Part 1 (1/2)

The Very Daring d.u.c.h.ess.

Miranda Jarrett.

For Susan of the South (relatively speaking, anyway).

A first-rate friend, art historian, and commiserator.

This one had to be for you, didn't it?

Prologue.

Winterworth Hall, Suss.e.x 1778.

”Bad news always comes in hired chaises,” said Edward Lord Ramsden glumly as he peered through the boxwood to the drive where the plain black chaise was waiting, there before the front steps. Tomorrow was his tenth birthday, and sure as blazes here was wretched luck to spoil it. ”I don't like this, Will. I don't like it at all.”

”Maybe it's only a tradesman,” suggested William, Viscount Carew and Edward's best friend in all the world, crouching beside him here where they wouldn't be seen by the footmen or the grooms. Before them lay the sprawling expanse of Winterworth, the country seat of the Dukes of Harborough. Winterworth was Edward's home, too, seeing as it was his considerable misfortune to have been born the present duke's fourth and final son. ”Maybe it's the tailor bringing down new s.h.i.+rts for you from London.”

”Tailors don't come in chaises, you ninny, and never to the front door.” His mood darkening by the moment, Edward s.h.i.+fted the h.o.r.ehound drop in his mouth from one cheek to the other, working it against his teeth. There were often things he had to explain to William, who was still nine, and would be for another fifty-six days. ”Physicians come in hired chaises. Solicitors, too, and tutors, and dancing-masters. No one you wish to see.”

”I know, Ned!” exclaimed William, thumping his elbow into Edward's arm. ”I'll wager it's some special surprise for your birthday!”

”Not b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l likely,” said Edward, borrowing one of his older brother's more wicked expressions to convey his own gloomy certainty. ”Maybe in your family, sure, but not mine. Think on it, Will. What's the only real reason that chaise would be here? Who'd anyone come to see? Who's likely already here?”

”His Grace your father.” William let out a low whistle of commiseration. ”Did you know he was coming back today?”

”I never know,” said Edward, already beginning to pluck the twigs and leaves from his hair. ”Likely he's only on his way somewhere else, anyway, and won't stay beyond tonight. But best I go in now, before he raises h.e.l.l and I get double the thras.h.i.+ng.”

”Stinking luck,” said William solemnly. ”Before your birthday and everything.”

Edward nodded, grateful that he wouldn't have to say any more about his father to his friend. As quickly as he could, he brushed the worst of the dry gra.s.s from his jacket and breeches, straightened his waistcoat, and tugged the stickers from his stockings, trying to undo all the damage that building a fortress in the elm tree behind William's house had wrought upon his clothes.

”Good enough?” he asked, standing before William with his arms outstretched. He hoped he'd be able to run up the back stairs to his room to wash and change, but his father had waylaid him in the kitchen before, and it was better to be prepared for the worst. Some manner of the worst was already inevitable, since Edward hadn't seen his father since the last reports had come down from school. It was not going to be a pleasing encounter.

”You'll do.” William sniffed, wiping his nose on the cuff of his coat. ”Come back to Charlesfield as early as you can tomorrow, Ned. We can finish the palings on the fortress, and Mother said she'd have Cook bake you a special cake for tea. That orange and cocoa one you like best.”

”Mates forever, then,” said Edward, tapping his fist twice against Will's in the secret signal they'd invented. ”I'll be there tomorrow whenever I can get away.”

”Mates forever,” said Will, his grin lopsided with missing and half-grown teeth. ”And don't be late.”

Silently Edward nodded, not letting himself think too long about either the orange and cocoa cake or the celebration that William's mother and his sisters would doubtless lavish upon him in honor of his birthday. That would come tomorrow, his reward for surviving today.

He pushed through a break in the boxwood, and hopped and ran his way down the hill toward the back door to the kitchen. In the courtyard, the road dust was being scrubbed from the Duke's green traveling coach, while the grooms were still walking the four matched gray horses to cool them from the road. Clearly his father hadn't been here much longer than whoever had arrived in the hired chaise. His heart thumping, Edward raced through the kitchen and past the bustling servants into the hall, determined to reach the stairs before he was noticed.

He didn't succeed.

”Ah, here's the little snot now!” brayed his brother St. John, his mouth half-filled with a cream biscuit he'd filched from a tea tray. St. John was the third brother, seventeen, tall and gangly in his still-new regimentals, and a perpetually terrifying force in Edward's world. ”Obey your elders, snot, and come here directly.”

”You're supposed to be in Bath,” said Edward sullenly, considering whether or not he was fast enough to dart past St. John and escape. ”You're supposed to be there stationed with your regiment, not here.”

”I was, but I'm not now, am I? Father was lonely, and so he's taking me to London with him for a fortnight of whoring and gambling. Of course Colonel Hodges obliged when Father asked.” St. John looked scornfully down at Edward, licking the cream from his thumb. ”Not that he'd do anything like that for you, you disgusting little worm.”

Edward's hands tightened into fists of helpless frustration at his sides, hidden beneath the skirts of his coat where St. John wouldn't see them. There was never any point in fighting St. John, who had on his side size, strength, and years of experience in the refined torture of his younger brother. Like contentious c.o.c.kerels, there had always been a pecking order among the four Ramsden brothers, encouraged by their father, and Edward's place was perpetually and painfully at the bottom of the roost.