It was a well-known fact among those in the British diplomatic corps that whenever His Majesty, King William IV, had a sticky situation on his hands, Sir Ian Moore would get the assignment. No one else had a chance.
It was true that Sir Ian, thirty-five years of age, had a successful, decade-long career as a diplomat. It was true that he was unmarried, unfettered, and willing to be a roving ambassador, able to go wherever duty to king and country sent him. Of course it was true that his loyalty and honor were beyond question. But during this time of peace in Europe, truly sticky situations where a diplomat could make his mark were rare, and many of Sir Ian’s colleagues wished His Majesty’s favorite ambassador would retire to his estate in Devonshire and give the rest of them a chance to shine.
The Turks and Greeks were a perfect example. Those people would test the mettle of any diplomat, so when a minor skirmish between those factions threatened to break into all-out war, no one was surprised when Sir Ian was sent to Anatolia. But everyone was surprised when scarcely a fortnight after his arrival in Constantinople, he was recalled to Gibraltar. Ambitious young diplomats crossed their fingers, hoping that somehow, some way, Ian Moore had finally blotted his copybook.
Ian knew his copybook was still quite satisfactory. As to the reason for his recall from the East, however, even Ian had to confess he was baffled.
“Why fetch me to Gibraltar?” he wondered aloud, sitting in his cabin aboard the Mary Eliza, one of His Britannic Majesty’s finest and fastest ships of the line. As the ship carried him across the Mediterranean, Ian studied the map of Europe spread out on the table before him. “What could it mean?”
His valet, Harper, looked up from the shirt he was mending. “It must be very serious indeed for them to send for you so suddenly. Something big is happening.”
“I cannot imagine what. The Turkish situation is the only thing of significance in this part of the world at present, and they intend to replace me in the middle of it. To what end?”
“All I know is it’s a shame. There we were in Constantinople, just settled in for a good, long stay, and then in the wink of an eye, there’s a change of plan, and we’re sailing off again.” Harper shook his head with a sigh of regret. “Pity, that,” he added. “Mighty fetching, those Turkish ladies looked in those trousers, and those veils of theirs…makes a man wonder what’s underneath. The sultan was going to give you one of his slave girls, you know.”
“Harper, a true British gentleman would never own a slave girl. Barbaric practice.”
“Maybe so, sir, but one of those Turkish girls would have worked on you like a tonic. Not to say you’ve been short-tempered of late, but—”
“That’s absurd,” Ian shot back, nettled. “I have not been short-tempered.”
“If you say so, but you have been working hard for many months and haven’t had any time for ladies.” He paused, then added, “A man needs what he needs, you know.”
Ian did not want to think about how long it had been since his needs in that particular area had been met. Too long. He shot a warning glance at the servant. “Harper, that’s enough. Any more impudence from you, and I shall begin a search for a new valet.”
The manservant, who had been valeting him since his fifteenth birthday, wasn’t the least bit intimidated. The censure in Ian’s voice slid off him like water off a duck. “Do you a world of good to loosen your cravat once in a while, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind.” Ian drummed his fingers against the table, focusing his thoughts on important matters. “Why fetch me to Gibraltar?” he wondered again as he considered and rejected various possibilities. “Morocco is stable. Things in Spain are quiet. As for the French, well, our relations with them aren’t good, but that’s nothing new. I cannot imagine what the trouble is.”
“Something to do with those Italians again, I say.”
Ian hoped not. “I don’t see how that is possible. The Italian situation is resolved. The Treaty of Bolgheri has been signed, the Congress of Vienna remains intact, and Princess Elena will be marrying the Duke of Ausberg when she reaches the age of twenty-one.”
“Talk is, she doesn’t want to marry him.”
“She will do her duty. She has no choice.”
Harper shrugged. “That’s as may be, but girls are most unaccountable, sir. Especially the Italian ones,” he added with feeling. “It’s the temperament.”
If there was anyone who ought to understand the Italian temperament, it was Ian. He’d spent a lot of time in that part of the world these past few years, pouring the soothing words of diplomacy over the Prince of Bolgheri and the Dukes of Venezia, Lombardy, and Tuscany, to preserve peace in the region and keep Italian nationalists from rebelling against the Austrian Empire, but despite his many trips to the region, he did not understand the Italians. He found their passions too dramatic and their moods too volatile for his fastidious British nature.
Ian gave up his speculations as a futile exercise and rolled up the map. Regardless of where they proposed to send him, he would do his duty. He always did. Nonetheless, when the Mary Eliza arrived at Gibraltar, and Ian presented himself at Government House, he could not help being surprised by his next assignment.
“You’re sending me to London?”
“Not I, Sir Ian,” Lord Stanton corrected him. “These orders are from the Prime Minister himself. You are to depart for home at once. I have dispatched Sir Gervase Humphrey to Constantinople to take your place and deal with the Turkish situation.”
Sir Gervase hadn’t enough experience. The Turks would make mincemeat of him. Ian, of course, refrained from expressing his opinion of his colleague. “What is the purpose of sending me to London?”
“This isn’t any sort of demotion or reprimand. Quite the contrary, in fact. Consider this assignment a reward for all your hard work.” Stanton clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. “You’re going home, man. I’d have expected you to be overjoyed at the prospect. I’m going home myself in a couple months, and I’m delighted.”
Ian wasn’t delighted, and he was far more concerned with the reasons than the destination. “What diplomatic matter in London requires my attention?”
Stanton’s expression became serious. “Sir Ian, you worked long and hard on the Italian situation, then there was that whole Dalmatian debacle, and then we sent you straight on to handle the Turks. You’ve only been home half a dozen times in the past four years and never for more than a few weeks. That’s asking too much of any man, even you. So, the Prime Minister consulted with His Majesty, and they decided to send you back to England for a bit. It’s almost June, the midst of the London season, you know. You’ll have the chance for some pleasant company and good society. Think of it as a holiday.”
“I don’t need a holiday,” Ian said, the sharp reply out of his mouth before he could stop it. Remembering the words of his valet, he pressed two fingers to his forehead until he regained his composure. It wasn’t like him to be so testy. Perhaps he did need a rest, but that was hardly a reason to send him home.
He lifted his head and let his hand fall to his side. “William, we’ve known each other a long time. Between ourselves, could we stop doing the dance of diplomacy and come to the point? Why are they sending me home?”
“It’s not a crisis by any means.” Stanton pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. “But it is important. Prince Cesare of Bolgheri is coming for a three-month state visit in August, and they want you to handle the preparations. But this is really about Cesare’s daughter.”
The Italians again. Blast Harper for being right.
“Princess Elena is in London?” Ian also sat down, taking the chair opposite.
“No, not Elena. The other one.”
“What other one?”
“Cesare’s illegitimate daughter.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know he had one.”
“I’m sure he has a dozen, but this girl, Lucia, is a special case. Her mother was Cesare’s favorite mistress. Seems he actually loved the woman. Years ago, of course.”
“He fell in love with his mistress? Hard lines for a prince.”
“He was quite a young man at the time—rash, hot-tempered, unmarried, and still sowing wild oats. A few years later, when he married Sophia of Tuscany, he set his mistress aside and sent the daughter off to live with her mother’s relations in the countryside. He paid for her support, but he never publicly acknowledged her as his daughter.”
“Cesare embarrassed over a bastard child?” Ian could not credit it. “Surely not.”
“Not Cesare. The Duke of Tuscany demanded it during the negotiations of Sophia’s marriage settlement. Later, Lucia was put in one of those academies for young ladies somewhere in Europe under her mother’s name. She’s been to half a dozen schools in Switzerland and France, but the girl’s wild as a gypsy. Three years ago some scandal happened with a young man—a blacksmith—and right under the noses of the governesses at Madame Something-or-Other’s Academy outside Paris.”
“How old is this girl?”
“Twenty-two. She was nineteen at the time. Anyway, nothing untoward happened to her, if you understand me.” Stanton actually blushed. “The incident was all hushed up, Cesare got the young man married off to someone else and had Lucia locked up in a convent.”
“To ensure there were no blacksmiths in the future.”
“Exactly so. Problem was, the girl kept slipping out, doing God knows what. Cesare decided the only way to control her and avoid a public scandal was to have her right under his nose. He had her brought back to Bolgheri about six months ago and put her in an isolated wing of the palace until he could figure out what to do with her.”
“And?”
For an answer, Stanton pulled a folded newspaper out of his dispatch case and tossed it across the table. It was clearly a scandal sheet. Ian scanned the article, quickly translating the Italian words, then he set the paper down without a change of expression. “So much for keeping the girl a secret. How accurate is this description of the incident?”
“They got their facts straight for the most part.”
“What about Elena?”
“Nothing happened to either of the girls. They wanted to go out for Carnival, just for a lark, you know. The guards, who were off duty at the time, escorted them back to the palace.”
“They were not physically harmed?”
“No. Doctors examined them, and both girls are still…” His voice trailed off in acute embarrassment.
“Virgo intacta?” Ian supplied, Latin being the most tactful way of putting it.
Stanton gave a stiff nod. “Deuce of a mess if they hadn’t been. Anyway, Cesare banished her, sending her off to live with cousins in Genoa, and he decided it was high time to find her a husband, one as far away from Bolgheri as possible.”
“He acted for the best. The girl is clearly a bad influence on her sister.” Ian fingered the edge of the three-month-old scandal sheet in front of him. “No success hushing up her indiscretions this time, however.”
“Unfortunately not. Cesare was hoping to keep the incident quiet until he could get the girl married off, but as you can see, the story got out, along with rumors of her wild behavior. Like you, no one knew about this girl, and now word of her existence and this Carnival escapade is spreading throughout Italy. Prince Cesare finally admitted the girl was his own and granted her his surname of Valenti. His wife, Princess Sophia, is furious about it.”
“Perhaps, but Cesare has no choice. His acknowledgment makes the girl better marriage material.” Ian shoved the scandal sheet aside. “What about the Duke of Ausberg? Does he wish to back out of marriage to Elena for her part in this?”
“No, no. Elena is being seen as the victim of her half sister’s influence. The marriage is going forward, and every aspect of the treaty remains intact.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“Lucia wasn’t in Genoa a month before she ran off. We have word she got herself to London and is living with her mother.”
“Scandal sheets notwithstanding, if Elena suffered no harm from the incident, the Duke of Ausberg still wants to marry her, the treaty remains intact, Lucia’s living with her mother, and all’s well that ends well, where do I come in?”
“Cesare has a great deal of admiration for your diplomatic skills. He feels you are the perfect person to resolve the situation.”
“What situation?”
“It’s going to be tricky.”
Ian leaned across the table, striving for patience. “What situation?” he repeated.
“While you are in London, you are to arrange a marriage for Lucia.”
Ian stiffened in his chair. “You must be joking.”
“You know I never joke about international relations. Cesare wants to get the girl married before she can cause the House of Bolgheri any further embarrassment. You are to find a suitable husband for her, make the diplomatic arrangements, and assist with negotiation of the marriage settlements.”
“I have been removed from an important diplomatic mission in Anatolia to play matchmaker for some chit of a girl?”
“She is the daughter of a prince,” Stanton reminded him. “And you played matchmaker for her sister.”
“That was different. There was a treaty involved. The Congress of Vienna was at stake. Damn it, William—” Ian could feel his temper fraying, and that would never do. He bit back the frustrated words on the tip of his tongue and took a deep breath.
“Cesare does not want the girl back in Bolgheri for obvious reasons,” Stanton went on. “Arranging a suitable marriage for her is the only alternative. Give her a strong-minded husband and a few children, and she’ll settle down.”
“And if she doesn’t, she’s her husband’s problem?”
“Quite. Prince Cesare also desires to strengthen his alliance with us, and feels an English husband for her would be best. Catholic, though, of course. We have agreed to assist. She’s already in London anyway. Get the girl launched into English society and find some suitable Catholic peer to marry her. Cesare gives you carte blanche. You will then assist his government’s envoy and the groom’s family in making the negotiations of the marriage settlement. They will be substantial, for the prince is providing an enormous dowry and income to get her off his hands. Before he goes home in October, Cesare expects a wedding. You will make that happen.”
Lovely. A long and illustrious career of preventing wars, negotiating vital trade agreements, and preserving treaties had come to this. “Finding a husband for her could be handled by anyone in the diplomatic corps. She is rebellious and troublesome, I grant you. She’s illegitimate, and her reputation has now been a bit damaged, but she does possess royal blood. The House of Medina isn’t the richest principality in Europe, but it isn’t the poorest either. Is she homely?”
“Quite the contrary. I’m told she’s very pretty.”
“Well, there you are. The girl’s pretty, the father’s a prince, there’s plenty of money for a dowry. Despite her indiscretions, I’m sure there are prominent Catholic families in Britain who would be willing to connect with the House of Bolgheri through marriage. Especially with such a generous income from Cesare.”
“Yes, but the prince insists that the girl’s husband be a peer and possess substantial estates. No fortune hunters.”
“I daresay, but surely there is someone already at Whitehall who could arrange all this. Why do you need me?”
“Cesare has asked for you specifically. He holds you in very high esteem and trusts your judgment. You are also well-respected by every peer in Britain, and you would facilitate matters nicely. Bolgheri is a desirable alliance for us, as you are well aware, and this marriage would further strengthen our influence on the Italian peninsula. We agreed to put your skills at Cesare’s disposal. You do need a holiday, and you’ll be in London anyway. It’s perfect all round.”
Perfect was not how Ian would have described it. “Ten years of faithful service to my country, and I am reduced to this.”
“There’s more.” Stanton gave an apologetic little cough. “You won’t like it.”
“I am now a marriage broker for wayward girls,” he muttered, jerking at his cravat. “I already don’t like it.”
“Her mother is Francesca.”
“Good God. You mean to tell me that this girl’s mother, Prince Cesare’s former mistress, is England’s most infamous courtesan?”
“Not quite so infamous nowadays. She’s nearly fifty.”
“She’s been the toast of London for years. She has bedded more peers and ruined more fortunes than I can count. From what I hear, she’s bankrupting Lord Chesterfield nowadays.”
“All that’s quite true, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there you are.” Ian tried to dredge up the discretion for which he was so well-known and the diplomatic finesse that had made him such a valuable asset to the British Empire, but for the life of him, he could not manage it at this moment. “What gentleman is going to want England’s most notorious demimondaine for a mother-in-law, especially when the odds are he’s bedded her himself? As to the daughter, from the way she’s managed her life thus far, that scandal-ridden girl seems more suited to follow in her mother’s footsteps than to become the wife of a British peer. At least that’s what any gentleman I approach on her behalf is going to think. With a mother like Francesca, where am I going to find the daughter a titled husband with money, and a Catholic one, at that?”
“Cesare’s orders are that the girl be removed from her mother’s house and that there be no further contact with the woman. Seems the mother visited Lucia often when she was in those French finishing schools, and Cesare feels her influence is part of the reason the girl has turned out so wild.”
“No doubt, but—”
“Lucia is to be placed with a suitable chaperone and launched into English society while you search for an amenable groom and facilitate introductions.”
“What of the girl? Does she have any say in the choice of her bridegroom?”
“No. His position, suitability, and willingness to marry her are what matter. Cesare trusts you to find the best match.”
Ian was not flattered.
Stanton held out a sheaf of documents to him. “Here are your official orders from the Prime Minister, along with the specifics of Cesare’s dower and a dossier of the girl’s life.”
“Such a coup for my diplomatic career,” he muttered with a tinge of bitterness as he took the documents.
“We have every confidence you will fulfill this assignment with your usual skill, Sir Ian.” Stanton stood up with an air of finality. “We know you will do your duty.”
Those words were a sharp reminder. Ian rose to his feet. He cleared his throat, straightened his cravat back to its original perfect knot, and with an effort, recovered his poise. “I always do my duty, Lord Stanton.”
With a stiff bow, he departed, but his duty did not stop him from spending the journey from Gibraltar to London cursing troublesome Italian girls and international politics.
Lucia loved living with Francesca. They shopped and talked and spent countless hours together. Deprived of her mother for all but a few short visits each year throughout most of her life, she felt that she and Mamma were a real family at last.
Francesca was a charming hostess with a small, intimate circle of friends. Her current lover, Lord Chesterfield, a confirmed bachelor, won Lucia’s approval at once because he was so obviously besotted with her mother. Being of the demimonde, Francesca cared little for the conventions of society. She also liked nothing better than scandalizing the respectable ladies of the ton.
For her part, Lucia was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was allowed to do what she liked and go where she wished, and she found that freedom lived up to all her expectations. Her mother gave her a generous allowance and all sorts of delightful suggestions on how to spend it. If anyone knew how to spend money, it was Francesca.
But one afternoon when Lucia had plans to go to Bond Street, she entered her mother’s bedchamber to see if Francesca desired to accompany her and found the other woman already occupied. She was being fitted into a blue velvet riding habit by her modiste.
“I’m afraid I can’t go with you today, darling. I have all sorts of plans. For one thing, my new riding habit has just arrived.”
“So I see.” Lucia studied her mother for a moment, appreciating how well the royal blue color complemented Francesca’s dark auburn hair. She also noticed that the modiste was not simply fitting the riding habit, but was in fact stitching the pieces of it together right on Francesca’s still-slender body, thereby achieving a skintight garment that would surely cause a scandal. “Are you wearing anything underneath that, Mamma?”
“Not a thing,” Francesca answered, lifting her arm so that the modiste could stitch the side seam of the bodice into place over her bare skin. “Shocking, aren’t I?”
Lucia walked over to the bed and fell back into the soft pillows lining the carved headboard. “Very shocking,” she agreed in amusement. “But that won’t stop the English ladies from rushing out to copy it. They’ll all be getting stitched into their riding habits within a week.”
“Exactly. But just as they begin to wear this fashion, I shall be on to something else.”
Even at the age of forty-nine, no longer at the height of her beauty and with a few lights of silver in her hair, Francesca’s daring but faultless fashion sense still held sway over the respectable ladies of the ton.
Lucia smiled. “I suppose you already have some new sensation in mind?”
“Of course,” Francesca answered as a maid entered the boudoir with a calling card in her hand. “That carriage Chesterfield ordered for me will be here in less than a fortnight. It has mother-of-pearl inlaid on the doors and the ride—oh, Lucia, Chesterfield assures me it has the smoothest chassis you can imagine. I shall wear the fullest skirt I can find so that it billows all around me—a white skirt, I think—and I shall glide upon the Row like a swan glides upon the water. Not now, Parker,” she added in English as the maid held out the calling card to her. “Heavens, can’t you see I’m only half-dressed? I couldn’t possibly see anyone now.”
“The gentleman claims he is here on a matter of great importance,” the maid replied. “He says that you were given to expect his arrival. Shall I have Mr. Fraser tell him you have gone out?”
Francesca shifted her position as the modiste moved to stitch up the other side of her bodice, then she glanced at the card. “Oh, dear, he’s downstairs now? I’ve mixed things up, for I thought he was coming tomorrow—” She broke off and gave Lucia a rather furtive glance. “Tell him—umm—tell him I shall be down in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Parker set the man’s card on the dressing table, curtsied, and departed.
“Who is he?” Lucia asked, her mother’s odd glance at her a moment before making her curious.
“Oh, I don’t know, darling,” Francesca answered. “Go on to Bond Street and enjoy yourself.” She tilted her head to look down at the modiste, who was on her knees stitching the gusset together under Francesca’s arm. “Annabel, you must hurry. It doesn’t do to keep a man waiting too long, especially when it’s a matter of business. They get so impatient, poor dears.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annabel murmured around a mouthful of pins.
“A matter of business?” Lucia repeated, more curious than ever. “Are you breaking with Chesterfield?”
“Not that sort of business.” Francesca turned toward the mirror. “He wants to see me about some legal matter.”
“What legal matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something deadly dull, I’m sure.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Take the carriage to Bond Street. Since I’ll be riding horseback to Hyde Park, I won’t need it. Go on, now.”
Lucia frowned, becoming suspicious. Her mother’s manner was decidedly odd, almost eager to have her gone. She stood up and walked to the dressing table, taking the card before her mother could guess her intent and pick it up.
“Sir Ian Moore,” she read aloud. “Ian Moore. I know that name.” Her frown deepened as she tried to recall why it was familiar. When she looked at the card again and read his title, she knew. “He’s the British ambassador who arranged for Elena to marry an Austrian duke. What is he doing here?”
“I told you, I don’t know. A note came from someone at Whitehall that he would be coming to call, and I should expect him.” She gestured to the card. “I can’t refuse to see him. He is an ambassador.”
“Elena’s never even met that duke, and she’s being forced to marry him to strengthen alliances. She’s devastated about it.”
“Indeed?” murmured Francesca as she picked up a blue velvet hat from the dressing table and put it on. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. You know how bad I am about politics.”
Lucia looked up and studied her mother’s reflection in the mirror, watching as Francesca tipped her hat first one way and then another on her head, trying to determine the most flattering angle. It did not escape her notice that her mother would not meet her gaze in the mirror. With sudden clarity, Lucia knew exactly what that British ambassador was doing here.
“They’re going to marry me off, aren’t they? Just like they’re doing with Elena.” She could see the truth in her mother’s face. “Aren’t they?”
Francesca sighed, took off the hat, and tossed it over Annabel’s head onto a nearby chair. “I didn’t want you to know anything about it until after I had talked with him myself.”
“That is why he’s here, though, isn’t it?” Lucia’s blood began to boil.
“He is here about the possibility of a marriage for you, yes. Oh, darling,” she added on a sigh as she studied her daughter’s face, “you’ve always wanted a home of your own, marriage, and babies. When you were a little girl, I can’t think how many times we used to plan your wedding, and dolls were the only toys you ever wanted to play with. Please don’t say that episode with Armand has sworn you off love, and you intend to be a spinster, for I know you too well to believe it. Besides, I should hate not to have any grandchildren.”
“Of course I want to get married, but I have no intention of letting Cesare arrange that marriage for me! I intend to choose my own husband, and I’m going to tell this oily little diplomat to pass that message along.” Her fist tightening around his calling card, Lucia turned and started for the door.
“Don’t do anything rash,” her mother pleaded after her. “Moore is a powerful ambassador. He has enormous influence. Remember what I’ve always told you. Honey catches more flies than vinegar.”
“Oh, I will be as sweet as honey,” Lucia promised, “when I tell him to go to hell.” Ignoring her mother’s exasperated groan, Lucia started downstairs to the drawing room.
Ian would have thought that Francesca, the most notorious demirep in England, would possess a house in keeping with her flamboyant reputation. In this, he could not have been more wrong.
The home in which she lived was a quiet, discreet address in Cavendish Square, her butler was as dignified and impeccable as a servant could be, and her drawing room was an elegant, thoroughly English one of slate blue and willow green, with a painted porcelain shepherdess on the mantel, a landscape by Turner on the wall, and a beautiful Axminster carpet on the floor. Everything seemed designed for solid comfort, not for show. Of course, it was Chesterfield, Francesca’s current protector, who paid the bills, and Chesterfield was a very conventional fellow.
The drawing room held a fine collection of books, and Ian was perusing their titles when the sound of footsteps caught his attention. He put a copy of Homer’s Iliad back in its place and turned as a young woman came to a halt in the doorway.
No one could ever mistake her for an English girl, and Ian knew at once that standing before him was Lucia Valenti.
An image flashed through Ian’s mind of this young woman running across one of Italy’s poppy-filled meadows, barefoot and laughing, with her skirts caught up in her hands and her coffee-black hair loosened from its combs to fly behind her in a thick, unruly mane. Odd, he thought, that his imagination should conjure such a vivid scene, for he was not a man given to flights of fancy. Still, there was a quality of barely restrained energy about her that made her seem vibrantly alive against the trappings of her conventional British surroundings.
She was tall for a woman, measuring about four inches beneath his own height. She had long legs, a small waist, and generous curves—curves that her low-necked, tightly corseted gown flaunted to full advantage. Her mother’s influence, no doubt.
With eyes as dark as chocolate and skin like the soft froth on top of a cappuccino, there was nothing of conventional prettiness about her. She did not possess the required pink-rosebud mouth of a fashionable beauty, for her lips were wide, full, and as red as the flesh of a ripe cherry.
Staring at her delicious mouth, Ian knew no man who met her was going to care about the dictates of fashion. The ladies of the ton would shred her, but to any man with eyes, Lucia Valenti was a long, luscious armful of pure dessert.
Ian drew a deep breath. No wonder her father had locked her in a convent.