Chapter One

      December 1814

      ‘Ho, there, Chepstow! Need some advice.’

      Lord Chepstow, who’d been sauntering across the lobby of his club, paused, recognised Lord Havelock and grinned.

      ‘From me?’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Lord, you must be in the suds to want my advice.’

      ‘I am,’ said Lord Havelock bluntly. Then glanced meaningfully in the direction of the club’s servant, who’d stepped forward to take his coat and hat.

      Chepstow’s grin faded. ‘Need to find somewhere quiet, to talk in private?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Lord Havelock, feeling a great weight rolling off his shoulders. Not that he had much hope that Chepstow, of all men, would come up with any fresh ideas. But at least he was willing to listen.

      As soon as they’d passed through the door to the library—the one room almost sure to be deserted at this, or any other, time of the day—he said it.

      Out loud.

      ‘Got to get married.’

      ‘Good grief.’ Chepstow’s jaw dropped. ‘Would never have thought you the type to get some girl into trouble. Not one you feel you have to marry, at any rate.’

      Havelock clenched his fists in automatic repudiation of such a slur on his honour, causing Chepstow to raise his own hands in a placatory gesture.

      ‘Now I come to think of it...’ Chepstow said, carefully moving a few feet out of his range, ‘sort of thing could happen to anyone.’

      ‘Not me,’ Havelock insisted. ‘You know I’ve never been much in the petticoat line.’ He lowered his fists as it occurred to him that, actually, Chepstow might be the very chap to help him, after all.

      ‘You have been though, Chepstow. You’ve had some really high-flyers in keeping, haven’t you? And still managed to stay popular with ladies of the ton. How d’ye do it, man? How d’ye get them all eating out of your hands, that’s what I need to know.’

      ‘By opening my purse strings to the high-flyers,’ said Chepstow candidly, ‘and minding my manners with the Quality. It’s perfectly simple....’

      ‘Yes, if all you are looking for is something of a temporary nature. But if you had to get married, what kind of woman would you ask? I mean, what sort of woman do you think would make a good wife? And how would you go about finding her, if you only had a fortnight’s grace to get the knot tied?’

      Chepstow