Chapter One

 

 

Cambridge, England, 1 May 1849

 

 

HEELS JITTERING AGAINST WORN carpet, Etta kept her gaze trained on the drawing room door. Not ten minutes had passed since her arrival at Bennett Close, and she’d spent all of them in this room, staring at the door as impatience ran her ragged. The ridiculously jovial butler who’d shown her to the room had announced the Duchess of Sowrith only just arrived after her long journey from Dartmoor, and while it was highly unorthodox to receive visitors so soon, he was certain the duchess would attend to her once she saw fit to do so. Etta had scowled at the man’s pomp but hadn’t enlightened him as to her relationship with the duchess. She’d discovered, after he’d departed, pacing the length of the room did little to soothe her, and so she’d seated herself on this chaise, arms folded over her stomach and gaze locked to the door.

Exhaling, she forced herself to think on other things. Bennett Close had been shuttered for as long as she could remember, a grim townhouse she and Gwen had often contrived to walk past, morbidly fascinated by the imposing blight on the otherwise pristine townhouses lining Lensfield Road. Though now occupied, the admittedly grand house had the look of the long neglected, the façade bearing faint marks of the ivy that had once climbed the stonework. Even this drawing room displayed signs of neglect, subtle though they were. The carpets were a little too worn, the drapes beaten but old and faded. Freshly cut flowers gave the room a cheery brilliance, but even the hasty cleaning and a spot of colour couldn’t disguise the occupancy was of a recent design.

Fingers digging into her forearms, she turned her contemplation from the room and instead willed the door to open. Because when it did, she would finally see Gwen. Gwen, her dearest and closest friend. Gwen, who’d relocated to London in pursuit of employment when it became apparent her father’s ailing health would no longer allow him to provide for the Parkes family. Gwen, who she’d not seen in an age, and even then, it had been almost in passing and all too brief.

Gwen, who was now the Duchess of Sowrith and consequently lived even farther away at the ducal estate in Dartmoor.

The door to the drawing room opened silently, such that if she hadn’t been watching it so intently, she wouldn’t have noticed. The jovial butler stepped into the room, his beaming visage seeming to suggest he was overjoyed to be delivering his announcement. “Her Grace, the Duchess of—”

Joy flooded her. Launching to her feet, she threw herself at Gwen, flinging her arms about her. “You are back!”

Her friend stumbled under the onslaught but steadied herself to return the hug just as fierce. “I know! I’ve so missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you.” Pulling back, she couldn’t stop grinning. “Did you travel well?”

“As well as can be expected.” Leading Etta to the chaise, Gwen sat, arranging her travelling coat of soft green wool about her. “How did you know we had arrived?”

“I have my sources.” She eyed Gwen’s travel wear. “That coat is hideously expensive, isn’t it? No point even asking where you found it.”

A blush reddened her friend’s cheeks. “It’s not that expensive.”

“I’d wager it was more than what I spent on my entire wardrobe in the last year.”

Her blush deepened. “Be quiet,” she said, punching Etta in the shoulder.

“Ow,” Etta said mildly.

“And what do you mean you have your sources?”

Rubbing her shoulder, she asked, “Pardon?”

“You said you had your sources, knowing when we’d arrived. Who were they?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Gwen held up her hand. “Actually, don’t tell me. I want to be able to plead ignorance to the authorities when they come to take you away.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “As if you wouldn’t be by my side, holding the shovel as we mire ourselves further.”

“True,” Gwen mused. “Too true.”

Her smile was beginning to hurt her face, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She had so missed Gwen.

Arranging her hands in her lap, Gwen raised her brows expectantly. “Tell me everything.”

Everything? Oh lord, where to start... “There is nothing to tell. My studies continue. Planning on the school is frustrating.” She brightened. “The sculls are scheduled for Wednesday. You are attending, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss the sculls if I could possibly help it. Cambridge is going to annihilate Oxford.”

“As if it were ever in doubt.”

“Agreed. How is your father?”

She blinked. That was a sudden change of subject. Her father? “He is well.”

“He is well?”

“Yes.” Confusion drew her brows. Gwen never asked after her father. She knew there was little point. “Have you a particular question?”

“No. No, I was—” Smiling, Gwen shook her head. “It is of no matter. You are here, and we should be discussing better things than your father. How goes the scholarship fund?”

“It’s there.”

A frown creased her friend’s brow. “We need that fund. We have the means to build the school, but if we don’t have scholarships, we won’t have an inaugural class.”

“I know this.”

“It’s only this is vitally important.”

“I know that, too.” Honestly, she knew how important the scholarship fund was. Years and years ago, she had posited there should be a law school for women. She and Gwen could not be the only women in existence who wished to make the law their passion, and eventually their profession. They would talk endlessly of their school, the courses they would run, the heights their graduates would reach. When Gwen had married the duke, she suddenly had the means to make it happen. And so, she had.

A flurry of letters had traversed the roads between Cambridge and Sowrithil as they worked through a plan. Gwen had warned it would be nigh on impossible. She had explicitly stated the problems inherent in such a venture, not to mention the opposition they would garner from nigh on everyone. The warnings had only made Etta more determined to bring the school into effect. She’d sent a thirteen-page letter stating all the arguments for a school and a general thumbing of her nose at those who sought to oppose them.

Gwen’s response had been one line only: When shall we start?

So for over a year, they had been working on plans. Gwen had wanted to call it a finishing school to placate the masses, but Etta had held out for a college. The Sowrith Law College for Women was mere months for completion and the subsequent opening…provided they had students. Hence, the scholarship fund.

Her greatest wish was to make it so any woman who desired it could argue law, in court and in lectures, and not resort as she had to ambushing law students in the local pub. Especially not when there were students who were argumentative for the sake of it, taking the opposing view no matter how outrageous and laughing at her with wicked dark eyes.

She scowled. Lord, what made her think of him?

Gwen rubbed her forehead. “Maybe it is as well we are holding these events. It will bring some notoriety to the school. We should be able to gather some support and shore up the support we already have. I have the schedule.”

“Oh, good. I was thinking on it and I thought we should have an afternoon tea with the three speakers where patrons can pay a ‘donation’ to attend and have access to them.”

Gwen stared at her. “And this is to be organised how?”

She waved her hand. “We can make it happen. I’ve already secured the agreement of two of the speakers.”

“I don’t have time—”

“I know you don’t. I will take care of it.”

“This isn’t going to be like the time you organised that bake sale, is it?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “Of course not.” And had it really been her fault the labels for salt and sugar were so similar in the Parkes’ kitchen?

“Two of the speakers?”

“Yes.”

“The third has not agreed?”

“The third could not agree, as I’ve no notion who it is. You’ve told me of Mr. Wingard and Mr. Dixon, but you haven’t mentioned who the third was you managed to secure. I can’t ask if I don’t know.”

“No. No, you can’t.” Her friend averted her gaze, colour riding high on her cheeks.

“Gwen.” A sense of foreboding fell over her. She knew that look. Gwen had done something, something she knew Etta wouldn’t like. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. I’ve done nothing. I’ve…” Her friend took a breath. “Well, you know how Edward loves Gothic novels, and when I said I wanted to host guest speakers, he suggested I consider authors, and then he suggested I consider Gothic authors, and then he suggested Lord Christopher Hiddleston, and I couldn’t say no to Edward, not when he is so very excited by the prospect, and it makes a lot of sense as Lord Christopher is quite famous and he will bring a large crowd, mostly of women, and they are the ones we wish to attend the school, and really it made a great deal of sense.”

A deathly silence fell over the room.

Jaw tense, Etta finally said, “You said ‘sense’ twice.”

A torrent of words fell from her friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I didn’t know how. It’s not the kind of thing one puts in a letter, and I didn’t know if Lord Christopher would say yes, and by the time he did, which was only a fortnight ago, I was going to be travelling to Cambridge anyway, so I figured I’d just tell you in person, and you’re being very quiet. Why are you being quiet?”

Etta couldn’t speak. She didn’t care that it caused Gwen concern, that her friend looked at her with pleading eyes. Gwen knew how she felt about that man. Why did the duke’s wishes take precedence?

“Your Grace.” The jovial butler stood in the door. “Lord Christopher Hiddleston’s bags have been taken to his room, and he asks to see you.”

A buzzing sounded in Etta’s ears. No. No, he couldn’t be staying here. Not where she herself had assumed she’d spend most of her time, as she had spent most of her time at the Parkes’ house when they were growing up.

Colour high, her friend turned to the butler. “Thank you, Henry. Please inform Lord Christopher I am indisposed and will see him at dinner.”

The butler—Henry—bowed. “Yes, your Grace.”

Silence again.

Teeth grinding, Etta forced herself to swallow. This was the one place where she was certain she would feel comfortable, where no one would think her peculiar or strange. When they were girls, she’d spent more time at the Parkes’ than at her own home, the warmth of Mrs. Parkes’ kitchen better than the cold silence of her father’s table, Professor Parkes’ willingness to discuss his lectures preferable to her father’s exasperated refusals.

Now that was ruined because the bane of her existence was in attendance, invited by her dearest friend. The blow, doubled and intense, left her utterly without speech.

“Why is he staying with you?” she finally managed.

Gwen lifted a shoulder helplessly. “It seemed the thing to do.”

“Did you know he still sends me articles?”

Her friend winced. “No.”

“Well, he does.” She exhaled. “I thought I would be able to stay here.”

“You still can. Of course you can. There’s more than enough room, and he’s not so very bad, is he?”

That didn’t even warrant a response.

Gwen looked miserable. “I could not say no. Edward… You should have seen how happy this made Edward.”

Turning her head, she gazed at the wall and swallowed. She had no choice. Either she accepted Lord Christopher’s presence here, or she could stay away, and she couldn’t stay away. Gwen was here for a fortnight only, and those two weeks would go fast.

Slowly, she exhaled. She was a woman grown. She could pretend he didn’t exist. “I understand.”

“I shall keep him from you.” A determined expression took Gwen’s features. “With luck, you shall never have to see him.”

“Yes. With luck.” She forced a grin.

“Shall I ring for tea? I feel we should have some tea.”

“Of course.” Exhaling, she offered an olive branch. “And maybe share a Chelsea bun?”

Gwen visibly relaxed. “Oh, yes. Yes, definitely. Do you think the kitchen will have the ones from Bartells?” Her expression turned wistful. “I’ve not had one in an age.”

Etta made a non-committal sound. They always shared a Chelsea bun after a disagreement, the fruit-filled treat a peace offering. “If they don’t, I’m sure someone can be sent. After all, you are an important duchess-like person now. Don’t people jump to do your bidding?”

“They do. It is most embarrassing.”

“But desirous when Chelsea buns are in the equation.”

“Oh yes. Anything for Chelsea buns.”

The door banged, and they both jumped. The butler, Henry, stood in the doorway, his demeanour surprised, perturbed, and slightly afraid.

“Yes, Henry?” Gwen asked, showing no sign of noticing the error.

“Your Grace,” the butler started, gratitude evident in his features. “There has been an incident.”

Brows rising, Etta glanced between her friend and the butler. The man actually said it as if the word was capitalised.

Gwen frowned. “Can it not be handled by the staff?”

“No, your Grace. It has to do with”—the butler lowered his voice—“the special item from London.”

How mysterious. Etta looked expectantly at Gwen for an explanation.

Which was not forthcoming. Her friend shot to her feet. “I’ll attend to it right away.” Halting, she glanced at Etta. “I’m sorry. It’s important.”

She waved her hand. “It’s of no matter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come so soon after your arrival. I’ll go home.”

“No, please don’t. I won’t be long, I promise.” Taking her hands, Gwen squeezed. “And I’m glad you came so soon. I should not have liked to have waited one second longer than necessary.”

Warmth filled her, that her friend had clearly missed her just as much. “I shall stay.”

“Good.” Gwen rose. “I’ll attend to this and be back before you know it.”

She raised a brow haughtily. “Very well, but don’t take too long. I’m extremely busy, you know.”

At that, Gwen grinned. “I shan’t.”

After her friend departed, Etta rose from the chaise to wander idly. Making her way to the fireplace, she trailed her fingers over the figurines displayed on the mantel. Paint was missing in places, and a few of them were chipped. Maybe the house had already been furnished? It seemed a reasonable assumption. Gwen would be here two weeks, and it would be a shameful waste of money to purchase furniture for such a short stay—Although the short time frame hadn’t stopped Gwen from inviting Christopher Hiddleston to stay.

Etta scowled at the faded wallpaper. Why would her friend do such a thing? She knew he was the bane of Etta’s existence. When she was a girl, Etta had convinced Gwen to attend the local pub in search of debate on points of law. She knew students of the universities frequented The Havisham Arms, and it had been wonderful. Stimulating conversation, stirring debate, discussion of the law…well, they’d had such, once she’d browbeaten the students to overlook their sex. Then, Lord Christopher Hiddleston and his friends had arrived.

Lord Christopher agreed with nothing she’d said. In fact, he’d taken such ludicrous stances she couldn’t contain herself, rising to higher and higher passion as his smug grin and completely incorrect suppositions drove her spare. It had been a happy day when he’d finally graduated, and she could rest easy knowing The Havisham Arms would be hers once more.

Then, one day, the articles had arrived.

With no sense of regularity, he’d sent her articles detailing his exploits. Sometimes months would go by without one, and then four would arrive in quick succession. At first, they described his appointment to a fellowship at London University, and the publishing of a work or two on tort law. Then, he’d started sending her snippets of some awful Gothic novel. Then, he’d revealed himself to be the novelist. And then, to make matters infinitely worse, he’d become a ridiculously famous and successful novelist.

And now…now he was to stay with Gwen.

“Miss Wilding-Marsh, what a pleasure. What an absolute pleasure.”

The hair on her neck rose. No. It couldn’t be. Ill thoughts couldn’t conjure the devil. Could they?

Shoulders tensed, she turned. Standing inside the room, his face wreathed in a lunatic grin, stood Lord Christopher Hiddleston.

Fury filled her, such that it stole her tongue. Wrenching her gaze from him, she stonily regarded the fireplace. Maybe, if she pretended he wasn’t there, he wouldn’t be.

However, she had never been lucky. “Miss Wilding-Marsh?”

Resolutely, she stared forward, though she was overwhelmingly aware of his presence. Lord, she wished it were socially acceptable for her to just plant him a facer. She even had some notion of how to do so, given she’d infiltrated Harcourt’s Gymnasium last summer to discover exactly how men went about pummelling each other for fun.

“I say, Miss Wilding-Marsh?”

Damnation, he wasn’t going away. With no other recourse, she turned.

He looked different. Ten years had passed, and with time’s passage, the boy had become a man. Auburn curls tumbled wildly about his head, too long and untamed by any hint of pomade. Dark eyes glittered wickedly beneath straight brows, like the pools of Hades on a particularly evil day, while his aquiline nose led to a mouth far too sensuous for such an annoying man. His strong jaw showed a hint of red-gold stubble, and his cravat was skewwhiff as if it had taken a battering, of what she had no clue. His garments showed the same battering, the grey overcoat stretching his broad shoulders slightly wrinkled. He was a full head taller, and he used the difference in their heights to smirk down at her.

Something curled low in her belly. Damnation, he had always been ridiculously handsome. Why had God seen fit to pair a contrary disposition with such an exterior?

Ignoring whatever was floating about her stomach—which could only be the result of something she ate—she said flatly, “Lord Christopher.”

He didn’t even bother to disguise his glee. “Such a greeting. I do believe I shall blush at its fulsome and effulgent nature. I trust you are well?”

“I am.”

“You do appear in fine health. There’s a bloom to your cheeks that is quite fetching.”

She gritted her teeth. “Thank you.”

“It’s been simply an age since we’ve seen each other, Miss Wilding-Marsh. Tell me.” Moving to the chaise, he seated himself. “How has the intervening time been?”

“Fine.”

“Are you going to ask after me?”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you joking, sir?”

“No.” He flicked at invisible lint on his lapel.

“Have you not sent me completely unsolicited articles for the better part of ten years?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Yes.”

“I know all about you I care to know.”

He stretched his arm over the back of the chaise. And then he smiled.

A fury that seemed reserved solely for him roared through her. Whipping to face the mantel, she took a deep breath. Good God, how could it be ten years since she’d seen him and yet he still had the power to drive her completely mental? It was irrational to feel this intense irritation for someone on the periphery of her life, and it was insane that he had the power to affect her, that his mere presence in Gwen’s house forced a disagreement between her and her oldest friend.

He still regarded her, dark eyes dancing wickedly.

“Do you have anything of substance to impart?” she burst out.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Everything I say is of substance.”

“Who told you that? The legions of sycophants who laughingly believe you a stalwart of literature?”

“My sycophants would never be so gauche as to refer to my work as literature,” he said mildly. “Ah, Miss Wilding-Marsh, I do delight in our relationship. I’ve missed your invectives.”

“What do you expect? You sent me those cursed articles for years and years, despite my frequent and passionate demands to cease. You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“My title would seem to disagree.”

“Your behaviour marks you no gentleman. It has nothing to do with an accident of birth.”

“Ah. That old argument? It’s almost as if we were again ensconced in The Havisham Arms. Well, Miss Wilding-Marsh, do continue. Tell me again how an accident of birth should not dictate the distribution of power and wealth.”

He was laughing at her. She was certain of it. Counting to ten, she took a breath. And then another. And yet another. “I shall not engage you in debate, sir. I merely await the return of my friend while you are clearly frittering your time away on pointless endeavours of little interest and no weight.”

He laughed. “I am delighted our repartee—our persiflage, if you will—remains as dexterous and adroit as ever, almost as if the years have never passed.”

She crossed her arms. Did he think to confuse her with such language? She had made herself a student of the law, and there could be no greater challenge than to understand legal terminology. He could use all the ridiculously convoluted words he wished, and he would not confound her. “A true gentleman would leave me in peace.”

“Ah, but then that true gentleman of yours would not have the pleasure of your company, and I find, Miss Wilding-Marsh, immense pleasure in your company.”

She snorted.

A look of delight overtook his features. “Did you just snort, Miss Wilding-Marsh?

She refused to dignify that with an answer. “Why are you here?”

“In the room? It seemed a comfortable sort of room, and I was desirous of comfort.”

She gritted her teeth. “No. In Cambridge.”

“Ah.” He leant back into the chaise. “I was invited.”

It would be wrong to beat him about the head. Besides, he didn’t need to know how much he annoyed her. “Why did you accept the invitation?”

One auburn brow rose. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because this is Cambridge. Because few of your sycophantic readers would reside here. Because you are in support of a school for women.”

“Why wouldn’t I support a school for women?”

“I—” Her mind went blank. She had never thought he would support the education of women. There was no real reason for her supposition, apart from he’d always been contrary.

“I have always counted you to be the cleverest person of my acquaintance, especially about matters of law,” he continued. “Why wouldn’t I support the education of other similar women?”

Mind. Blank.

His gaze strayed to the clock on the mantel and then he rose to his feet. “Miss Wilding-Marsh, it has been, as I’ve said, a pleasure. I hope to repeat it soon.” With a flourish and a bow, he departed.

Mouth agape, she stared after him. What… He just… Had he seriously just left? Abruptly and without explanation, after stirring her about? He was the most insolent, infuriating, annoying man...

She was still fuming five minutes later when Gwen reappeared, full of apologies and preceding Chelsea buns and tea. Worse, she still thought on him hours later, when she’d returned home and lay in bed, grinding her teeth over a devilish man with autumn-coloured hair and wicked dark eyes.