The rhododendrons had grown to a towering height. They marked the lines between the townhouses on either side of her uncle’s. Rosebushes grew in disarray against the backdrop of the rhododendrons, wisteria, and honeysuckle, which climbed an old wooden trellis against one side of the house. Emily planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the chaotic tangle of leaves and flowers along the garden walkway. There was much to do, and while Emily felt overwhelmed, she was glad to have a task, one that would bring her joy and perhaps even cheer up her uncle. She wished desperately to please him, to let him know that she was not a useless burden.
When she had received the letter that her parents were not coming home, her world had crumbled in on itself. She’d had no chance to grieve, no opportunity to fully process losing them and her happy life with them.
A tightness claimed her throat, as though an invisible hand had curled its icy fingers around her neck and squeezed.
Do not think about it. Do not think about them.
Emily squared her shoulders and took in the nearest flower bed. She knelt at one end, her pruning shears and protective gloves at the ready. The work was hard, but within an hour she was seeing very good results and was quite pleased with herself.
She wiped her face, accidentally smearing dirt on the tip of her nose. She rubbed again, hoping that this time she removed the dirt. Then she sat back on her heels, her body aching with the concentrated effort of staying bent over for so long. A large black-and-yellow butterfly drifted lazily among the gleaming petals of the bluebells as she looked over her handiwork.
“Hello there,” Emily greeted the butterfly as it settled upon a flower. It looked like a species of swallowtail, her mother’s favorite. The butterfly extended its proboscis, which looked like a tongue—a butterfly tongue, at least—and drank the nectar from the flower. Its wings were folded up flat as it rested. Emily wished she had her sketchbook, but she had thrown it away after . . .
She buried the thought and focused again on the butterfly. Its antennae swiveled in the air as it studied her back.
“Do you like my garden?” she asked it.
The butterfly fanned its wings out as though in response.
“It needs a bit of work, doesn’t it?” she agreed.
A flash of movement caught her eye. She looked toward the house. She thought she saw someone in one of the windows. The maid must be cleaning. Emily pulled a tiny pocket watch out from her smock pocket and checked the time. It was half past two. It would be best if she stayed outside at least another hour.
Please let Uncle’s meeting go well, she prayed. She had a feeling that today was the most important day of her uncle’s life. Perhaps even hers. It was silly, but she couldn’t deny the feeling.
Godric St. Laurent, the Duke of Essex, sat in a chair in the Bombay Room of Berkley’s, his club. Godric was sipping a glass of whiskey, his mind miles away from London.
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Godric?”
He glanced up at Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, who was leaning against the doorjamb. The man’s red hair was a bit mussed, and his fine clothes were all wrinkled.
“I assume you had a good evening last night?”
Lucien chuckled. “With Lady Marsden? I did. The poor widow was most eager to renew our acquaintance. Apparently, she’d always regretted not sharing my bed before she married that old goat.”
Godric snorted. The late Lord Marsden had not been a friend of most men. He had been a sallow-faced old toad who yelled at practically everyone. His wife, thirty years his junior, was a pretty brunette. The day of their wedding, everyone had quietly remarked what a shame the marriage was. Thank God the old man had died. He wasn’t going to be missed, least of all by his poor wife.
Godric waved for his friend to join him. “I’ll wager Lady Marsden was quite pleased.”
Lucien slouched into the chair opposite him, a grin still on his face. “She wore me to exhaustion. I barely escaped her bed this morning.”
“And you don’t mind that in the least.” Godric’s reply earned him a light box on the ears from his friend.
“Of course not.” Lucien made a show of settling back into his chair. “Now, what has you so Friday-faced?”
“I am not Friday-faced,” Godric argued.
“Aren’t you? I know you are always one to brood, but good God, man, you look torn between composing sonnets for your broken heart or thrashing some poor bounder to within an inch of his life. So what’s the cause of it?”
Lucien knew him too well.
Godric was both upset and furious with himself. “You know I parted ways with my mistress.”
“That delectable French creature?” Lucien asked with interest.
“Yes. Evangeline was upsetting the servants.”
“Oh?”
“She insulted Simkins,” Godric growled, his rage returning at the memory.
“The devil you say. Simkins is an impeccable butler. Whatever could she have against him?”
“He broke some silly trinket of hers, and she flew into a rage.”
“Wait a moment. That was months ago, wasn’t it?” Lucien clarified.
“Nearly six.” He wished he wasn’t counting, but he was. He was not so casual as Lucien in his love affairs. He preferred to have a mistress close at hand, a more permanent fixture in his life, and his empty bed was bothering him. Lucien could sleep with a dozen women a night, never see them again and not care one bit.
“Ah . . . So you’re lonely.” Lucien’s teasing tone had softened.
“If you tell any of the others, I’ll deny it to my last breath,” Godric warned. “And then I’ll knock your teeth out.”
Lucien nodded solemnly and in understanding. “Mum’s the word, old boy. They won’t hear it from me. So why not find another woman? You weren’t in love with the French chit, were you?”
“No.” He hadn’t been, but he did miss Evangeline’s charm and intelligence. So few ladies of his acquaintance dared to show him such qualities. Many a woman had been raised to believe that she must act the simpleton. There were many men out there who desired such ladies, but not Godric. He enjoyed conversation, teasing, and interaction outside of bed as well as in it.
“There are dozens of courtesans who would throw themselves at your feet,” Lucien reminded him.
“I don’t want that. I want . . . a challenge. A woman who is unimpressed with my title. A woman who speaks her mind.”
Lucien shrugged. “Well, that won’t be easy.”
“No. Hence my very black mood.” Godric pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and cursed as he saw the time.
“What is it?” Lucien sat up a little.
“I have an appointment with a man about some investments.”
“Oh? Are you taking Ash with you?”
“No, I didn’t wish to bother him with this.”
“Bother him? The man eats and breathes the language of business.” Lucien laughed.
“I know, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t advise me to go with this man. It’s likely to be a risky venture.” Godric slid his watch back into his pocket.
“Then why do it?”
“I wish to be good at something. Cedric has his horse racing, Ashton has his finances, Charles has his boxing, and you have your women, but I excel at nothing.”