1
London - October 1818
“What you need, my dear, is a trip to the country.”
Venetia Dunham lay stretched out on a chaise, a Gothic novel abandoned in her lap as she stared up at the intricate crown molding of the ceiling in her Mayfair townhouse. She lowered her gaze to the speaker, her grandmother, Gwendolyn Dunham, the Dowager Countess of Latham.
She was Gran to Venetia, but Gwen or Lady Latham to everyone else. The old woman looked frail only because of her delicate bones and the walking cane she was never without. But anyone with even a passing relationship with the dowager countess knew that those bones encased a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit, and the cane was more of a weapon than a crutch, as many young men of the ton would attest to.
She was Venetia’s constant companion, the salve to her aching heart when her mother died, and her delightful mentor and dear friend in the eleven years since. Though they were of different generations, Venetia and her gran had a bond that could not be shaken.
“I mean it, Venetia. It has been a year since Andrew passed. We’re both out of mourning, and we need to escape that buffoon who has claimed his title. There are only so many things one can bear, and poor company is by far the worst.” Gwen sat with her back straight, her mouth twisted in a slight scowl. Her words held a cutting edge that bore a mix of impatience and sadness at the dreadful situation they found themselves in.
Venetia smiled a little at Gran’s reference to her cousin, Patrick, who had become the new Earl of Latham. When Venetia’s father had passed suddenly, she and Gran had become the unexpected guests to her late uncle’s son as he took over their townhouse as the new owner.
Gran, who hadn’t seen Patrick since he was a boy, had spent five minutes alone with him after the funeral and had declared him to be a cad. Now, a year later, Venetia and Gran were living with him and the situation was quite unbearable.
“If I have to hear any more about his plans to renovate the townhouse, I shall perish on the spot. A cardroom to replace the drawing room? Does the fool plan to run a gambling hell?” Gwen stamped her cane’s metal tip hard into the rug.
“I think you’re right, Gran,” Venetia said gently. “We must go to the country, I only wish we could go to our old country house.” Patrick had sold it the moment he’d had a chance. That particular sale had been most injurious to Venetia. Her father had left a vast sum of money in Venetia’s possession under a trust managed by an old friend of her father’s, but the townhouse and the country estate, Latham House, were firmly in Patrick’s control. The loss of the money had infuriated her cousin, but he’d held his temper in check. Venetia was relieved that marriage between first cousins wasn’t allowed, or else she would have been worried that Patrick would try to force a marriage simply to obtain her fortune. And marriage was the very last thing Venetia wanted.
“One does not need to own a country house to visit the country.” Gwen removed a small folded letter from a pocket hidden in her skirts and waved it with a triumphant smile.
Venetia sat up and set her book aside. “What is that?”
“Our escape, my dear. It’s a letter from Marrian Hampton.” Gwen passed her the letter.
Venetia stared at the letter’s signature; her lips parted as she scanned the contents. “The Duchess of Devon?”
“Exactly. She was a dear friend of your mother’s, and she has invited us to a house party in two days. I say we accept.”
“But, Gran, are you up to the rigors of a house party? You’ve been unwell these last few months.” Venetia hadn’t missed Gran’s increasing reliance on her cane or the pallor of her skin. Andrew’s death had been especially hard on Gwen.
Gwen waved away her granddaughter’s concerns. “Pish. I’m not unwell, but it serves me to appear to be.”
“But why?”
“If you must know, it’s Patrick. I cannot stand him, nor do I trust him. And as I am your only trust worthy escort for public events, my absence due to ill health prevents you from spending time with him where he might drag you away to marry you to some friend of his. But I cannot always pretend to be on death’s door to keep you safe. At some point, he may send me away and hire a chaperone he can bribe to be absent for the moment he finds a way to get you compromised by one of those friends.”
Venetia tried not to think about Patrick stooping so low as to trick her into marrying one of his friends. “Have you truly been feigning illness?”
“Yes, for the most part. Aren’t I quite the actress?” Gwen’s giggle was so animated that Venetia’s concerns abated slightly.
“Now, what do you say? Shall we attend this house party in the country?”
Venetia examined the letter again, seeing quite clearly the duchess’s invitation. “I suppose it would be nice . . .”
Just then the drawing room door opened and Patrick strode in. He wore a finely cut waistcoat and striped pantaloons, which quite dandified him. Selling her father’s country estate had lined Patrick’s pockets well, and he’d made it clear to Venetia and their grandmother that he wasn’t afraid to spend it.
“Ah, Venetia, there you are.” Patrick smiled. “I was hoping you’d be up for a ride in Hyde Park with me. There are a few friends I would like to introduce you to, especially Mr. Bernard Kenyon. He’s a dear chap, quite taken with you, and he’s only glimpsed you from afar. I think you would suit each other well.” The entire speech was delivered quickly, and it was quite obvious that Patrick didn’t realize his motives were blindingly clear.
“Patrick, I told you—with my trust, I’ve no need of marriage.”
Patrick’s smile withered, and a cold edge glinted in his eyes.
“I know you think that will satisfy you, I’m the head of this family now, and it is my wish that you marry.”
Venetia rose slowly from the couch. Her temper, which rarely flared, had sprung to life at her cousin’s threat. It seemed to her horror, Gran was right about her cousin. She’d been desperately not wishing to believe it but she could deny it no longer.
“Patrick, let us lay our cards upon the table and speak frankly. You wish for me to marry one of your friends. I have no doubt the arrangement would be that you would have been paid by this new husband from part of my money he would acquire control of after the marriage. I have the right of it, do I not?”
Red suffused Patrick’s face as fury took over. “Now see here, Venetia. I have tried to be polite this past year, but my kindness is at an end.” He grasped her arms quite forcefully. His grip was so tight that Venetia gasped as pain shot up her arms. He gave her a violent shake, and Venetia was so stunned that she couldn’t react.
But Gwen did. In a fluid motion, she swung her cane in a rapier-like arc to land between their bodies.
“Release her, Patrick. Now.” The steel in her tone clanged like a fencing blade.
Patrick seemed to recover himself and released Venetia, then took a measured step back as he straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat.
“My apologies, cousin. That was undeserved. You hurt my feelings with your unwarranted accusations. I request again that you accompany me on a ride to meet Mr. Kenyon.”