Chapter 1

By the time Nicholas had been dropped off at his Mayfair townhouse, the streets were deserted except for the night watchmen patrolling underneath bright street lamps, and George was exhausted. Recalling the days of his youth when he had the run of London and could fritter away the night with his Oxford cronies without the slightest effort, he felt a twinge of nostalgia for that too-brief period of time when he had total and utter freedom from the responsibilities that now weighed him down. These days he did indeed feel his age—next year he would be forty and decidedly middle-aged. Genny had been gone for two years now, and he was still at point non plus with their daughter. His business was thriving, but it seemed to require an increasing amount of his time, which he had only recently realized was a contributing factor to his problems with Louise.

The image of the pretty blonde Miss Sedgely came to mind, along with a whimsical wish to be a decade or so younger. No milk and water miss she! He liked that about her, that she was not afraid to speak her mind. That she had more on her mind than routs and fashion and husband-hunting. He’d often thought it was a shame that society offered few options for women except through marriage, and even then their role was limited to the home and serving as pretty decorations at social events. But then, he couldn’t see her in the same vein as the independent Lady Hester Stanhope either. Miss Sedgely would be an outstanding wife for a man who had the presence of mind to appreciate her outspokenness and her fearless determination to become personally involved with the poor and needy and not just write checks from a convenient distance.

As the carriage approached the modest residence he kept in Town for the times when it was too late to make the thirty-mile trip to St. Albans, he sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had enough problems without adding a romantic entanglement into the mix, the principal of which was his daughter Louise.

At fifteen, she was a miniature of her mother, a dark-haired, petite beauty with dainty features and coffee-colored eyes that flared up like fireworks when she was angry… which was most of the time these days. She had reason to be angry, he acknowledged, having lost her beloved mother two years ago in a carriage accident, and then, after she had finally settled into a stable existence with his sister’s family, she’d been unceremoniously pulled out again to live with a father whose life was his work and who had no real understanding of his own daughter.

Perhaps he should have left her with his sister’s family after all. Eliza loved her like a daughter, and Louise, with no siblings of her own, had eagerly adopted her younger cousins and appeared to be thriving when he’d decided to bring her home. A less selfish man might have given her leave to remain there. But when Eliza’s husband was appointed to the diplomatic staff of Lord Cathcart in St. Petersburg, George found he could not allow her to go.

It had been a major bone of contention between them. Louise had always yearned for the sort of exotic, lavish, aristocratic lifestyle she thought she deserved as the granddaughter of a French comte—an attitude inherited from her unhappy mother and grandmother. His stomach hardened as he recalled how the bitterness of his mother-in-law at having her aristocratic heritage so violently wrenched from her had eaten away into his marriage.

As Genny became more and more dissatisfied with her position as the wife of a lowly solicitor, their quarrels escalated to the point where she began to spend most of her time with her sister, who, as the wife of a duke’s younger son, lived in a fine house and socialized among the ton. He felt conscience-stricken to recall how relieved he’d been when she’d been gone. Plunging into his work had the double benefit of contributing to the financial success of his business as well as helping him to avoid stewing over his guilt and unhappiness over his marriage.

It hadn’t always been like that. They’d married young—he’d been nearly three and twenty and she eighteen—but those first few years had been good ones, especially with the birth of Louise. Genny had been a doting mother, and, as far as he knew, showed no signs of being discontent with her life in those early days. There hadn’t been much money then, but they’d employed a cook, a maid, and a nursery maid for the babe. Genny made the social rounds of St. Albans—such as they were—and they attended a handful of balls and assemblies during the social season. Once or twice a year, they made their way to Norfolk to the Durand family estate to visit his cousin, the 4^th Viscount Faringdon. He wondered if that tempting glimpse of the grandiose life might have contributed to her restlessness.

Contributed, perhaps, but it wasn’t the primary culprit. That dubious honor went to her mother, the displaced Comtesse d’Aumale, who resided alternately with the families of both her daughters. While living with his family, the bitter countess railed against him, his income, the house they lived in, the small town and the paysans who lived in it, and just about everything around her. She berated her daughter for marrying beneath her, and held up Genny’s sister Juliette’s husband—heir to a duke, although his brother the duke might still conceivably produce a son—as a far superior choice.

Frankly, this was something George couldn’t understand. The comtesse had escaped the guillotine, along with her daughters, when her husband had not. The glittering Versailles of the past no longer existed—the revolutionaries and Napoleon had swept it all away in favor of a new “republican” aristocracy where he and his family and cohorts reigned supreme. The comtesse wasn’t likely to ever win her property back, and even if she did, it would be run into the ground with no money left to put it in order again. George was a practical man, and he thought it foolish in the extreme for his mother-in-law—and then his own wife—to brood over the past so much that they could no longer see the advantages of the present. Ah well. The comtesse and Genny—as well as Juliette—had lost their lives in that horrific carriage accident, and that was that, he had thought at the time. Grief-stricken and relieved that Louise had not been in the carriage as well, he’d had no inkling at the time that Louise would suffer from the same malady as her mother and grandmother.

The coach came to a halt and so did George’s troubled reverie. It was nearly dawn and he had a full day at the office to look forward to, in addition to the thirty-mile return trek to St. Albans. This was why he didn’t particularly care for the social obligations of his position; it was true that he employed clerks to manage the relentless paperwork required in the legal profession, but no matter how reliable they were, his personal oversight was essential to the process.

“Good night, Fowler,” he called to the coachman as he exited the coach. “Or rather, good morning.”

“G’night, sir.” The coachman tipped his hat, climbed back onto the driver’s seat, and urged the horses on to the mews behind the building.

As George neared the entrance of the building where he leased lodgings, he thought he heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough. Suspecting an attacker, he whirled around in the dimly-lit front yard, his cane raised for defense. Nothing. He stood, breathless and nearly motionless as he surveyed the area for a potential ambush. His gaze caught on the tall hedges guarding either side of the door. Were his eyes deceiving him, or were some of the branches moving slightly in the calm, breezeless night? He waited a handful of seconds and then descended upon the hedge on the right, his walking stick aimed like a sword as he sought to reveal the unknown person concealed behind it.

The stick clacked loudly as it hit the stone of the building, but a simultaneous scream confirmed his suspicions of a lurker. Moving quickly to head off an escape attempt, George closed in on the small figure huddled in the bushes. A child, by the look of things. The scream, he recalled, had been decidedly feminine, but seeing no skirts, he thought perhaps it was a boy not fully grown. Not the sort of muscled brute he’d first feared, but still a threat to the neighborhood. He slowed his approach, but continued to move closer.

“Come out, boy, and explain yourself. What are you doing here?”

The small figure crawled out hesitantly, raising his hands in front of him for protection. “Don’t hurt me, Papa! It’s me, Louise!”

Louise!

He lowered the cane and kept approaching. As he drew closer, he could make out his daughter’s familiar oval-shaped face and brown eyes, wet with unshed tears.

“Louise? What are doing here? You are meant to be in St. Albans, with Mrs. Crewe!”

Louise ran into his arms. She hadn’t done that for a long time—not since she was a young child. It felt good to hold her there. She was safe. But… how had she got there? What was she doing in the bushes? And why, he asked himself, was his daughter dressed in a shirt and trousers like a stable boy?

A light was lit in the foyer of the building, and the porter’s footsteps could be heard approaching the door. George pushed his daughter back behind the hedge. It wouldn’t do for word to get around that the daughter of George Durand had been seen in boys’ clothing in the early hours of the morning at a lodging house for gentlemen.

A key turned in the lock, and the front door opened. “Is anyone there?”

The porter, a stout, bald man in a worn green dressing gown and brown nightcap, peered out from behind the open door. “Mr. Durand! Is all well with you, sir? I thought heard a scream…”

George straightened his spine and gave the man a condescending stare. “Certainly not, Hodges. Must have been a dream. All is well here. I-uh- dropped my key into the grass and am having the devil of a time finding it again.”

The porter relaxed his shoulders. “Is that all? Would you like me to assist you?” He tried to stifle a yawn.

“Oh no, that is not necessary,” George said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll find it in short order. Best you go to bed and get a bit more shut-eye while you can.”

“Well,” said the porter reluctantly. “If you are certain…”

“I am.”

“I shall leave you the candle, at least. You may leave it on the hall table when you come in.”

“Indeed.”

The man left the candle on the top step and padded off to bed, leaving the door slightly ajar, presumably so that George could enter should his search for the key be unsuccessful.

When his footsteps ceased, George motioned to Louise to come out.

“Be silent,” he whispered. “We will discuss this later. For now, we must get you up to my rooms without anyone knowing you are here.” These were gentlemen’s lodgings, and women—even daughters—were strictly prohibited.

Louise nodded.

He picked up the candle from the step and blew it out. The more darkness, the less likely anyone would see his illicit ‘guest’.

As they entered the building, Louise removed her shoes at her father’s silent command, and the two of them made their way down the corridor and the two flights of stairs to his residence. When he finally closed the door behind them, he lit a lamp in his sitting room and motioned her to a chair.

“Now, do tell me, Daughter, what has brought you to London—and in such a state as you are now, as well.”

Louise swallowed and stepped back. “I-I wanted to come to London, Papa. There’s nothing at all to do in St. Albans, and Mrs. Crewe is a dead bore. She makes me study Fordyce’s Sermons every morning after breakfast, and has taken away all of my novels too! My only friend is—well, I have no friends there at all—people are so provincial there, you know, and all my friends are here in London! Please, Papa, you cannot oblige me to stay there! I’m quite certain I shall die from the tediousness of it!”

George’s face reddened. Despite his non-violent nature, he had an overwhelming desire to throw something. How did she slip away from the house? Where did she get the masculine attire? And how in blazes had she managed to travel the nearly thirty miles to get here? Thus far, she hadn’t said anything he had not heard before. She’d made her grievances plain to anyone within hearing distance, since he’d categorically refused to allow her to travel to Russia with her aunt’s family and brought her back home again.

He forced himself to speak normally. “I don’t yet comprehend how you could have traveled here all on your own—you will explain that to me shortly—but your own behavior confirms to me that you haven’t the sense of a gnat. Must I keep you under lock and key, Louise, in order to prevent you from harming yourself with your foolish behavior? I confess to being astonished that the daughter I raised could have embarked on such an ill-advised prank.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Young ladies do not roam the countryside alone, not to mention London, nor do they dress in masculine attire to do it. Your deception could have been detected at any time, and heaven knows, I could have awakened to the news that my only child was assaulted or even murdered!”

“Do not pretend you would not be relieved, Father dear, to have one less complication in your life! If you had only allowed me to travel to St. Petersburg, you might never have been obliged to concern yourself with me again!” Her jaw was set, but he saw a lonely tear slip down her cheek.

George sighed heavily, feeling a tightness in his chest. “Surely you do not believe I should have been glad to hear of your death! Such a thing is beyond my understanding. I know you wished to go with your aunt, Louise, but how could I let you go, knowing that by the time I saw you again you would be a grown woman and nothing like the little girl who went fishing with me and learned to bait her own hook despite her fear of worms.”

“Oh, Papa.” Louise smiled briefly in spite of herself. “Young ladies do not bait hooks.”

He reached over and took her hands in his. “You did, though, before your mother convinced you such a pastime was not worthy of you.”

She paled at the mention of her mother, and he wished he could take back the words. Her mother’s absence still had the power to distress her, and he himself could not think about Genny without a twinge of guilt.

“You are all I have left, Louise. At the time, I thought it best that you have a mother figure to see you through your time of grief, but I should not have left you there so long. It was not my intention to—abandon you there.” He shrugged. “But each time I saw you, it seemed you had become part of the family, and I found it impossible to tear you away, to share what has become a bachelor household.”

“But that is what you have done, Papa! I could have danced with Russian princes in St. Petersburg, but instead you have obliged me to live in this stupid village where there is nothing to do and no one of interest to meet. And so I sit with nothing to do but listen to that stuffy Mrs. Crewe, while you-you…” angry tears spilled out of her eyes “… appear only for dinner, and not even that much really, with your constant trips to London.”

Accepting the loan of his handkerchief, she dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I do not believe you really wish to have a daughter at all. Sometimes I wish I had been with Maman and Grand-mère in the carriage that day. For then at least I would be with them, and not left to be a virtual orphan as I am at present!”

“How can you say that?” George swayed slightly, feeling a sudden heaviness in his core. “You would prefer to be dead than be my daughter, Louise?”

Louise looked up at him through tears, and he hurried to pull her out of her chair and hug her to his chest. “I may not be the best of fathers, dear child, but I shall do better in future. You may depend upon it.”