Книга - Tempted By His Secret Cinderella

Tempted By His Secret Cinderella
Bronwyn Scott


He’s falling for a princess… But she’s a commoner! An Allied at the Altar story: A madcap scheme to secure a patron for her father’s play finds Elidh Easton at a house party, dressed as Italian royalty! But Elidh catches the eye of their dashing host, Sutton Keynes, who has four weeks to find a noble bride. He’d never look twice at her normally – poor, plain and untitled – but in the moment, it’s easy to imagine they have a future!







He’s falling for a princess...

But she’s a commoner!

An Allied at the Altar story. A wild scheme to secure a patron for her father’s play finds Elidh Easton at a house party dressed as Italian royalty! But Elidh catches the eye of their dashing host, Sutton Keynes, who has four weeks to find a noble bride. He’d never look twice at her normally—poor, plain and untitled—but in the moment, it’s easy to imagine they have a future!


BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.


Also by Bronwyn Scott (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)

Russian Royals of Kuban miniseries

Compromised by the Prince’s Touch

inInnocent in the Prince’s Bed

Awakened by the Prince’s Passion

Seduced by the Prince’s Kiss

Allied at the Altar miniseries

A Marriage Deal with the Viscount

One Night with the Major

Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

Look for the last book,

coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

Bronwyn Scott






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08908-1

TEMPTED BY HIS SECRET CINDERELLA

© 2019 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Brony, who always has the best ideas

when I get stuck.

For Catie, who rescues anything on four legs.

And for Rowan, my very own philosopher king,

who contemplates the big questions.

A piece of each of you is in this story.


Contents

Cover (#u4d6b15b9-3dc1-5ea8-8b33-29c47247f49d)

Back Cover Text (#uf4f49d5d-667f-5997-8b5c-1b98dd2ae54e)

About the Author (#u2f30a097-d826-59a4-b121-ad3919e093b6)

Booklist (#ubc895bd4-dfee-5b87-be51-23f75843e096)

Title Page (#ud81bbb93-cd39-59d5-a533-b7a6cf8c657a)

Copyright (#u6ee75f03-5a28-5617-8c6c-4684c5d1b842)

Dedication (#u5a2062f2-fe45-5f95-87e6-524cf549faaa)

Chapter One (#u1a08e627-614d-51a5-8b3a-fc276ec720e0)

Chapter Two (#u6070e3b7-cd3b-5496-97cd-7445c3522fb4)

Chapter Three (#u593d2a55-0f28-5963-8919-0a3f5d6130fe)

Chapter Four (#ua6b5a912-c973-5deb-8d4c-de4527a99195)

Chapter Five (#uf42d8fa2-d1e7-5481-95ca-57b5f5ce9134)

Chapter Six (#u21bf2b86-2cdc-5b52-bdd9-ac921544472c)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)

London—Friday, July 13th, 1855


Sutton Keynes considered himself a man of science, for whom all occurrences had a logical reason. There was little room in his well-ordered life for superstition. And what room did exist for such a novelty was quickly being filled to capacity as his uncle’s ancient fossil of a solicitor, one Mr Barnes Esquire, leaned forward, joints creaking from the effort, and uttered thirteen of the unluckiest words ever spoken in succession to a bachelor who was quite happy with his single state.

‘You have four weeks to wed if you want to claim the fortune.’

Four weeks to wed.

The words seemed to suck the very air out of the cramped little office in Poppins Court. Damn it all to hell. He thought he’d headed off such madness when he’d visited his uncle this spring. He’d made it very plain he didn’t want his uncle’s money. He’d even gone as far as to suggest that if his uncle wanted to keep the money out of his own son’s hands he should tie it up in charitable annuities. His uncle had given it to him anyway. Sutton had not been nearly as persuasive as he’d thought.

Sutton reached for his teacup, wishing it held something stronger, and took a long swallow. He tried to appear neutral, as if his world hadn’t just been upended. He was a man of reason. He should stay calm until he had all the details. Perhaps the pronouncement only seemed dire on the surface.

‘Four weeks? That seems an exceptionally short amount of time in which to find a wife.’ A partner for life. It was an enormous commitment, one he’d managed to put off because of its enormity, until now. These things, like any decently run experiment, could not be rushed. There would be specimens to collect, variables to account for, observations to make, information to collect and analyse, hypotheses to test and eliminate as he winnowed down the field. ‘It would take at least a year to find a suitable bride.’ Sutton put his cup down and Mr Barnes quickly refilled it, perhaps hoping to make up in quantity of drink what the tea lacked in quality—mainly that it wasn’t brandy. ‘Is there any significance to that deadline?’ Sutton asked with a demeanour of equanimity, not wanting to give away his hand. He wasn’t opposed to marriage, in theory, but he was opposed to undue haste. Haste increased one’s margin for error exponentially. Surely he could argue for an extension unless there was a predetermined reason for such immediate action.

His mind was already searching for a rationale behind his uncle’s decision. His uncle liked to play with numerology among his many eccentricities. Four—the four archangels, the four gospels, the four sides of New Jerusalem in Revelation. Those things would appeal to his uncle, but Sutton couldn’t see any relevance to this situation. Four, of which the square root was two, his scientific mind put forward. The four elements, the four phases of the moon, the four seasons, the four divisions of the day.

‘It’s the bank’s provision, Mr Keynes,’ Barnes explained. ‘The bank your uncle’s funds are invested with requires that all accounts be resolved within four weeks of the account holder’s death.’ But the rest of it, the marriage condition, was all his uncle’s. In order to be a legitimate beneficiary of those funds, his uncle, not the bank, required him to be married first. It made sense now. Four. The square of two. Husband and wife. Completion. Two parts of a whole.

‘And if I refuse to follow my uncle’s dictates?’ He watched Barnes’s bushy grey eyebrows go up. It wasn’t every day a man considered turning away a fortune handed to him.

‘Then the fortune reverts to your cousin, Baxter Keynes.’ Mr Barnes peered over his thick-rimmed glasses meaningfully.

‘Of course. Bax.’ Sutton gave a derisive chuckle. Bax was the one factor that could compel him to take up his uncle’s challenge. There was much he would do to keep that amount of money out of Bax’s control. What an unreasonable game this was becoming. He wasn’t only being forced to marry, he was being forced to step into the metaphoric ring and compete against his cousin, his uncle’s only child. ‘Are you acquainted with my cousin, Mr Barnes?’

Barnes fixed Sutton with a strong stare. ‘Yes, indeed I am, Mr Keynes. He was here this morning, in fact. He didn’t stay long enough to have tea.’ The man’s tone was sharp, his gaze intuitive. For the first time since Sutton had entered the dingy office, the solicitor appeared to be more intelligent, more sane than Sutton had given him credit for. Most sane people struggled to do business with his uncle.

Baxter knew, then. That would make things interesting in a dangerous sort of way. Sutton picked up his tea and pondered that piece of information. ‘Angry, was he?’ His cousin had been left with nothing, although it couldn’t have come as a surprise. Sutton’s uncle had been threatening for years to pull something of this nature. The old man’s title wasn’t hereditary. The only thing he could leave Bax was his fortune and he hadn’t. Instead, he’d left it to his nephew.

‘Positively furious.’ Barnes grimaced, nodding towards the cracked window pane.

Sutton offered a tight smile. ‘If you’ve met him, you know there’s not a choice. It’s not a question of if I want to claim the fortune. I must. Baxter is not the sort of man to whom a fortune of that magnitude can be entrusted.’ His cousin wasn’t just reckless, spending money frivolously, although some of the fortune would indeed be squandered on harmless pursuits. Bax liked a good silk waistcoat and a fast horse as much as the next man. It wasn’t the harmless pursuits Sutton was worried about. It was the more harmful ones; Bax was mixed up with slavers, the type that sold white women into the harems of the east in order to gain the favour of the Ottoman pashas, and arms dealers who sold guns for profit regardless of the cause, regardless of the side. In short, Bax played a deep game with powerful men. His involvement, of course, was most certainly not well known. For all intents and purposes, Bax, son of the eccentric Sir Leland, was a typical gentleman. But only on the surface. Beneath that surface, Bax inhabited a dark, dangerous world.

Barnes’s old eyes sharpened for a moment over the rims of his glasses. ‘We see each other plain, Mr Keynes. I assume you’ll be marrying shortly, then.’ It was not a question. Barnes tapped his papers into place and reached for another set of documents.

‘I suppose I shall be.’ Shortly. Quickly. Without the study necessary to make a quality decision. It was antithetical to his nature. Anabeth Morely had taught him that in his youth. He’d jumped into love with her head first only to find shallow water and grave disappointment. He’d not ventured forth since.

As a result, marriage was the last thing on his mind, right there at the bottom of the list of his priorities including his uncle’s fortune. Whenever he thought about marriage, and that was hardly often enough to even qualify as seldom, it was as an amorphous something to pursue in a nebulous future, perhaps five years from now, once his camel dairy was firmly established in Newmarket. But not this summer. The summer was half over. He had his prized mare due to foal next month, he had next year’s breeding programme to look over, bloodlines to study, the camel’s milk studies to continue. The Newmarket Breeders Club would be expecting his report on the subject at the September meeting. He absolutely could not get married this year, not when there was so much to do.

It was bad enough his uncle’s death had pulled him away from Newmarket this week. He’d be there now if it wasn’t for the details of his uncle’s will to sort through. In fact, he’d thought to leave for home as soon as the will was read, but today’s revelations had put paid to that. Signing papers and looking over deeds would keep him in town another few days.

He far preferred the clean, straightforward living of Newmarket to the bustle and social politics of the London Season. He far preferred his animals to the matchmaking biddies of the ton and their feather-headed daughters. Some might consider him reclusive. They wouldn’t be far wrong. He liked to think of himself as ‘selective in his attentions’. He simply didn’t have time for nonsense and London was notoriously full of it. He’d had plenty of its shenanigans when he’d first come up to town.

Now, however, his uncle’s will threatened all that selective attention on a more permanent level. It didn’t need to, though. Surely if there wasn’t a way around the will, there was a way through it. His logical, scientist’s mind turned itself to his options. He could make his marriage a temporary arrangement. Once the will was satisfied and the fortune was out of Bax’s hands, they could separate.

‘Ahem, Mr Keynes, are you listening?’ No. He wasn’t, in fact. He was too busy looking for loopholes. ‘There are conditions attached to your marriage.’ The solicitor raised his bushy brows again. ‘I would listen closely if I were you. No sense in sacrificing oneself in marriage just to get it wrong.’ Barnes had his attention now and he knew it. The old man smiled in satisfaction. ‘If I may continue?’ He cleared his throat. ‘First, the bride must be from a noble family. Second, the marriage must last. It cannot be annulled or divorced or discontinued in any manner or the fortune is forfeit.’

Damn. Sutton had been counting on that—bear out the marriage for a couple of years and then cut his wife loose. Surely he could find a woman who would agree to those terms if she was handsomely paid. Sutton rethought his options. If divorce was out of the question, there was still a chance at informal separation, an ‘open’ marriage, as distasteful as the idea was to him. He had expectations, after all, loyalty and fidelity being two of them. His uncle’s mandate, however, was playing havoc with those ideas along with everything else.

Sutton had no sooner contemplated the idea of the open marriage than the solicitor continued. ‘Third, no separate lives, which means no separate residences and you may spend no more than a third of the year apart.’ Well, so much for the wiggle room. That took care of it. The noose was tightening.

Sutton shifted in the hard wood chair and crossed a leg over his knee. His blasted teacup was empty again. ‘It seems that I am well and truly roped into this, then.’

‘Some would say you are well compensated for your sacrifice. All men marry in the end anyway,’ the solicitor offered in an attempt to soften the blow.

‘It’s not the marriage I mind. It’s the haste with which it must be done and the parameters placed on who it must be in order to claim a prize, a fortune I don’t want except that it must not go to Bax. I have wealth of my own,’ Sutton replied drily. That was the complete irony of the situation. His uncle had given a wealthy man a fortune, knowing full well the fortune itself held no allure. ‘My uncle is blackmailing me from beyond the grave.’ The dead bastard was getting everything he wanted: his fortune protected from his unscrupulous son and his nephew wed, the best his uncle could do to ensure the Keynes line continued, having all but officially disinherited Bax.

‘I can’t possibly consider refusing, for the greater good, as I am sure you know.’ He couldn’t possibly consider failing either. His canny uncle hadn’t only made an ultimatum regarding his fortune, he’d made a game of it, one that pitted cousin against cousin. Bax would get the fortune if Sutton failed. Bax wouldn’t sit idly by and leave the outcome of that game to chance. He would meddle and he would be dangerous, not only to Sutton but to whomever Sutton targeted as a bride. Bax would stop at nothing to prevent him from fulfilling the conditions of the will.

Barnes poured a third cup of tea. Sutton picked it up and drank it down reflexively, his mind moving on to other issues like the pressing matter of a bride. It was one thing for him to marry in four weeks. He had a motive. But what bride of noble birth would marry him under such short notice? And the notice would only get shorter with every day that passed. Where was he going to find a bride in time? Especially one he could live with for the rest of his life?

The scientist in him shuddered to think at the flaws in collecting an adequate sample to base his decision on. The Season was more than halfway gone, but his bride would have to come from whoever was on hand in London and unclaimed at this point. He wondered if his uncle had thought about that? He supposed it could have been worse. His uncle could have died the end of August with Parliament out and everyone already absconded to their country homes. Where would he have found a bride then?

Barnes collected the pile of documents, making signs of dismissing him. But Sutton wasn’t ready to leave yet. ‘What about those papers? We haven’t talked about everything in them yet.’

‘And we won’t until you have your bride,’ Barnes said sternly, not appreciating the affront to his competence, as if he’d left something undone. ‘Your uncle has left instructions to be read upon the announcement of your engagement. Then, and only then, shall we proceed. He was very thorough, Mr Keynes. As for you, there is a lot to think about, and do, if you choose, in a very limited amount of time. Please let me know if I can be of assistance.’ It was about as blatant a dismissal as they came. The implication was clear: the clock was already ticking. The old man might as well have turned over an hourglass and started counting down the minutes towards four weeks.

‘Thank you, I appreciate your time today, Mr Barnes.’ Sutton rose and extended his hand. ‘We will be in touch.’

Outside, the sun was still high, it was still July in the city, and it was still hot. Sutton ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It seemed unfair the world had not changed in the hour he’d spent in the solicitor’s office. His life had changed. Shouldn’t the world have changed as well? Sutton headed towards Ludgate Circus, pausing at the public urinals to relieve himself before he caught a hansom cab to Mayfair. Too much damn tea. Too much to think about, all of it circling back to focus on one critical issue: a bride. Without a bride, it wouldn’t matter how willing he was to make the sacrifice.

Perhaps that was what he hated most about the whole arrangement. It required him to rely on someone beyond himself. It was not something he did easily or often, even with friends. To do so now with a woman he didn’t know was preposterous. He liked to be the one who controlled the variables of any given experiment. Now, the critical variable was beyond him. Everything hinged on her, whoever she might be.

Sutton shook his head. No. He would not be the victim here. He would not focus on what he didn’t control, but on what he did. He might not know a woman to marry, but he did know a woman who could help him: his mother. Before he could approach her, however, he needed a moment or two to think. He had the cab stop and let him out a few streets before he reached South Audley Street. By the time he reached number 71A a plan was forming. He would solve this situation as he solved every other puzzle placed before him—with logic and reason.




Chapter Two (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)


‘This is the most ridiculous, most scandalous thing your uncle has ever done. Wherever will you find a bride in four weeks and at the back end of the Season? People are thinking of leaving London, not lingering.’ Catherine Keynes gave voice to the very thoughts that had plagued him from the ice-blue sofa in the drawing room where her at-home had just concluded.

‘Those were my thoughts, exactly.’ Sutton gave a wry chuckle. ‘But you look well, Mother. Between the two of us, I am sure we’re up to the task. I have a plan, but I will need an able assistant.’ He studied his mother—a strong, shrewd woman who loved her family fiercely, if not maternally. He’d always thought, growing up, that she would have made a formidable queen in bygone years. He could imagine her navigating the dangerous intricacies of medieval court politics. His mother was the ablest person he knew for what he intended. Well connected, well experienced in society after thirty-two years among its ranks.

‘I should have known you’d have a strategy.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t suppose that strategy involves walking away from the fortune. You don’t need it and I don’t need it, in case you were thinking of taking it for my sake. I am comfortable enough with what your father left me. Who knows? I might even remarry at some point should the right man present himself, then you wouldn’t need to worry over me at all.’ It was a distinct possibility. His mother was still a handsome woman at fifty. This afternoon, she was dressed in a blue-and-silver gown of summer cotton that matched the drawing room decor, her still-dark honey hair coiffed in an intricate collection of braids. Her posture straight.

Sutton stopped pacing and leaned against the white Carrara marble mantel, imported from Italy and expensive, a further reminder that the Keyneses didn’t need the money. They lived well enough on their own, Sutton’s own father having made a fortune in the south-east Asian trade. Sutton shook his head. ‘You know I can’t just turn that money over to Bax.’

‘It’s not your job to save the world from him,’ his mother argued the temptation that had crossed his mind in Barnes’s office. He could walk away and it certainly made things easier. He could forgo a hasty, dramatic bridal search and retreat to the comfort of life as he knew it. But that was neither socially responsible, nor was it the honourable thing to do.

‘“All it takes for evil to prosper is for good men to do nothing,”’ he quoted. ‘I have to do my part.’ Sutton paced the length of his mother’s drawing room, pushing a hand through his thick hair. He blew out a breath. ‘The last girl Bax “importuned” killed herself last week. She washed up on the shores of the Thames with stones in her pockets.’

‘Good lord.’ His mother blanched. ‘Will no one stop him?’

‘He’s too powerful. He owns too many secrets. But we can mitigate him and, in time, I can work against him and others like him. He’s not alone in his corruption or his brand of it. For now, I can rob him of excess funds.’

‘By making a scandal of a marriage?’ his mother scolded, a furrow creasing her brow. ‘A race to the altar can be nothing less than a spectacle.’

‘Certainly it can’t be less than a spectacle, but it can be more.’ That was the plan anyway.

‘I like the sound of that.’ His mother held up the Wedgwood teapot in question. ‘Tea, darling? While you lay out your grand plan?’

‘No, no tea.’ Sutton quickly waved away the pot. He’d had enough tea today to last him all week. ‘Here’s what I am thinking. If my marriage must be a spectacle, I want to make it one worth watching. I control if it becomes a scandal or not. I want to make it a grand event, create the perception of a whirlwind romance, love at first sight.’ But it would be quite the exacting experiment beneath that frothy surface.

His mother smiled. ‘You want to make it a fairy tale. I like the idea. It certainly softens the edge of scandal. You invite all the eligible girls to a house party at the Newmarket estate. Let them have a taste of the luxury that could be theirs. We’ll put out the best china and polish the good silver to impress the mothers. We’ll lay in champagne and French wine to impress the fathers. Hartswood always shows at its best in the summer. The girls can stroll and pose in their pretty dresses for you in the gardens while their fathers fish the river.’

Sutton laughed. ‘You make it sound so easy.’ He wished he had his mother’s confidence when it came to his marriage. Some of the burden eased with the relief of having a partner in this. His mother did not challenge his decision, she simply got behind him and lent her considerable energies. ‘I’m afraid it needs to be a bit more involved than pretty poses in the garden. I don’t want to select a wife based on how she looks in a dress. I tried that once, a deviation from the norm, and a failure of an experiment, if you recall.’ The disaster of Miss Anabeth Morely had been years ago in his youth, but he had no desire to repeat it.

Sutton moved on, refusing to dwell on the memory. ‘We’ll need a full slate of a variety of activities. I want to arrange to have time with each of the girls, to observe them in different settings, with different people, and with me. At the end of the house party, we’ll hold a ball and I will announce my choice at midnight, the perfect ending to the fairy tale we’ll create.’

‘So, the party is to be your microscope? You’ll be putting them under the lens of your scrutiny,’ his mother surmised aptly.

‘Yes. I suppose it is. But I am not the first to use a house party to such ends. There is no scandal in the setting I propose. It’s quite traditional, really.’ And it was efficient. He could gather everyone in a single space for his consideration.

‘A setting and a task torn straight from the pages of a fairy tale,’ his mother agreed. ‘When is the party to be?’

‘In five days. I don’t think I can spare any more time than that if I’m to meet my uncle’s deadline. Can you do it?’ It wasn’t the idea of the party that he doubted, it was the implementation. They had to act quickly, but extravagant entertainments took time. ‘Can you arrange the activities, the details, the guests?’ He was counting on her for this. His days would be taken up with paperwork and other legal details. Even so, he didn’t know the first thing about planning a party of this magnitude.

‘In five days’ time? You want the impossible, but I think we can manage.’ Her eyes danced, energised by the challenge. ‘It’s a mother’s job to know how to arrange these things. If you are set on this, then I will help see it done.’ She smiled softly. ‘My son is getting married. Goodness knows you’ve made me wait long enough. I should start planning the wedding while I’m at it since time is of the essence.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’ He was an only child, out of poor luck in that department. His mother should have had legions of children to command: daughters to march out on the marriage mart, sons to organise into professions. Instead, she’d got him, a gentleman scientist who preferred his camels and horses to the social whirl. His one foray into that world had not recommended it. Some experiments didn’t bear repeating.

There was one last piece to discuss. ‘As to the guests, I am aware the Season is slowing down and so many of the girls are spoken for.’ Sutton thought of the tea heiress, Pavia Honeysett, married now to his friend, Cam Lithgow. She would not have fit his uncle’s criteria but she, a girl of mixed birth and not title, had caught the eye of a marquis before her marriage, general proof that girls had been swept up early this year and the competition for well-born wives was fierce.

‘There’s always someone to marry.’ His mother was unbothered by his concern. ‘People are looking for something new now that Ascot and the Regatta are behind us. I’ll post an announcement in The Times and London will converge on Newmarket in five days.’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Everyone will want to come.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘And we’ll let them; let them vie for your attention. London will wait upon your favour. You needn’t beg, not with your good looks and the promise of that fortune.’

That’s what he was worried about. He didn’t want to limit his choices to the dregs, to wallflowers and fortune hunters, but he kept his thoughts to himself. There was only so much of the situation he could control, thanks to his uncle’s stratagems. It wasn’t the house party that would draw them, it was the mere presence of the fortune. Whether he was in Newmarket or in London wouldn’t matter. At least in Newmarket he could control who he spent his time with. Here in London he’d be at the mercy of other people’s guest lists. He bent to kiss his mother on the cheek and took his leave. He needed the sanctuary of his club, a drink and time to think. Who would want him, just him, now? Who would even see him, the man, standing there behind the fortune? In that regard, he’d just have to trust to luck that he’d be able to throw the net wide enough. But he was a scientist. Trusting to luck was not something he was used to doing.

* * *

There was a reason for that. Luck often failed and it was failing him spectacularly today. Sutton had barely set foot inside the asylum of his club before he realised his mistake. London had not waited for an announcement in The Times. From the buzz in the common room, it seemed the whole city already knew he had been named heir to Sir Leland Keynes’s fortune. By four o’clock that afternoon, London fully grasped the import of that. The Season now had an eligible parti nonpareil.

Sutton was bombarded with men wanting to shake his hand, some of whom he hadn’t seen since school days, others whom he’d never met at all but who claimed introduction through convoluted connections. Older men wanted to offer condolences on his uncle’s passing, younger men wanted to renew acquaintances or establish them. All of them had sisters, daughters, nieces, cousins, wards or god-daughters. The preponderance of females offered up to him made his earlier observation about the dearth of candidates laughable. Apparently, marriageable females were thick on the ground when one was possessed of a fortune.

But his instant popularity reinforced his earlier worry. He’d become nothing but a placeholder, a gateway to a fortune. Sutton made his way to an empty, isolated chair in the corner and ordered a drink. He didn’t kid himself the privacy of his seat would last long. He was a man no longer, but a thing to be used and manipulated for personal gain, the very reason he’d resisted the idea of marriage for so long. He didn’t want an alliance. He didn’t need an heiress’s money or a debutante’s father’s political connections. He wanted something more.

Not love, necessarily. The idea of love was an illogical concept when it came to the science of successful pairings. Animals didn’t mate for love or for alliances. They mated for strength, for compatibility. That’s what he wanted. Compatibility. Someone who loved animals, who would enjoy working beside him with his camels and his horses, who might enjoy him. Those wishes were now officially relegated to the dustbin of impossibilities.

A pair of young men approached his sanctuary and invaded with oblivious bonhomie, taking advantage of a very casual connection. They’d met once or twice at Tattersall’s. ‘Keynes, so good to see you. Dare say we’ll see more of you in London, these days.’

Sutton smiled and shook their hands, wondering just how long it would take them to mention the unattached women in their lives.

‘My sister is with me this Season,’ the first one said, and Sutton restrained the urge to laugh. Of course she was. It had taken the man all of thirty seconds. A record, to be sure. If his uncle wasn’t already dead, Sutton would kill him for this. His uncle had made his life a living hell.




Chapter Three (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)

Bermondsey Street, south-east London—Saturday, July 14th


The fast click of boot heels on the wooden treads of the boarding-house stairs alerted Elidh to her father’s return. From the sound of those clicks, he was excited and in earnest. That worried her. It usually meant he had concocted a new scheme to lift them out of the encroaching poverty of their life. Elidh set aside her mending and steeled herself for whatever came through the door. With her father, one never knew. Sometimes he brought home people, sometimes he brought home ideas. Once he’d brought home a monkey. She wished he’d bring home money. They could use some right now. She’d economised all she could and it still wasn’t enough. Not for the first time, she wished her father could be normal, that he would get up in the mornings and go to a clerking job for the Bank of London. A man could make a hundred pounds a year clerking and there was security. A clerk worked for life, until he chose to quit.

Right now a hundred pounds a year sounded like a fortune to her. They could move out of the dingy boarding house, even out of the dockside neighbourhoods, to a cottage, perhaps in Chelsea. They could eat their own meals instead of the general fare served downstairs in the dining room where they ate with the other boarders. But her father wasn’t a clerk. Clerking was beneath him. Just ask him. He was a playwright, the leader of an acting troupe. At least he had been three years ago, when her mother was still alive and every day had been full of adventure.

Her mother was dead now, lost to tuberculosis, and her father might as well be, too, stumbling through life without his wife, his love, his raison d’être. He had moments. Moments when he was inspired to write his next big play. The moments lasted a few days, long enough to conjure hope that this time it might end differently, that he might complete a work, that it might actually be good enough to sell. But it always ended the same way. Crumpled papers on the floor, a mad rage in which he declared his latest work was rubbish and he vowed never to write again. But that had to change. They’d been close to broke before, but nothing like this. There’d always been something to sell, something to be done to get them by. This time, Elidh wasn’t sure anything would save them. There wasn’t anything left to pawn, no prospects left to hope on that a play might be finished, that a patron might emerge to purchase it. She had counted their funds this morning. Counting her recent payment from a dress shop that gave her piecework during the Season, they had enough to pay the rent for another month, but that was an unreliable source, petering out when the Season ended. Such inconsistency made for long winters. When the money gave out this time, she didn’t know what would happen next.

The door to their rooms crashed open, her father waving a newspaper excitedly in one hand. ‘I’ve found it, Elidh! This will be the making of us!’ He thrust the paper at her. ‘Read!’

Elidh took the newspaper hesitantly. It was fresh, newly printed. She thought of the coin that had been spent on this luxury, precious shillings that could have been hoarded against the inevitable. She scanned the page her father had folded back. Her brow furrowed. It was the society page. Gossip, all of it, most of it about a Sutton Keynes and his newly acquired fortune. The reported amount staggered her. Just moments ago, she’d been thinking a hundred pounds a year would be heavenly. Lucky him. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with us.’ She passed the paper back to her father.

‘Don’t you see, Daughter? The bloke needs to marry, quickly, or his fortune is forfeit. He’s holding a house party to find a bride. Anyone is welcome.’

A tremor of angst rippled through Elidh. What was he planning? Her father couldn’t possibly be thinking of going? Of passing her off as bride material? Had he looked at her recently? She was plain: blonde hair, nondescript eyes that vacillated between hazel and brown. The most interesting thing about her was her name. A man who could pick anyone would definitely not choose her. He probably wouldn’t even notice her. She took back the newspaper, scanning it once more. ‘Anyone who fits the standards, Father,’ she corrected, feeling more confident she could scrap his airy plans. ‘He needs a woman with a title.’ There was nothing her father could do about that. There wasn’t a title anywhere in their family tree. He was a playwright, her mother an actress.

‘Then we’ll make one.’ Her father turned about the room, dancing with his imagination. He snapped his fingers, inspiration finding him. ‘I know—you will be an Italian principessa! Where is my map of Italy?’ He opened one of the trunks crowded into their small space, doubling as storage and furniture. The scent of cedar filled the air as he rummaged. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He shut the lid and unrolled the map, reaching for a mug and a plate to anchor the sides.

‘Father, what are you doing?’ Elidh crossed the room cautiously, fearfully even. She hoped she hadn’t understood him aright. ‘I can’t be an Italian principessa.’ Surely he wasn’t thinking they’d impersonate royalty?

His finger stopped at a spot of the map. ‘There—Fossano. You can be the Principessa of Fossano. Now, let me see. You need a name.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Chiara di Fossano. Principessa Chiara Balare di Fossano. I think that has a nice ring to it.’

Elidh grabbed for the map and rolled it up in a fury. ‘Stop! This is nonsense. You want me to impersonate an Italian princess?’ There’d been schemes before, little scams on the road when the troupe had been short on coin, but nothing like this. This was madness even for him.

‘It’s not really impersonation, Elidh. I don’t think Chiara Balare actually exists,’ her father reasoned as if creating a fiction was somehow better than pretending to be someone else.

‘That’s not the point.’ Elidh lifted the trunk and put the map away. She wished she could put her father’s ideas away as easily.

‘What is the point, my dear? This man needs a wife to claim his fortune and we need a fortune.’ For a moment, the light left her father’s dark eyes. They were sober and sad. ‘Don’t you think I know how close we are to the edge? This time, we might very well fall off.’ He took her hands and turned them over, surveying her palms. ‘Thank goodness you haven’t stooped to doing other people’s laundry. Your hands aren’t ruined. It would give you away immediately.’

Elidh sighed, summoning her patience. How like her father. Serious one minute and back to his schemes the next. It had been an enchanting quality in her childhood. It had made every day part-adventure, part-fairy tale. Her world had been magical. It wasn’t any more. The enchantment had worn off long ago, leaving the realities of poverty and hopelessness in its wake. It was up to her to be the voice of reason. She took her father’s hands and led him to a trunk. ‘We have to think about this logically. To start, the premise is madness. You want us to infiltrate a party for nobles and impersonate Italian royalty.’ Couldn’t he hear the preposterousness of his own suggestion? What he proposed was impossible.

‘We’ve done such things before, Elidh,’ her father chided as if she was somehow in the wrong. ‘Do you remember the time your mother and I pretended to be an English lord and lady on a Grand Tour whose carriage had broken down?’

‘Yes, of course I remember,’ Elidh cut him off swiftly with a polite smile. If he got to talking about the old times, there’d be no reasoning with him. ‘But that was different. That was just for one night and it was for a free meal.’ Her father had promised to pay once their luggage had been retrieved, which it never was, and they’d scampered out of the inn before dawn to avoid detection. ‘This is about trapping a man into marriage.’ There were so many things wrong with the idea, she couldn’t begin to put them into words. She began with the most obvious. ‘He’ll be swarmed by women who are actually eligible for the honour. The odds are firmly against us, even if we were legitimately titled. We can’t risk so much on a gamble we have no hope of winning. He wouldn’t look twice at me and, if he did, he’d look straight through me and know. I haven’t the demeanour.’

‘The demeanour, bah! Do you remember when we toured Italy, Daughter? We played all the places—Naples, Florence, Rome, Turin, Milan.’ She didn’t have the heart to correct him. They had played those places. But not on the big city stages. The troupe had roamed in their caravan through the countryside, playing for various conti and duchi at their summer villas.

‘I remember.’ She remembered the warm nights, the lights in the darkness, the food, the wine. Her mother’s laughter as she charmed the noblemen. Those were good times when she was innocent and thought they were untouchable. She wasn’t so innocent any more.

‘You spent the summer in Italy with nobles, you were sixteen then. You managed beautifully. It will come back to you and, if you make a mistake, you shrug and you say “it is different in Italy.” Being foreign will cover a multitude of sins.’

‘But not a lack of clothing.’ Even if she could pull off the mannerisms, her wardrobe would give her away.

‘Nonsense. We have your mother’s costumes.’ Her father rose and moved about the room, flipping open trunks as he went, pulling out gown after gown in a whirlwind of silks and satins emerging from their tissue wrappings until the little room was a harem of colours, rich and lush, at odds with the grey pallor of the walls. ‘This one should do for an evening gown, there used to be a tiara that went with it.’ He rummaged deep into the trunks. Out came the velvet sacks of paste jewels and headpieces. They winked and twinkled in the gloom, looking exquisite at a distance. Looking real. ‘Rosie can help you alter them. She is still in Upper Clapton living with a sister. She can help us with costumes and maid duties. She played one often enough on stage, she should be an expert.’ Rosie had been her mother’s dresser and had played a maid both off and on stage.

Elidh was truly worried now. If her father was willing to alter her mother’s sacred costumes, he must be desperate indeed, all that more committed to his latest scheme. When he had an idea, he clung to it with tenacity. It would make her job of persuading him that much harder. ‘Father,’ she warned, ‘we’ll never get away with it.’ Perhaps the best way to reason with him was to play along, to pose obstacles carefully veiled as questions. ‘I don’t speak Italian, not much of it anyway.’

‘No one else does either. They will compliment you on your English. Your accent was flawless when you played Juliet on stage in Tuscany that one summer,’ her father said encouragingly, his eyes lighting again as he thought of the past. He held out his arms in an expansive gesture and turned about the room. ‘Everything we need is here. We have all of your mother’s costumes and our own ingenuity.’

Elidh tried one last time. ‘Even if you are right, it’s too much to risk on the hopes he’ll look my way.’

Her father gave a nod and tapped a knowing finger to his temple. ‘There’s more than one way to win at this. We’re not going solely for the young, rich eligible parti. That would be far too foolish. We will also be pursuing a patron. This party will gather the right sort of men I need access to in order to sell my play. If an Italian prince can convince them he’s found an Englishman to rival Shakespeare, they’ll listen.’

‘But you don’t have a play,’ Elidh put in bluntly. This was getting crazier by the moment.

‘Yes, I do. Nothing new, mind you, but I’ve given an old play a new title. It’s been years since it was out and it was only performed on the Continent. I’ve been thinking I simply haven’t had the chance to meet the right patron. After all, what sort of men buy plays in Bermondsey Street? My plan’s not so risky now, is it? There’s money to be made in the short term if nothing else, perhaps at cards if no one buys a play. I can wager some of our “jewels” for a stake.’

Dear heavens. Elidh wanted to reel and she was sitting down. Impersonating royalty, crashing an elite party, trying to court a wealthy man, trying to snare a patron, all the while fleecing people with the lure of false jewels on the side. Worst, her father was entirely convinced of his plan’s merits. She could see it in his eyes. Elidh tried a new strategy. If she couldn’t persuade him it was impossible to crash the party, perhaps she could persuade him about the dubious merits of actually succeeding. Success was not without consequences.

‘It’s mad genius to be sure, Father,’ she said sweetly. ‘Have you thought what happens, though, if we succeed? I would be trapping a man into marriage.’ Her father was a romantic at heart. He’d loved her mother deeply—surely such sentiment would work against him here?

‘Trapping him? It would hardly be that,’ he scoffed. ‘Being alone with a man in a garden with the sole intention of being caught kissing him is a trap. But when a man invites women to his home for the express and overt purpose of taking a wife, that is not a trap any more than the entire Season in London is a trap. Society doesn’t call it the Marriage Trap, they call it the Marriage Mart. This is no different.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘And we are no different, miss, than anyone else attending the party.’ He talked as if going was a foregone conclusion.

‘We’d be impersonating royalty,’ Elidh reminded him once again. It was so easy to overlook that one detail amid all the madness surrounding it.

‘If you think anyone going to the party is really being themselves, you’re more naive than I thought.’ Her father frowned. ‘Those guests might bring their own names, but they’ll be impersonating their better selves and leaving their real selves at home. Those sorts always do.’

‘Then I pity this poor Sutton Keynes,’ Elidh said defiantly. ‘He has to choose from a room full of frauds and that’s no choice at all. If he chose me, I’d be no different than them, a false front for someone he doesn’t really know.’

‘You see!’ her father crowed. ‘No different. That’s what I’ve been saying. We’re just levelling the playing pitch. We’d be no different than anyone else there.’

‘If you’re right, he’ll fall in love with a princess.’

‘If I’m right, he’ll fall in love with you.’

Elidh studied the newspaper. ‘If you’re right, I’ll cost him his fortune. He would hate me for it. Saving his fortune is the whole motive behind his party.’ All the more reason her father’s idea was the height of madness. This Sutton Keynes couldn’t afford her.

Her father’s features softened and he looked at her gently. ‘A man who chooses money over my daughter isn’t the right man for her. It’s the classic quandary, isn’t it? Love or money? It’s the stuff playwrights dream of.’ Her father sighed happily, already imagining a hundred plots he would never write.

Long shadows filled the room. Elidh moved to light their candle stubs. She stopped to open the window and put out a dusting of breadcrumbs for the birds who gathered on the little sill. If she didn’t go with him, she feared he’d go alone and goodness knew the trouble he’d get into without her.

‘What’s the worst that can happen if we try?’ he cajoled as she worked about the room.

Elidh paused and looked up from the candles. ‘We end up in Newgate? Fraud is a crime.’ They’d be committing it on so many levels.

Her father looked thoughtful, hands folded across his stomach. She thought she might have reached him at last. ‘We might end up there or somewhere like it anyway if we do nothing. If we stay the course, we are certainly doomed, Daughter, for the workhouse, for the streets.’ He shook his head. ‘We have nothing to lose as it is. We have to try. It’s all we have left. Your mother would expect it of us. She wouldn’t want us to give up.’

Her mother wouldn’t want them defrauding an innocent man either. Elidh was sure of that. Well, fairly sure of that.

He met her gaze sombrely. ‘I haven’t anything left to give you but this one chance. I couldn’t save your mother, I couldn’t save the troupe, but maybe I can save you. Win this man’s heart and you will have your freedom from penury. You will have a life of luxury I could never give you.’ He paused, his eyes watering suspiciously. ‘I’m not getting any younger. Last winter showed us both that. I want to know you’re taken care of.’ It was a lovely little monologue. Was he the actor in these moments or her father? It was so hard to tell. When she was little, she’d loved watching her parents on stage, playing out a scene from her father’s latest work: her mother so beautiful and blonde, her father darkly handsome and intense. Even now, he could still deliver a speech with enough pathos to bring an audience to tears, even if it was only an audience of one.

‘Don’t talk like that, Father.’ She couldn’t bear the reality of his words. Elidh busied herself putting away her mother’s costumes. Her father had nearly died last winter with a terrible cough that had lingered for months in his chest. What would happen if he took sick again this winter? What would happen if she lost him? He was all she had left. The thought was untenable.

It was a classic quandary indeed. What would she do for love? Would she risk it all on her father’s mad plan? Not out of love for an unseen man with a fortune, but out of love for her father. She would risk for him what she would not risk for herself. But how best to do it? If her mother were here, she’d say to find the middle ground, that there were always more than two options to any dilemma.

Elidh put the last dress away, carefully tucking it into its tissues, her mind searching for that middle ground. She didn’t have to win the bachelor’s hand. She simply had to help her father secure a patron; if they could do that, perhaps it would prevent him from passing off fake jewellery as stakes at the tables. It seemed the best option. A patron’s support would be enough to get them through the winter. She would worry about spring when it came. What harm could there be in the masquerade? It only had to last two weeks. Then the Principessa Chiara Balare di Fossano could disappear for good and no one would be the wiser. She turned to face her father. ‘When do we leave?’

‘In four days.’

Elidh nodded. ‘You’d better call on Rosie, then. We have a lot of sewing to do.’ It was a plan with flaws and consequences even if they succeeded, but she’d worry about that later, when and if they appeared. Now, she knew what she’d do for love and how far she’d go. All the way to Newmarket, apparently.




Chapter Four (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)


Four days later, Principessa Chiara Balare di Fossano, accompanied by her maid and her father, Prince Lorenzo, stepped down from the hack that had driven them from the station in Newmarket, on to the hallowed grounds of Hartswood. Elidh had never been more nervous in her life. Perhaps it was fitting. This scheme was more outrageous than any other her father had cooked up. It was only right she should be more nervous. There was more to lose.

The concept of ‘more’ followed her everywhere like an unwanted stray. Her father was more audacious than he’d ever been, not only using their precious rent money for the carriage ride that took them from the station on All Saints to the estate, but he’d also purchased first-class accommodations for the journey from London and proudly introduced himself as Prince Lorenzo whenever asked. He reasoned no one would believe in a prince who travelled third class. If anyone made note of their arrival, he wanted to be prepared on all fronts. Elidh hoped they didn’t regret the expenditure later.

Looking up at the sandstone façade of Hartswood, it appeared the audacity and luxury didn’t end with her father. The estate was more opulent than anything Elidh had ever seen in England. That luxury was evident from the first turn into the long drive, featuring perfectly manicured lawns and leafy green trees overhead through which the sun filtered so artfully one had to wonder if the trees had been planted deliberately to get the effect. The circle at the end of the drive continued the theme, welcoming guests with an Italian fountain that burbled coolly in its centre while two sandstone staircases flanked the rising entrance to the double front doors of the estate, an elegant mix of English baroque and Italianate architecture.

The luxury didn’t end there. Grooms had leapt to take the horses’ heads as soon as the driver halted. A footman’s hand had waited to help her down, his head respectfully inclined. There was no moment for hesitation or uncertainty on her part. Nerves or not, she was immediately ‘on stage’, immediately immersed into her role as the Princess, and no one assumed otherwise. Perhaps her father was right. People saw what they expected to see. Certainly, none of the servants suspected otherwise.

A maid was present to guide them up the staircases to the wide, cool, white-marbled entrance hall, through the house and out to the afternoon comfort of the back terrace. The walk itself was subtly orchestrated to show a guest the level of opulence they’d stepped into. Perhaps it was meant to remind everyone that despite the lack of a title, the Keynes family was not without funds. It seemed she was not the only one with something to prove. Elidh filed the insight away for later.

She was grateful for her father’s presence at her elbow. Whatever the message this home meant to send, it was intimidating to a girl who lived in a tiny two-room boarding-house suite on Bermondsey Street. Her father was, at least, known and familiar to her in this strange wonderland. ‘Don’t look around too much,’ he whispered. ‘A princess would expect such a setting. Our hosts are trying to separate the wheat from the chaff, Daughter.’ He was playing his role of princely Italian royalty to the hilt, chin up, shoulders back, not a fearful iota in his gaze as they passed crystal-cut glass vases filled with armfuls of fresh flowers and open doors that allowed for surreptitious peeks into elegantly appointed rooms done in cool, pale colours.

Elidh could not argue with her father’s reasoning. Out on the back terrace, young girls gaped shamelessly at the graduated water ladder running down the centre of the gardens, the strategically placed statuary, the topiary trees cut in animal shapes, the plants arranged in colourful designs to draw the eye. She thought their gaping could be excused. The garden was spectacular.

‘Capability Brown’s best work, I like to argue.’ A stylishly dressed older woman with elaborately coiffed hair swanned up to them. ‘The house has been in the family for three generations. I’m Catherine Keynes, Mr Keynes’s mother and hostess for the party. Welcome to Hartswood.’

Elidh was immediately alert. Their hostess smiled politely, her tone gracious, but her eyes were sharp. ‘Forgive me, I don’t recognise you from London. You haven’t been up for the Season otherwise I would know. I know everyone.’ It was politely said, but the warning was unmistakable.

Elidh swallowed. This was their first test and their last if they failed it. But like any test, they’d prepared for it. They had a script, as her father liked to call it. He launched into that script now, bowing low and taking their hostess’s hand. He was being lavish, placing a kiss on her knuckles, his eyes holding hers, his accent thick. ‘Buongiorno, Signora Keynes. The apology is all mine. I see we have come unannounced despite my best efforts. My note must have missed you in London. I am Prince Lorenzo Balare di Fossano. Please, allow me to present my daughter, the Principessa Chiara Balare.’

He relinquished her hand and swept their hostess another extravagant bow. ‘We’d only just arrived in London when we saw the announcement and thought this would be a splendid opportunity to experience an English house party and to meet people.’ He paused long enough to look troubled. ‘I wrote, of course, enquiring about an invitation, but you’d already left. I hope we have not caused you any discomfort?’

It was cannily done; his wording already implied their appearance had been accepted. Elidh felt Catherine Keynes’s gaze sweep her, assessing her from the wide straw brim of her hat to the peeping toes of her shoes, dyed to match her gown. She’d dressed carefully for this first impression in an afternoon gown of robin’s-egg blue trimmed in expensive falls of cream lace at the short sleeves and a wide band of matching grosgrain ribbon at the waist. Rosie had outdone herself on this one. The transformation had astonished even Elidh. The fabric from her mother’s Lady Macbeth dinner gown combined with yards of lace from one of Titania’s filmy peignoirs. She was accessorised from head to toe, with tiny gold flower-shaped bobs at her ears, to the hand-painted fan at her wrist and the white sheer shawl looped through her arms. Nothing had been overlooked. She appeared both refined and fresh. Elidh wished she felt that way, too.

Assessment flickered in Catherine Keynes’s sharp eyes. Elidh could see her weighing the advantages to an additional guest who was both pretty and hopefully as polished as she looked. Elidh held the woman’s gaze with a confident smile, the sort of smile a princess would use, who did not doubt her acceptance anywhere. Catherine Keynes smiled back before she transferred her attentions to Elidh’s father. ‘It is no trouble at all, Your Highness.’

‘Call me Prince Lorenzo, per favore.’ Her father smiled graciously as if he was doing his hostess a favour by appearing at her party instead of discommoding her and creating the impossible task of finding two more rooms in a home that must already be filled to bursting if the number of girls on the back terrace was any indicator.

Catherine Keynes smiled, warmly this time, charmed by her father. ‘Allow me to introduce you to some of our guests. Rooms will be ready after tea. You will have a chance to meet my son at supper tonight. We dine at eight, with drinks in the drawing room at seven.’

They had passed the first test. A bubble of elation welled up inside Elidh. But that elation was short-lived. The prize for winning entrance to the party was to be bombarded with a barrage of names and faces to remember. Lord this, Lady that, Miss Sarah Landon with blonde ringlets in the frothy pink gown, Lady Imogen Bettancourt in the peach confection, Miss Lila Partridge in blue, the Bissell twins, Leah and Rachel, both in a lime-green muslin dotted with cool white flowers. The list went on, and those were only the lovely girls. There were the requisite mothers, but there were men, too. Brothers, uncles, fathers, cousins, who had come as well to perhaps lend additional credence to their female relations’ claims of eligibility. In short, a daunting field. The finest young girls in England were here, in a daunting home, undertaking a daunting task for which the outcome would be a single victor.

Well, it was a good thing she and her father had other goals to accomplish here. With so many pretty girls on hand, Elidh knew she didn’t have a chance, even if she’d wanted one. Now, her father would know it, too. He’d have to recognise their first priority needed to be securing a patron now that they’d seen the field first-hand.

* * *

When their rooms were prepared, Elidh was more than ready to seek the sanctuary of hers.

Rosie was waiting for her, unpacking trunks. ‘Did you see him, yet?’ She was vibrating with excited energy as she shook out a dinner gown.

‘No, we won’t see him until supper.’ Elidh untied her hat. ‘That’s better. All these clothes are so hot. Help me get out of this dress.’ She looked about the room as Rosie worked her laces loose. Even on short notice, the room carried the same opulence displayed throughout the house: pale blue walls, yards of flowing sheer white curtains at the long windows, wainscoting at the ceiling finished with intricately carved cornices, plush carpet beneath her feet, and a bed to die for—crisp linen, soft pillows, and a silk coverlet in easy-to-stain white, the ultimate in luxury.

‘There’s even a little chamber off your room for me to sleep in. My own room. That’s so much better than sharing a bed with my nieces in Upper Clapton,’ Rosie confided. ‘I’ve never seen a place so posh.’

‘I haven’t either.’ Doubt swamped Elidh. ‘Do you think we’re in over our heads, Rosie?’ They could still pull out, leave at any time. There were numerous excuses they could give. It wasn’t too late.

Rosie gathered up her gown and winked. ‘Being in over our heads is half the fun. We’ll manage, you’ll see.’

‘You’re as crazy as my father.’ Elidh stretched out on the bed.

‘Maybe so, but he hasn’t ever let us down,’ Rosie answered. Elidh thought that was debatable. She supposed it depended on how one looked at it. Rosie began going through the wardrobe, sorting through the newly unpacked gowns. ‘Do you remember when the troupe was in Prussia and the axel on the wagon broke?’ She did remember, it had been November and there’d been an early snow. ‘We had no money for rooms and repairs, so your father arranged for us to perform at the tavern in exchange for room and board. We never went hungry even when our pockets were to let.’ They’d slept in the hayloft, all of them crammed together. There’d been little comfort and less privacy, as Elidh recalled. She’d picked hay out of her clothes for days afterwards. ‘We always managed.’ Rosie sighed with nostalgia. ‘Now, what shall we wear tonight? I’ll need to get it pressed and these new skirts with their yards and yards of fabric are the very devil.’

Elidh laughed. ‘Spoken like a true lady’s maid. You pick. You’ll know what’s best.’ She would like to share Rosie’s nostalgic view of the past. Once, she had done so, but from the vantage point of the last few years, all she could see was how close to the edge they’d lived, how risky the adventure of their lives had always been. There’d never been a time of plenty, of ease, where there wasn’t a need to think about where the next meal came from. She envied the girl she’d once been, who hadn’t feared that uncertainty, who hadn’t been bothered by the unknown.

Elidh rolled to her side and stared out the window, listening to the ripple of the water ladder in the garden below. When had she changed? When had any risk become too much risk? When had she begun to crave certainty and stability? Goodness knew she wouldn’t find any of those things here. This whole scheme was the antithesis of all that.

‘What do you suppose Mr Keynes will be like?’ Rosie asked from the wardrobe. ‘Do you suppose he’s handsome?’

‘He’s certainly arrogant, to think he’ll find a bride in two weeks.’ Elidh sighed. ‘He’s audacious, too. How could he be otherwise, Rosie? I can’t imagine a serious man engineering such a spectacle, not that I need to worry. He won’t look twice at me, not with a house full of lovely girls.’ The sooner Rosie and her father accepted the fact that she couldn’t compete, the sooner they could set aside their fanciful notions.

But Rosie was undeterred. ‘There will be no talk of defeat, not so soon and with a closet of new dresses waiting to be worn. Don’t count yourself out yet. Now, come sit and let’s start to work on your hair for dinner. You have to give old Rosie a chance to work her magic and you might just be surprised.’

* * *

‘We have unexpected guests.’ Sutton’s mother met him in the hall outside the drawing room where the company was gathering before dinner, her voice low as she imparted the news. ‘Italian royalty have arrived. I’ll have them vetted of course. I’ll make enquiries immediately.’

‘I don’t like surprises.’ He’d had enough of those this week to last a lifetime.

His mother shot him a sharp look. ‘You wouldn’t be surprised if you’d been here to greet them.’ He’d spent the afternoon in the dairy and the stables, pointedly avoiding the company converging on Hartswood until the very last minute, which was fast approaching. At the stroke of seven it would all begin—the countdown to his wedding.

‘Why are they here? Does the Principessa want to try her luck?’ Sutton joked drily with a nod towards the drawing room. How odd to think his future bride was in that room right now and he had no idea who she would be. The thought was enough to unnerve him.

‘Hardly. They assure me they are here to experience an English house party. They saw the announcement in The Times.’

‘How intriguing. Guests who aren’t interested in the fortune.’ Sutton held out his arm to his mother. ‘Shall we? I can’t put it off any longer.’

He halted at the doorway, taking in the scene before him, the drawing room so full of guests it might have been a ball. There was no question of the dining room accommodating everyone. Dinner would be served in the ballroom tonight at round tables of eight. His popularity had outstripped the capacity of traditional dining arrangements. He patted his mother’s hand. ‘You’ve done well. I think every eligible girl in London is here.’

She smiled up at him. ‘And then some. The footmen have already evicted six ineligible candidates whose family trees weren’t quite as strong as they purported them to be.’ She shook her head. ‘Granddaughters of earls simply won’t hold up to scrutiny if your cousin contests the will or your marriage. We need the daughter of a titled father, a very clean, direct, connection. That’s trouble we don’t need.’ She grimaced. ‘Speaking of trouble, has there been any word from Baxter yet?’

‘No.’ But Sutton feared Baxter had eyes and ears at this party and that his cousin was merely waiting for him to single out a bride before he made his move. ‘But we’ll see him before this is done. He won’t let the money go without a fight.’ Sutton surveyed the room, taking in all the girls, all of them looking frightfully young and frightfully alike. ‘Which one is she, do you think?’

‘Your wife?’ His mother laughed.

‘No, the Italian Principessa.’ He paused, his eyes lighting on the woman by the long window; blonde hair done up in artfully braided loops, her posture straight, her gaze fixed on a point beyond the room as she looked out into the gardens, and that dress, red—startlingly so—against the backdrop of the room’s virginal palette. There was something about her that made his heart pound, as if she, too, were somehow apart from this world he was forced to inhabit and he knew. ‘It’s her. That’s the Principessa.’

‘Yes, and she’s not for you, my son. Come, let me introduce you to the others.’

* * *

Sutton spent the next half-hour of drinks in the drawing room, smiling and bowing to all the darling daughters. There were plump ones, thin ones, blondes, brunettes, redheads; girls with curls, with straight, silky tresses; girls with blue eyes, brown eyes, pink dresses, yellow dresses, satins and silks. The array was dazzling, overwhelming. His drawing room was crammed with girls waiting to meet him and his fortune. Not one of the girls held his attention. His attention was free to wander about the room at will. And it did, stopping frequently on the slender, blonde woman by the window, who stood alone sipping sherry in that stunning red dress.

By the time the butler summoned them for dinner, he’d come to a disappointing conclusion: as different as they were in appearance, the girls all shared two things in common—they giggled at everything he said even when it wasn’t particularly witty and they all wanted his money.

‘Give them time, Sutton,’ his mother cajoled, reading his mind as he took her into the ballroom for supper. They’d decided beforehand that it would be an unfair advantage for him to take a girl into dinner the first night. ‘The girls are young. The stakes are high for them. Their parents are watching their every move.’

‘Once I see them in their natural habitats, playing the pianoforte or games, or picnicking, they’ll start to act more like their true selves? Is that it?’ The words came out more cynically than he intended.

‘Dear lord, Sutton, “their natural habitats”? Really? You make this sound like a zoo.’

‘Tell me I’m wrong.’ He was starting to think his fabulous idea of a house party was a mistake and now his ballroom was full of dinner tables and moon-eyed girls. He’d never wanted to be back down in his stables so badly.

She tapped his sleeve with her fan as he walked her to her place. ‘Cream will rise to the top, dear boy, just wait and see.’ Sutton hoped there was enough time. In his experience at the dairy, cream took a while to separate. He wasn’t sure he had that much time.

Sutton made his way to his table, disappointed to find himself boxed in by Miss Lila Partridge on his left and Miss Imogen Bettancourt on his right, their beaming parents beside them ensuring his attention remained fixed on their daughters. A quick glance around the ballroom revealed even more disappointing news. The elusive lady in red was seated at a table near the door, lucky her. She could escape. He watched as she smiled to her tablemates, laughing as she leaned close to the gentleman beside her. She might be having the best time of anyone present and she was clearly not interested in him, not in the least, which suddenly made her, without doubt, the most intriguing woman in the room.




Chapter Five (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)


The first thing Elidh noticed about Sutton Keynes was that he wasn’t interested: in dinner, in the women around him, or in any of the proceedings. He most decidedly didn’t want to be here and, unlike her, he was doing nothing to hide his displeasure over the situation. He was not the showman she’d anticipated. While she laughed and flirted and interspersed her comments with a handful of Italian exclamations, pretending to enjoy herself, he sat woodenly at his table, surrounded by pretty dolls who catered to his slightest indicator of interest.

He might as well have been a doll himself for all the responsiveness he showed. A very handsome doll, though. He had his mother’s dark honey hair, thick with a hint of a wave that saved it from being straight. The candlelight in the ballroom picked up the honey hues, causing them to wink temptingly like veins of gold in a mine. And an open face. She liked that. The firm mouth, the strong nose, the eyes that expressed exactly how he felt at being here. Trapped. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes at this distance, but she could see how they felt. They were restless, always scanning the room as if he were seeking a way out.

It was an outlandish thought that made no sense. Why would he be wanting to escape his own party? A party he’d planned for the express purpose of finding a wife? If it was not escape he sought, perhaps it was a particular woman he was looking for? His gaze quartered the room again and Elidh felt a little rill of awareness tremble down her spine, accompanied by the sensation that he was looking for her. It took all her bravado not to sink down in her chair, to keep her eyes and attentions fixed on the men at her table, all of whom might be candidates for her father’s play.

She’d felt his eyes on her in the drawing room, his gaze coming back to the window where she’d stood. She’d been careful not to turn around or to cultivate his attention just as she was careful now to be immersed here at her own table. Should he look in her direction, he would see a woman who was enjoying a good meal in a beautiful setting, and enjoying her popularity at her table, giving no thought to her wife-hunting host. But in both cases, it seemed her attempts to keep herself separate from the cluster of girls around him had created the opposite effect. Even now, she could feel his gaze stop on her table. She must put herself beyond his reach. Surely he would forget all about her soon enough if she wasn’t there to be remembered, especially with so many other girls clamouring for his attentions.

Elidh rose from the table. The delicious supper was coming to a close and she felt a keen need to escape their host’s gaze, keen enough to risk violating tradition. A lady didn’t dare leave the table before the hostess gave the signal, but perhaps with the unconventional seating arrangements and her own table so close to the door, no one would notice. She chose to risk it. ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me a moment. I feel slightly faint and in need of some air after such a lovely meal.’ Eight courses. She and her father had never eaten so well. Sometimes they had eight meals all week.

Outside the ballroom, Elidh searched for a door, an exit, anything that led to fresh air and privacy. When she didn’t find one, she settled for a velvet bench set before a large window at the end of the dark hall. No one would notice her there unless they were looking. She needed a moment alone, a moment to think before the post-supper activities began. Sutton Keynes’s visual attentions had unnerved her. Perhaps she was being overdramatic. Perhaps she’d even imagined them simply because they were the one thing she didn’t want. That was the deal she’d made with herself, despite her father’s wishes.

She was here to help her father find a patron. Nothing more. As the Prince and Principessa, they could sing her father’s praises incognito, secure a patron and disappear, resurfacing for the patron as themselves. The patron need never see the Italians again. Sutton Keynes’s attentions made the latter harder to do. If he fixed his attentions on her, disappearing became not only a difficult feat, but a potentially dangerous one.

Perhaps she could blame tonight on the red dress and Rosie’s artful design of braids. She’d hardly recognised herself when she’d looked in the mirror. That woman had been stunning—sophisticated, self-assured. That woman could charm a patron and she had. She could not have done otherwise. She needed the gown, the hair, and the cosmetics to charm the table, to do her duty to her father and to herself. Their survival through the winter would depend on their success here. The gown had succeeded admirably in that regard. Men had been hard pressed to look away. Apparently, even Sutton Keynes, despite the fact they’d been seated on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Yes, that made sense. Tonight was all because of the dress. Without the red dress, she would likely have been invisible. Tomorrow, dressed in pastels like the other girls, she would not stand out and Keynes would forget about her. Elidh closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, starting to feel better. She would give herself just a few minutes more of solitude and she’d go back to the party. She was seeing trouble where there was none. She’d conjured a crisis when the man hadn’t even crossed a room to meet her. He hadn’t even spoken with her yet and it would stay that way.

‘I thought I might find you out here.’

Elidh stiffened at the low voice in the dark. She was alone no longer. She opened her eyes slowly, careful not to jump or to show signs of being startled, careful to buy herself time, time to remember her role, time to hide her fear. A princess was never startled. A princess had the right to be wherever it was she wanted to be. Only guilty people startled when they were found in places they weren’t supposed to be in. But there was no hiding the surprise from her eyes when she saw who was standing there: Sutton Keynes in all his restless-eyed glory.

‘You’ve picked a beautiful place to hide. The view is lovely in the evening with the moon out and the lanterns lit.’ He was so much taller close up. His shoulders broader, his face more handsome, his mouth friendlier than it had been at a distance, the woodenness of him gone, perhaps because now he was smiling. At her and it was dazzling. He bent forward in a bow. ‘A rose for a rose,’ he said gallantly, offering her his plucked offering, liberated from one of the centrepieces that decorated each table. ‘You are a veritable rose in bloom tonight. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner.’

That was her invitation, her cue. Dear lord, it was show time, the curtain was going up on the next scene of this foolish play her father had crafted, and she wasn’t ready: not for the azure eyes that sparked like flames in the dusky hall, or the commanding height of him, or that smile. She’d expected an arrogant man and she’d planned on not being attracted to him, because she couldn’t be. She would garner a patron for her father and leave. She was not playing the same game as her host and as such, she was not prepared for this. She was a two-week wonder, nothing more. And yet, she could not deny the thrill that coursed through her as she took his rose. Perhaps this was how Cinderella felt in the story when the Prince had approached her at the ball—delighted, even knowing that the moment couldn’t last, but excited at the idea of it all the same.

Elidh gathered her wits. This was no fairy tale. Later, when this scheme of her father’s was finished, she could look back on the encounter and indulge in it. But not now. Now, she had to think and act like a princess. A princess wouldn’t sit here and gape as if a handsome man had never spoken to her. A princess would take his attention as her due. ‘Shouldn’t you be in the ballroom with the others instead of playing truant in the hall?’ she teased, once more the vivacious, confident woman from the table.

‘Shouldn’t you?’ he responded easily, his blue-flame eyes turning merry. ‘I think your table finds itself duller for the lack of your company.’ So he had noticed. She’d not imagined it.

The hallway suddenly seemed overheated. Elidh flicked open her fan. Perhaps she could appear cool if she felt cool. ‘My table will survive. You will be missed. I will not be. I dare say the ladies in the ballroom would be glad for one less woman in the room.’

‘They will understand that I am the host and it’s my duty to greet all my guests. If I am out here in the hall chasing you down, it’s because you’ve eluded me, or is it that you’ve avoided me, Principessa?’

Elidh fluttered her fan, managing a look of sophisticated amusement. ‘Allora, an introduction is superfluous, then. You already know who I am and I already know who you are.’

‘You have not answered my question, Principessa. Are you avoiding me?’

‘You are already surrounded by so many admirers, you hardly need to add one more.’ Elidh snapped her fan shut and speared him with a piercing stare full of haughty, royal contemplation. ‘So, I will hazard another reason for your presence in the hall. You don’t want to be in there. It’s been written all over your face the whole evening. You were looking for a reason to escape and I gave you one.’ Perhaps boldness would drive him into retreat.

Instead, the remark won her a laugh. ‘You are beautiful and insightful, Principessa. I can see now why my mother thought you’d be a delightful addition to our party.’ He offered his arm. ‘Come walk with me and tell me how you find our part of the world. In exchange, I’ll show you the portrait gallery, it’s just up ahead. If you’d kept going, you would have run into it.’

Her mouth went dry at the request. Any other girl in the ballroom would have craved such an opportunity. But to her, it was a reminder of how real the game had become and how fast. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Elidh asked, but she was already slipping her arm through his and strolling down the corridor away from the faint clink of dishes and the murmur of indistinct conversation.

He arched a slim, dark brow. ‘I don’t know. Are you planning to compromise me?’ It was a wicked joke. He lowered his voice to a mock whisper of conspiracy, making fun of the game he’d devised himself. ‘I do suspect some desperate sorts might try, but not on the first night when everyone considers themselves still in the running.’ It was further proof for her claim that he didn’t want to be here, that he’d been looking for an escape. But still, how odd to have designed a scenario one loathed and then forced one’s own self to play along with it.

He leaned close to her ear and she breathed in the pleasant scent of sandalwood and basil, all man and summer. It was enough to intoxicate any girl. Even her, Elidh feared. ‘Perhaps I should tell you, Principessa, we have taken every security measure to ensure such a mishap doesn’t happen. There are guards posted outside my bedchamber so that I am not surprised upon retiring. I assure you, that’s not usually the case for most English house parties. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

His whispered confession coaxed a laugh from her. ‘A necessary but unfortunate precaution under the circumstances, I’m afraid,’ Elidh paused, remembering an incident from their travels. ‘And not quite as unique as you might think, if that brings you any consolation. There was a duc we knew who had guards posted day and night outside his daughter’s bedchamber the week before her wedding for fear of a kidnapping attempt by his rival.’ The story was true, only the implications he’d draw from it were false. They hadn’t been guests, but paid workers hired for entertainment. She gave a light laugh, enjoying too much the refreshing boldness of her role. The Principessa was a vivacious, charming young woman, so much fun to portray, so different than the self plain Elidh showed the world. It was like the inside of her had come to live on the outside. And yet, she must be cautious. Mr Keynes needed a reminder about her unsuitability.

She gave him a soft, reassuring gaze. ‘You may rest easy, Mr Keynes. You needn’t fear such antics from me. I will make no move to compromise you.’

He smiled, warm and charming, so charming she forgot to be nervous. After the woodenness he’d displayed at dinner it was surprising to find he could put a girl at ease. ‘No, not from you. Perhaps that’s why we’re strolling the portrait gallery. I have nothing to fear from you. My mother said you were here to take in the house party, nothing more. Is that true?’

Elidh sensed a test in those words. His eyes were steady on her, looking for affirmation as he continued. ‘You, Principessa, are a safe harbour in a veritable storm of female attentions.’ There was a rueful tone about him now, as if he regretted the safety of her, as if he wished she might pose more of a danger to him. If he only knew, she was quite dangerous to him, to his fortune, more danger than he wanted in fact if he chose to pursue her. But that was not her intention, to encourage that pursuit. She would keep both of them safe by establishing her distance.

She faced him with another soft smile, making the implication of her words sound reassuring instead of cruel. ‘It seems we are in agreement, then. You are safe for me as well.’ Sutton Keynes would know precisely what she meant by that safety, that a title as lofty as hers could not be courted by a man who had only a fortune to offer. The Keynes were wealthy gentry and soon to be even wealthier, but they were not titled and they were not Italian. Her father would be reeling if he knew how the ruse he’d designed to attract the wealthy bachelor was now being used to push him away.

But subtlety was not her friend. If Sutton Keynes knew what she intended in that message, he did not let on. Instead, he held her gaze with blue eyes that sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach. ‘What do you mean by that, Principessa?’

She was going to have to be blunt, and she would be, right after she calmed those butterflies. Elidh looked down where her gloved hand lay on his dark sleeve. It was not hard to feign a moment of awkwardness. Other than on stage with people who’d been like family to her, she’d never been this close to a man before, never flirted on her feet. She’d always had a script telling her what to do. But she was on her own in the hallway. ‘Surely you already understand, I could never consider entertaining an offer such as the one you need to make at the end of the party.’

There. The words were out, gently spoken, and all the tawdry unspoken implications that went with them: that aside from the difference in their stations, his search for a wife in this manner was scandalous to a well and high-born girl of her rank, and that the conditions surrounding the attainment of his money were even more so. She was firmly waving him off, knowing that any girl in the ballroom would gasp at treating the rich Mr Keynes in such a manner. Then again, they’d come to play his game. She had not.

To his credit, Mr Keynes took the rebuke smoothly, as he apparently took all things, except ballrooms full of girls he’d invited but appeared not to want. ‘Of course not. I would not think to presume. I appreciate the clarification.’ He cleared his throat. ‘May I ask, Principessa, are you always this plain-spoken?’

She glanced up with a coy smile on her lips. ‘A necessary measure for one in my position, Mr Keynes. I find it prevents unpleasant surprises, much like your bedroom guards.’

‘Touché.’ He pressed his free hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture, his eyes laughing as if to reassure her she had not truly hurt his feelings. ‘Now that’s settled, we can move on with our evening. Might I persuade you to call me Sutton?’

‘Familiarity is dangerous, Mr Keynes. I thought we had established that,’ Elidh cautioned.

‘We’ve already established there is no danger here. We said nothing about first names,’ he countered easily. ‘Besides, I’m about to show you my...ancestors. Surely one can’t get more familiar than that.’ He was a dreadful tease. For a man who gave the appearance of eschewing crowds, he was extraordinarily confident and funny when he was alone. Yet one more thing she could add to the list of items she knew about Sutton Keynes. He was a charming man possessed of a sense of humour, who’d arranged a party he didn’t want. There was a mystery in that. If she was smart, she would leave it alone. To solve it would be to know him and to know him might lead to other things she’d not come here for. She’d do best to leave the mystery alone, make her excuses and walk back into the ballroom. But that’s not what Cinderella had done and it wasn’t what she was going to do either. This was a moment out of thousands. Surely it would not endanger her masquerade entirely if she prolonged that moment, just this once.

Elidh laughed up at him. ‘Well, if we’re about to view your ancestors, you should call me Chiara.’ She would take the middle ground and enjoy this interlude now and worry about it later.

He led her through the gallery, narrating with dry humour as they went. ‘Shall we start with my uncle, the man who’s caused this whole mad tangle? That’s him right there just to the left, Sir Leland Keynes, my father’s brother. He was knighted for establishing a British presence in the extremely lucrative Soojam Valley of Kashmir, a place noted for its sapphires. Too bad he hadn’t found some more. He might have been made baron and this whole fiasco could have been avoided.’

Elidh furrowed her brow. ‘How so?’

He looked surprised for a moment and she worried over a misstep. Should she have known? Was the reason obvious to anyone but her? ‘Because everything would have been entailed,’ he explained, ‘Nothing could have stopped my cousin from getting his hands on it. Not even if I married the Queen herself.’ The bitterness was self-evident in his tone. She didn’t understand entirely why. The gossip column had only provided so much detail.

They started to stroll again, moving on to the next portrait, this one of a great-grandfather on his mother’s side. ‘You make it sound as if you don’t want the money.’ Elidh slid him a sideways glance. She couldn’t imagine not wanting that much money or the security that came with it. ‘Or is it the marrying you’re opposed to?’

‘Both, I suppose, but especially the latter. I doubt any one of those women in there is interested in me. I am just the living embodiment of British pound notes.’ He chuckled drily, but she could see the admission bothered him. ‘I am sure you understand.’ He sighed, his blue eyes seeking hers, two sombre flames. Oh, how that gaze seared her with its attention, its intensity, a slice of his soul on display. His voice was quiet, thoughtful. ‘It’s ironic. You are a stranger to me, entirely. But you are the only one here I can confess that to who would know how it feels to lose their humanity, to become a representation of something other than who they truly are.’

Elidh was silent. For a moment, she mistook his meaning and thought he’d somehow guessed her ruse and seen through the disguise. Then she understood and the knife of guilt twisted a little deeper. She’d not come here to mislead this man. She hadn’t her father’s nerves for deep schemes. She tried to push the guilt away. An attractive man was showering her with attention. But that only made it worse. He was showering the Principessa with attention. Sutton Keynes would never look twice at plain, twiggy Elidh Easton, a girl who knew nothing about titles and fortunes, who was, in fact, the embodiment of what he professed to hate: a representation of something other than her true self.




Chapter Six (#uf585f36e-9592-5aa7-bc12-7d868924a2d5)


She’d been worth leaving the party for. The promise of that red dress had not disappointed. He’d feared it might, that she might be all dress and nothing else—a red-silk illusion best enjoyed at a distance, like the other girls who had nothing on the inside or, worse, like Anabeth Morely, who’d been all kinds of soft and beautiful on the outside but cruel on the inside. She’d had no qualms about destroying a young man’s heart.

They stopped before another portrait, this one of a funny-looking gentleman with a long nose, protuberant, froglike eyes and a powdered wig, a toad of a man in demeanour and build, but highly ambitious and resourceful. ‘Randolph Sutton Keynes, my namesake of sorts. His service to King George I earned him this house. It certainly wasn’t his looks.’ He tried for levity and fell short. She was withdrawing and had been since his remark about being an object. He couldn’t blame her. It was hardly the sort of conversation one had with a stranger at a party, nor was it the sort of conversation he was used to having with others. As a rule, he didn’t make a habit of self-disclosing.

‘Forgive me, I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ve taken terrible advantage of you with my maudlin sentiments.’ He was doing it again. Pouring out his thoughts. ‘It’s just that everything has happened so fast. Last week I could take refuge in my club like any other gentleman. Then the announcement came out and now I can’t step foot anywhere, my club included, without someone approaching me with an introduction, or producing another female to meet.’

What was wrong with him? He blamed it on the dark intimacy of the hallway and the emotions of the week, and her own, welcoming boldness, not that a gentleman should ever take advantage of such a trait. She’d been open with him and he had been open with her in turn. She made him feel as if he could tell her anything. Perhaps it was because she’d made it clear she was not interested in the game of the party. Or perhaps it was because she was a stranger, someone he’d never see again. Maybe, in some way, that made it easier to pour out his heart. He sensed she would never take advantage of that knowledge, never tell another soul. Whereas, if he told anyone else in the ballroom, the news would circulate within minutes. London couldn’t keep a secret if its life depended on it.

‘I don’t mind, truly. You’ve barely had time to grieve your uncle and yet there are expectations that must immediately be managed, regardless.’

Sutton shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re used to managing such things all the time. Tell me, does it get easier? Meeting others’ expectations for you?’

She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, it certainly doesn’t, especially if you want to please everyone. You’re always playing a part, always alone. It’s easy to lose yourself, to forget who you are.’

Just listening to her lifted his burden. She knew. This beautiful woman knew precisely what he carried with him. ‘Until last week, I was content being a country gentleman. I still would be, if the world would allow it.’ What would she think of his camel dairy and his brood mares? Would she laugh at him? Would she find such humble ambition too far beneath her as Anabeth had? Or would she understand because she had quiet ambitions, too, ambitions that she’d laid aside because the world demanded it. He suddenly wanted to know what they were. ‘What would you do if you could do anything? Be anything?’ he asked in a husky whisper, letting the semi-darkness of the gallery weave a spell around them as he watched her gaze soften with thought, as if no one had ever asked her such a thing before. Perhaps no one ever had. Maybe one did not ask princesses such questions. Maybe he didn’t deserve an answer.

At any rate, he wasn’t going to get one. His mother swept into the gallery. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ She smiled, but her gaze drifted to Elidh, critical and full of speculation before returning to her son. ‘Dinner has lingered far longer than it should have. Everyone is waiting for a signal from you to start the evening entertainments. Some of the girls have brought their musical instruments to play while we gather in the gardens to visit.’

Sutton met her gaze evenly, silently asserting his authority. ‘I will be along shortly once we’re finished with the gallery.’ It was clear she did not approve of his departure or his reason for it. But he was not a young boy who needed his mother’s approval for every little action.

The Principessa was more congenial. She stepped away from him and smiled at his mother. ‘Ah, an Italian evening, just like at home. How wonderful,’ she effused with good grace. Keynes applauded her for it. Here was a woman would not be intimidated by a man’s mother no matter how strong his mother’s stare. It was a rare woman who did not find his mother overwhelming. ‘I do so enjoy a beautiful summer evening in a garden with strolling minstrels. Excuse me, Mr Keynes. Perhaps we can finish the gallery another time? My father will be wondering where I’ve got to. It was generous of you to devote yourself so singularly to me.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ He bowed as the only pleasure he was likely to have tonight disappeared into the ballroom.

‘I see you’ve met our Italian guest,’ his mother said coolly once the Principessa’s red skirts were out of sight and her ears out of range.

‘She is quite charming...refreshing, even,’ Sutton replied with equal coolness, not pleased with his mother’s interruption. She had chased away the best part of his evening and signalled his return to the hell of the ballroom, to a reality that would be harder to endure now that he’d had a brief slice of heaven for company.

‘Charming? Well, I suppose she’s as charming as a woman in a red dress can be in a room full of pastels,’ she replied archly.





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