Prologue

      April 1812

      Redford Greystoke, Earl of Westram, forced himself not to look away from the three black-clad, heavily veiled ladies arraigned before his desk. It broke his heart to see them. Beneath those veils hid three beautiful young women. Two were his sisters, the other his sister-in-law. All of them widowed on the same day, at the same hour. Their husbands had been absolute idiots. Their loss left him numb.

      From being an earl with a brother as heir and a spare hopefully in the offing, he’d become the last male member of his family with three destitute women to support. The very reason for their presence here and the reason for the animosity filling the air.

      ‘You will remain under my roof,’ Red repeated firmly. ‘There is no more to be said on the matter.’

      ‘Redford.’ Lady Marguerite, his sister older than him by two years, had taken the role of spokesperson. She spoke quietly enough, but nevertheless with underlying heat. ‘You cannot tell us where we shall reside.’

      The trouble with widows was that they thought of themselves as independent women.

      ‘I can, if I am to foot the bill.’ Damn. Now he sounded like a truculent schoolboy. ‘Let us be clear, ladies. I do not have the funds to set you up in your own establishments, whether I might wish to do so or not. You will reside with me in Gloucestershire until your period of mourning is over. At which time, I will be more than happy to open the London town house from where we will set out to mingle with our fellow peers.’

      Lady Petra, his other sister, glared at him. Despite the veil hiding her face, he knew exactly the look directed his way when she was crossed. Petra was a master of glares. ‘If you think I could ever marry anyone else...’ A handkerchief in a black gloved hand disappeared beneath her veil. She sniffled.

      He mentally cursed. ‘No one is forcing you to do anything. If next year you do not wish to attend the Season, or go to balls, you may stay at home.’ But knowing women as he did, he had no doubt they’d be bored within a few months of isolation in the country and begging to attend a ball or Almack’s.

      His sister-in-law, Carrie, the woman he hoped like the very devil was carrying his brother’s heir, put an arm around Petra’s drooping shoulder. ‘It is all right, lass,’ she said softly.

      He liked Carrie Greystoke. A great deal. She was a practical no-nonsense woman, though she must have had a momentary loss of reason when she’d agreed to wed his harum-scarum brother. Fortunately, since her husband’s death, she had been a rock of good sense in the eddying currents of grief and shock.

      Sometimes he thought she was almost too calm. The kind of calm that he suspected hid quiet desperation. He forced the thought aside. All three women were baulking at his proposal and he needed to marshal all his faculties if he was to prevail.

      ‘Pluck up your courage, Petra,’ Marguerite said. ‘No need for tears because a bunch of idiots went off and got themselves killed.’

      Marguerite had also wept on his shoulder when the news had been delivered. The fact that she now had her emotions under control was a very good thing. He hoped.

      Petra, who had lost not only her husband and lover but her very best friend in the world, buried her head on Carrie’s shoulder and sobbed.

      Red wanted to bury his head in his hands and weep, too. For a few short weeks, he’d thought he was finally able to see his way clear of the debt left him by his father. Until the earth crumbled from beneath his feet, leaving this gaping abyss. He still didn’t know what had sent these women’s husbands off to join Wellington’s army. Some sort of wager was the only explanation he’d been able to glean from their friends. Whatever it was, it had been the most nonsensical ridiculous prank—He cut the thought off. There was nothing he could do about the past. The future was his concern now.

      The thing that had shocked him the most was the extent of Jonathan’s debts. They had eaten up every penny and more of the wealth brought into the family by his marriage to Carrie. Red still could not believe he had not known that his brother had dipped so deeply in the River Tick.

      And what his father had been about, letting Red’s two sisters marry men without prospects, he could not imagine. Except that his father had been overindulgent where his daughters were concerned, giving them whatever their hearts desired. Which was why they were being so dashed difficult now.

      ‘I think it would be best if you would let us at least try to manage on our own,’ Carrie said, over his sobbing sister’s head. ‘We won’t be a burden on you, Westram. I promise you that.’

      If Carrie supported his sisters’ mad scheme, then he was lost. Sensible and down to earth and as stubborn as they came, she would never give in. Perhaps it would be best if they learned first-hand that they were like babes in the woods when it came to the real world. Then they would listen to reason. His reason.

      He threw his hands in the air. ‘As you wish. I will give you the period of your mourning to try this experiment. I can afford very little in the way of allowances.’ He shot Carrie a look of apology. ‘I am so sorry, but all the money you brought to the marriage has gone to pay Jonathan’s debts.’ Jonathan had also charmed her father into handing over what should have been her widow’s portion to invest in what his brother had called a sure thing on the ’Change. If her father had talked to Red beforehand, he would have disabused him of the notion. And maybe Jonathan would still be alive today. ‘I would replace what my brother misappropriated, if I had it. I do not. Perhaps in time...’ He tailed off, sick at heart. His sisters were no better off. He was appalled that their husbands had left their affairs in such disarray. He sighed. ‘I will give you the use of Westram Cottage in Kent provided you can keep yourselves on that property within your allowances.’ He glared at them. It was the only way he could maintain his dignity. ‘I will be checking.’

      They’d