Nicola Cornick is passionate about many things: her country cottage and its garden, her two small cats, her husband and her writing, though not necessarily in that order! She has always been fascinated by history, both as her chosen subject at university and subsequently as an engrossing hobby. She works as university administrator and finds her writing the perfect antidote to the demands of life in a busy office.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Prologue

      1812

      “You’re a damned fool, Henry!” Simon Verey leant on the table and addressed his friend in tones that would have led Henry Marchnight to call him out under any other circumstances. “Leave it a few weeks—a month, even—for everyone to lose interest in Miss Jacques’s vicious rumours! If you go to Lady Paulersbury’s rout tonight, they’ll make mincemeat of you!”

      Lord Henry’s only response was a rather lop-sided grin as he tilted his head to consider the intricate folds of his violet cravat in the mirror.

      “The Napoleon,” he mused. “Rather a neat style, don’t you think, Simon? Languishing and romantic, as is appropriate for this evening! Do you think that it will bring me the luck of the French?”

      “In love or in war?” Verey asked drily.

      Lord Henry’s only reply was another smile. “I regret that I cannot take your advice, Simon,” he continued. “I must see Lady Polly Seagrave tonight. I am hoping that I may still persuade her to consent to be my wife.”

      Verey’s lips tightened. He had seen that reckless look in his friend’s grey eyes before and knew it promised trouble. There was something both tense and watchful about Lord Henry’s elegantly clad form, some element held under the barest control. And Verey understood his desperation, but he thought Henry had miscalculated.

      “They’ll never let you near her,” he prophesied grimly. “Good God, the whole Town thinks that you have tried to debauch Miss Jacques, then proposed marriage to Lady Polly for her fortune only a day later! You’ll be ripped to pieces, Henry!”

      Lord Henry shrugged. “Lady Polly would never believe such a thing of me, Simon. I know she would have accepted my suit had the Earl not refused to countenance it!”

      Verey shook his head. What madness could have possessed Lord Henry to ask the starchy old Earl of Seagrave for his daughter’s hand in marriage whilst such unsavoury, albeit untrue, rumours were being circulated? He must have known that the Earl was so high in the instep that he would never sanction a match between his only daughter and a man who had been branded a philanderer and deceiver.

      With its usual appetite for scandal, Society had been quick to seize upon the accusations of Miss Sally Jacques that Henry Marchnight had promised her marriage and then attempted to seduce her. Verey knew that Miss Jacques was the daughter of a Cit who had attempted to establish herself amongst the ton and whose disappointment at being unable to bring Henry up to scratch had led to this ill-considered revenge. Verey also knew that most of Society thought Miss Jacques an ill-bred mushroom and that interest in the story would wane very swiftly. If only Henry had exercised his usual cool detachment! But in his very real passion for Lady Polly Seagrave he seemed uncharacteristically hasty, unable to wait even a few days for matters to cool. Simon was prepared to support his friend, but he was certain that the evening would be deeply unenjoyable.

      Their reception at Lady Paulersbury’s was everything Verey had predicted and worse. Silence fell as Lord Henry Marchnight was announced. Men whom he had counted his friends pointedly turned their backs. Some women whispered maliciously behind their fans, whilst others drew aside from him with disgusted expressions. There was a moment when Lord Henry was certain Lord Paulersbury was about to have him horsewhipped from the house before his wife’s more temperate counsel prevailed. But he was treated as a social pariah, ignored or ridiculed, and it was a profoundly unpleasant and uncomfortable experience.

      Lady Polly Seagrave saw Lord Henry’s tall figure across the ballroom and was immediately certain that he had come to seek her out. She caught her breath. To have dared so much public opprobrium, just for the chance of speech with her! He must know that her father had forbidden them to meet and the entire Town was reviling him over the scandal of Miss Jacques.

      Polly burned with outraged fury at the treatment Sally Jacques had meted out to Lord Henry. Sally and Polly had once been friends, before Miss Jacques’s jealousy at Lord Henry’s partiality for Polly had driven a wedge between them. Sally had contrived that her carriage had broken down in the vicinity of Lord Henry’s home at Ruthford and had imposed on his hospitality overnight so that she had compromised them both. In vain had Lord Henry argued that Miss Jacques’s companion and his own servants had provided ample chaperonage and that nothing untoward had occurred. Public opinion, carefully encouraged by Miss Jacques and her chaperon with their hints at false proposals and attempted seduction, was firmly of the belief that he should have made her an offer. His refusal to do so proved him to be no gentleman. It was not long before the true facts of the case had been turned inside out and Henry Marchnight was denounced as a scoundrel and seducer.

      A few days before, when Polly had heard the harmful gossip repeated by two salacious matrons, she had burst out that it was all malicious lies. Immediately their watchful gaze had turned