the carriage. Now.”
Cheeks trembling to hold her smile, Lenora turned to her father. “Papa, I do believe I’ve forgotten something in the carriage.”
Her father, quite against character, held his tongue. Without acknowledging their guests, he turned and guided Lenora and Margery out. Hold your head high, Lenora told herself as they stepped into the light of the bright morning sun. Down the steps—walk, don’t run—to the waiting carriage. Once safely ensconced within, Margery rapped sharply on the trap door.
“Back to Sir Alfred’s house, and hurry,” she barked to the startled driver. As the carriage lurched into motion, she grasped Lenora’s hands tight, her velvet brown eyes sober in her pale face. “I cannot believe he has done this to you. What a horrid mess.”
“Enough of the dramatics, Margery,” Lenora’s father broke in, his voice like gravel crushed beneath a wheel. “What the devil is going on? Where is Lord Landon?”
Margery’s eyes hardened. “Would that I knew, for I’m of a mind to teach him a valuable lesson in being a conniving, despicable snake in the grass.”
Lenora’s breath left her. Lord Landon must have done something horrendous to induce such wrath from her normally even-tempered friend.
“Damn it, Margery, if you don’t tell us what the boy has done this instant, I will turn this carriage around and find someone who can.”
Margery looked at Lenora. “I’m sorry, dear heart. There is no easy way to say this, but he’s gone and got himself into a duel.”
Silence descended at that thoroughly unexpected pronouncement. Suddenly a wild laugh echoed about the interior. Lenora looked at her father and Margery in turn, only to see they were staring at her in shock. She had made that sound, had she? She flushed hot.
“That cannot be right,” she blurted out. “Lord Landon. In a duel.” An image of her intended rose up in her mind, cool and calm and not dashing in the least. Again that wild laugh sounded. She clamped a hand over her mouth.
Her father gave her a long look, as if assessing her sanity, before turning back to Margery. “Tell us everything you know, in as concise a way as possible.”
It was an order, plain and simple, and not at all gently said. Blessedly Margery was more than familiar with his sharp manners and launched on. “Lord Landon met with Sir Francis Denby in Hyde Park at dawn this morning. Sir Francis was hit in the arm and an artery was severed. He may not survive. Lord Landon ran; no doubt he’s halfway to the continent as we speak.”
“The blasted idiot,” Lenora’s father growled.
Confusion and horror warred in Lenora’s breast. “What in the world could Lord Landon and Sir Francis have fought over to warrant a duel, of all things?”
The pain in her friend’s eyes was acute. “It seems they fought over Sir Francis’s sister, Katrina.”
Lenora blinked. “But why?”
“Come now, girl,” her father snapped. “Even someone as dim as you should be able to figure it out.”
His words hung heavy and cruel in the air. As Lenora’s stunned brain caught up with the rest of her, a horrified realization hit.
“Do you mean to tell me that Lord Landon and Katrina…?”
Margery nodded miserably. “It appears so. I’m sorry, Lenora.”
Lenora fell back against the plush squabs. Was this some type of divine retribution? Three fiancés in as many years had left her. Granted, the first had not wanted to leave.
Pain and guilt flared as she thought of Hillram, before she quickly shut him back into the fathomless box her heart had become.
Even so, a memory had escaped, a creeping tendril that wound about her and would not be ignored. Hillram’s face, still and pale as death had claimed him. A sight that would haunt her the rest of her days.
She had been given a year to mourn him before she had been paraded before the single aristocrats of London, a berry ripe for the picking in exchange for their support of her father’s political aspirations. An engagement had been made, with Lord Fig. When that man had run off to Gretna Green with his housekeeper, her father had matched her with Lord Landon. Who was now on the run for attempted murder.
Again that mad laugh threatened. She clamped her lips closed and gripped her gloved fingers tight in the silver netting of her gown. Perhaps her father was right, that there was something wrong with her. Why else could she not see an engagement through?
Her father grew alarmingly red and drew himself up, leveling an accusatory stare on Margery. “And you didn’t think to warn us before we walked into that nest of vipers at St. George’s?”
“The news reached me as you arrived,” Margery countered. “You know I would never knowingly put Lenora in such a position.”
He turned furious eyes on Lenora then. “Just as well you’re packed. Though it won’t be a wedding trip you’ll be taking.”
“You’re sending me away?” He couldn’t mean it. They were all each other had for family.
“Of course I’m sending you away.” He looked out the carriage window at the passing scenery. “Think of the scandal. Your third failed attempt at marriage? You’ll be a laughingstock.”
Lenora pressed a fist into her roiling midsection, trying and failing to tamp down on the hurt that surged at her father’s words. It was only logical that he would want her far away from London at a time like this, she reasoned. And mayhap there was a silver lining to it all, in that she would finally be free of the unending social whirl her life had become.
She took a deep breath, nodding firmly. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I can access my trust in a few years and quietly retire after that.”
“You fool,” her father spat, turning blazing eyes on her. “If you think this is the end of it, you are mistaken. While you’re in the country, I’ll be clearing your name as best I can. With luck, I may secure you a husband by the winter. Perhaps,” he muttered, “Lord Gregson’s heir will be willing to overlook the stain on your name. Or even Viscount Burgess. They both owe me a great deal, after all.”