March 1812
The Duke of Haverford had been at the Sparling ball for nearly two hours, which was unusual enough to catch Sophia Belvoir’s attention. He attended one or two events a week in polite Society during the Season, but this was the first time Sophia had known him to stay beyond the first half hour.
He was strolling through the crowded reception rooms, stopping from time to time for a brief conversation, then moving on. Before long, a pattern emerged: all the people he stopped were men, peers, and members of the loose political group that voted with Haverford in the House of Lords or supported his interests in the Commons. What was His Grace of Haverford campaigning for now?
The Earl of Hamner asked Sophia to dance. Her partners tended to be would-be suitors for Felicity, or husbands and confirmed bachelors who wished to dance without giving rise to gossip or expectations. Hamner wasn’t married, but she was unsure whether he was courting Felicity or avoiding marriage altogether. Either way, Sophia was a safe partner.
Twice-betrothed, she was clearly not a wallflower. Twice-bereaved, she was nearly, but not quite, a widow. The never-wed sister of a protective earl, she was off-limits for seduction, but at twenty-five she was too old to expect a proposal of marriage. Being outside the expected categories for high-born females gave her a sort of freedom; to enjoy a social event without agonising over whether or not an action was intended as a preliminary to courtship.
After their turn on the dance floor, Hamner returned her to the group of mostly young matrons with whom she’d made her debut. Haverford paused in front on them. Sophia was the only female not to blush and turn away. The ladies fluttered as if a fox had sauntered into the dovecote, though his attention was not on them but on Hamner, who, like Sophia’s brother, was one of his acolytes.
A fox indeed, though if the elderly rakehell was on the hunt tonight, it was for naïve politicians and not the young wives of other men.
Sophia, protected by her virgin status and her relationship with the evil old man’s wife, curtseyed and said, “Good evening, Your Grace.” He cast a wintery eye in her direction. He had no time for women who did not conform to his expectations, and she was surprised even to receive a stiff nod. “Lady Sophia.” She had heard the man had charm; had even seen him wielding it. Clearly the elderly spinster sister of the Earl of Hythe did not warrant his further attention. “Hamner, a word, if you please.”
Hamner shot Sophia an apologetic glance as he followed his mentor.
“What did the Duke of Haverford want in the good wives’ corner?” The question came from Felicity, who emerged from behind her and slipped an arm around her waist.
“The good wives’ corner? Really, Felicity?” Sophia couldn’t quite suppress a smile as she urged Felicity into a stroll, so they could converse without being overheard. Perhaps she had made a mistake in educating her sister to speak her mind and expect her opinion to be considered, provided she presented a reasonable case, but she couldn’t help but be proud of the girl she’d all but raised since their mother died when Felicity was only four.
Even with her startling intelligence and sharply accurate tongue, Felicity had a small army of admirers who thronged to the townhouse their brother Hythe had rented for the Season. Every day, messengers and visitors brought enough bouquets to denude an average-sized park, until Felicity had declared that any flowers for which they had no room must be given away.
Felicity had choices. She was everything Sophia was not. Felicity had fair hair, like spun gold; Sophia’s hair was brown. Felicity had blue eyes; Sophia’s were on the brown side of grey. Felicity had a classic peaches and cream complexion; Sophia’s was… well, all right, not brown, exactly. But certainly, of a browner cast than Felicity’s.
Added to that, Felicity was dainty; Sophia was tall. Felicity was fashionably slim where Sophia was altogether rounder, and had to insist on her bodices being cut a little higher than the current mode lest her partners spend an entire dance staring at her breasts.
Above all, Felicity was eighteen and Sophia was twenty-five. When Sophia gave up the idea of marriage and children, she was bowing to fate. It was all but a crime for Felicity to declare that marriage was a trap and she wanted to be just like Sophia—free to live her life as she pleased.
“You must admit,” Felicity argued, “it is unusual to see His Grace stay at such an event. He did not even complete one hour at the come-out ball for his wards.”
They were passing the foot of the steps down into the ballroom from the entrance hall and at that moment the butler made an announcement that sent a hush across the vast chamber.
“The Countess of Sutton. Lady Georgiana Winderfield. Miss Chalmers. The Earl of Sutton. Lord Andrew Winderfield.”
Sophia’s eyes passed over the people she knew already: the dowager countess, the duke’s daughter and her friend. It was true. The Earl of Sutton had returned from the dead and brought his children with him, just as rumour had been claiming for three hysterical days. He stood at the top of the stairs, his sister on one arm and his sister-in-law on the other. Tall. Handsome, though she had never before applied the term to a man nearer sixty than fifty. It fitted, though. He had been a bandit king, said the gossip-mill, and he certainly looked as if he could ride and fight well enough to lead an army of rogues. The lines on his face hinted at a kind nature, as did the trustful way the ladies on his arms leaned into him, rather than keeping a cold and cautious distance.
The younger man, very properly escorting Lady Georgiana’s companion, seemed close to Hythe’s age. Andrew Winderfield, the butler said, so he was Sutton’s younger son, not the heir. His black hair and tanned skin would be unremarkable if not for the stories about his foreign mother that had spread from one end of London to the other before he had even arrived, but the tales of his good looks proved to be an understatement. If the Sutton wealth lived up to the rumours, he’d be a magnet for straying wives, though his status as younger son might keep the marriage minded from falling at his feet.
Sutton escorted his ladies down the stairs, followed by his son and Miss Chalmers.
The butler announced the next group. “Lady Ruth Winderfield, Lady Sarah Winderfield, Lady Charlotte Winderfield, Lady Rosemary Winderfield.”
The four Winderfield cousins paused at the top of the stairs, and the sight was worthy of the collective gasp from the assembly. Any one of the four would have drawn eyes. Together, they were stunning. They wore gowns in jewel tones cut to complement their fine figures. Lady Sarah was in sapphire to suit her fashionably fair colouring, her golden hair and blue eyes. Lady Charlotte was clothed in emerald, highlighting the green lights in her brown eyes. Lady Ruth and Lady Rosemary wore their wealth of black hair in fashionable coiffures. A ruby gown on one contrasted with her ivory skin; the other glowed in a deep amber that complemented the warmer tones of her complexion.
The muttering of the assembled guests swelled and then ceased abruptly when the Duke of Haverford crossed the floor, and stopped in front of the Earl of Sutton.
Sutton inclined his head, his face impassive.
Haverford sneered and turned on his heel in an ostentatious cut direct. Sighting his wife at one side of the room, talking to their hostess, he marched twelve paces and spat out, “Lady Sparling, that man is an imposter. The duchess and I will not visit any home where he and his devil-spawn are welcome. Duchess!” He beckoned to Aunt Eleanor, as Sophia called her godmother, and stalked off up the stairs.
The duchess waved her two wards ahead of her and followed, hesitating for a moment as she passed Sutton. Their eyes met. Sophia could have sworn that his had a question. If so, the duchess didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs after her husband. Most of the room watched the earl’s party crossing to Lord and Lady Sparling, but Sophia continued to watch the duchess, and may have been the only person who saw her stop at the top of the stairs, to look after the earl.
“It went well,” Georgie proclaimed, once Drew and the girls had retired and only the older members of the household remained to consider the evening. “Haverford was a horse’s rear end, but that was to be expected.”
Yousef, head of Sutton’s household staff, had been leaning against the back of his wife’s chair, but he came alert like the old campaigner he was. “What happened?” They had all agreed only the family would attend the ball, the first social outing from the house of Winshire since Sutton and his children arrived in England. Sutton’s closest friend and advisor had clearly been fretting the entire evening.
Sutton answered before his sister or one of the other ladies could. “Nothing much, Yousef. He and his party left when we arrived, after announcing that the Haverfords and Winshires were at odds.” He took a sip of his drink. “I agree the evening was a success, Georgie.”
“Our girls made an impression,” Grace commented. Her smug smile at Letty hinted at the hours the two women had spent concocting the scene that began the evening: the four Winderfield cousins at the top of the stairs, each superbly coiffed and beautifully dressed in vibrant colours that contrasted and complimented the others.
Georgie lifted her cup in a salute to Yousef’s English wife. “Keeping young Jamie in reserve was a good idea, Patience.” Patience had come to Para Daisa as governess to the younger Winderfield children, and still held that role, hers and Yousef’s sons sharing the schoolroom with Barnabas and Thomas.
“It worked just as you suggested,” Georgie continued. “They are intrigued. If I had one person ask me if the heir was as good looking as Drew, I had twenty. And I told the biggest gossips in the ton how glad I was that you were so wealthy!” She grinned at her brother. “When Jamie arrives back from the errand you sent him on, make sure he knows not to be alone with any marriageable female, anywhere, at any time.”
The others continued to dissect the evening, prompted by questions from Yousef and Patience. Haverford’s claim that Sutton was an imposter could be ignored, they all agreed. If recognition by his father and sister was not enough, at least a dozen people at the ball last night had known him as a young man.
Sutton did his best to pay attention to the conversation, but his mind kept drifting back to the confrontation with Haverford and the encounter with Haverford’s duchess.
The old man, he’d called him when he was twenty-one and a fool. “You can’t marry her to that old man,” he’d screamed at Eleanor’s father when his own suit had been rejected because she was already promised. Haverford was sixteen years his senior, and that seemed old to him then, especially since Haverford was more than twice as old as Eleanor. The man would be in his seventies now—an old man in truth, gnarled and bent as an old tree, the once handsome face withered and twisted into a peevish mask.
Eleanor, though… Sutton would have known Eleanor anywhere, as soon as her lovely eyes met his. Through a long and happy marriage to the mother of his children, the bittersweet memory of the young Eleanor had lingered in a corner of Sutton’s heart, and seeing her had brought all those memories flooding back.
She was older, of course, though if he’d not known she was approaching her fifty-second birthday he’d have guessed her no more than forty. Time had delivered on the promise of great beauty and grace.
He’d heard stories of her since he returned—she was dear friends with his sister and sister-in-law. It seemed time had also honed the strength under the softness that made her submit to her father rather than run away with Sutton. His Eleanor had become the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame known for her works of charity, her kindness to those who fell afoul of Society’s censure through no fault of their own, and her generosity to her husband’s poor relations and a whole tribe of godchildren.
Such a pity that the feud with Haverford would mean they could not get to know one another again.
“Hythe is such a…” Felicity floundered for a suitable insult. “…a hog,” she concluded.
Sophia looked up from the letter she was writing. “What has our dear brother done now?”
“Only insulted my dearest friends in the world!” Felicity removed her bonnet and leaned over the hearth to tidy her hair in the mirror over the mantel. “He saw me walking with Charlotte and Sarah, and he insisted on my leaving with him, immediately.”
Oh dear. As a protégé of the Duke of Haverford, who had been his guardian until he reached his majority a year ago, the Earl of Hythe felt obliged to support the duke’s current campaign to have the Earl of Sutton and his children shunned by Society. Sophia had not imagined the ban extended to Felicity’s friendship with Sutton’s nieces.
“How did he explain himself?” she asked. If Hythe had been rude, his older but dependent spinster sister would feel obliged to remonstrate with him, and she did not relish the thought.
“He said we can only talk to Winderfields who reject the false heir that Winshire is trying to foist on Society. Haverford is still saying that the man calling himself Earl of Sutton is not Winshire’s son at all, but an imposter Winshire is paying to pretend. I told him that was ridiculous. His own sister recognised the earl. But Hythe says she would have said whatever she was told.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows. “Hythe made that accusation in front of your friends? About their aunt?”
“Well, no. Hythe took me up in his curricle and then told me I was not to walk with them again.”
At which point, Felicity undoubtedly told her brother she saw no reason to do as he commanded, and they descended into a nursery brangle. Sophia had another thought. “He did not give the twins the cut direct, did he?”
Felicity’s answer was somewhat wistful, as if she wished Hythe had been ruder than he was. “He was perfectly polite, I suppose. But it was just so embarrassing to be dragged away. He was rigid and unsmiling, and he interrupted a lovely conversation. Charlotte says the old duke wants her to marry Lord Elfingham, but she intends to refuse. He is a very nice man, she says, and will make someone a charming husband, but she does not wish to marry at all. Neither does Sarah. I think they are quite right, Sophia. I wish to be a spinster like you, and able to do what I wish, without having to placate a husband.”
Sophia hadn’t chosen her unwed state, a fact Felicity seemed to have forgotten. “I understood you to be complaining about your tyrant of a brother, Felicity. At least you will have some say in the choice of a husband. If you don’t wed, you will be stuck with Hythe ruling your life, whether you like him or not. And you do like him, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Felicity agreed, with reluctance. “He is not terrible, as brothers go. If he would just let me see my friends!”
“In time, Felicity. Once Society decides whether or not to accept Sutton and his children, Hythe will no longer find it necessary to keep you from Charlotte and Sarah Winderfield, I am sure. My sympathies are with Matilda and Jessica Grenford. They have also been deprived of their friends for no better reason than this silly feud, and the Duke is unlikely to change his mind.” The Duchess of Haverford’s wards and Lady Sutton’s twins were close in age, and the duchess, the dowager Lady Sutton, and Lady Georgiana Winderfield, the new Lord Sutton’s sister, had been the firmest of friends for Sophia’s entire twenty-five years, so the girls had been friends from the nursery.
Felicity’s ready sympathies roused on behalf of this injustice. “You are right! It is so unfair, Sophia. I should…”
Sophia glanced back at her letter. Perhaps she could give her sister’s thoughts another direction before she fell afoul of one or both dukes. “Would you like to come with me to Buckinghamshire? This estrangement between the Haverfords and the Winshires is making things difficult for the duchess, and she has asked me to fill in for Lady Sutton on a committee visit to inspect the Sanctuary for Orphans and Abandoned Children in Trentwood. We are interviewing for a new matron for the infant asylum.”
The idea engaged Felicity’s attention on two counts. “Of course. I would love to see the dear little babies. And poor Aunt Eleanor! Of course, we must help her.” Felicity forgot about her own grievances as she discussed how hard this situation was for the Duchess of Haverford.
“Well, then,” Sophia said, breaking into Felicity’s lamentations on the duchess’s behalf. “You may take half this stack of invitations and write our apologies.”