Page 2

Charles looked at the tiny notation of a row of siblings born some fifty years earlier in the French town of Saumur.

Perry tapped the page. “If Great Uncle Victor is legitimate, then the marchioness is indeed your cousin and the widow of the deceased Marquis de Tonnelier.” He paused. “But that’s the thing about a family tree. You can add an extra twig if no one’s alive to dispute the fiction.”

That was the rub. The revolution’s zeal to erase the past had led to the loss of many of the records families relied on to establish claims to their former estates.

Charles looked at the line of offspring Perry had pointed out, a generation of French nobles who had passed away before the Revolution. Their children and most of their children’s children had perished in the Terror. According to the marchioness, her late father-in-law had sent key documents to England for safekeeping when King Louis was first arrested. Now, she—Isabelle Delatour, Marchioness de Tonnelier—claimed to be the sole survivor of two ancient families.

“Thanks, Perry. We’ll look into Great Uncle Victor.” Charles straightened. His fobs jingled. It was time to face the marchioness. It surprised him how easily her claim to be a cousin, a remnant of his mother’s past, brought back that past, his summers in the vineyards of Saumur, and that last day in France.

As he tugged the appalling waistcoat into place and Oxley held out his hat and gloves, the door to his dressing room blew open, banging against the paneled wall. Shouts rose from the entry below.

“Someone’s opened the front door, my lord,” Oxley said.

“Sounds like your sister’s voice,” Perry said.

Charles heard it too, unmistakably Octavia’s voice, raised in distress. He strode for the stairs. His sister could not be in London. His sister never left Wynford Hall.

From the top of the stairs he looked down on an odd tableau: Octavia in a soaked and muddied cloak, clutching a small traveling case and confronting a London jarvey in a slouched hat and sopping greatcoat.

“Well, I won’t pay you that ridiculous sum. You’re trying to gammon me because you think I’m a flat. You’d never try such stuff on my brother.” His sister turned to look up the stairs. “Charles, come sort this jarvey.”

“Now, miss,” the man began, “I b’aint askin’ too much. Bein’ out in a storm, taking yer extra bags, comin’ clear ’cross Lunnon at this hour. Think of me poor ’orse, for pity’s sake.”

“Oh,” said Octavia, her shoulders slumping. “I never thought of the poor animal.” She struggled with the strings of her reticule. Then her head came up again. “Your horse is no excuse to keep my bags from me. You just think I’m good for more blunt. You’re a low, wretched, wretched...”

“Extortioner, I believe is the word you’re looking for, Octavia.” Charles reached the bottom of the stairs. The door remained open, a stiff breeze blowing rain across the black and white tiled floor. Pratt, Charles’s butler, appeared frozen in place.

“Charles!” Octavia turned and flung herself into his arms, a shaking bundle of wet wool. Over her head, Charles signaled Pratt to settle with the jarvey. The two men turned away.

Against his shoulder Octavia poured out a tale of a horrid journey by stage.

“The stage? Octavia, where’s Nurse? Who knows you left Wynford?”

Octavia stiffened in his arms. She pulled back. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re going out, and I’ve made you...” Her eyes widened as she took in the persimmon waistcoat. “… all wet. Is that what gentlemen of fashion wear in London?”

“No. It’s what Perry made me wear. Only for tonight. But I won’t be going out.”

“Is it for a wager, then?”

“No. Why the stage, Octavia?”

She drew herself up. Her cheeks were pale, her nose red, and her eyes over-bright. If he didn’t know his sweet-eating sister as well as he did, he would say she’d lost half a stone.

“Don’t worry, Charles. I won’t be any trouble to you. I just need a place to stay while I find a husband.”

“A husband?” Charles and Perry spoke as one, and Charles realized his friend had come down to stand beside him.

Octavia nodded vigorously, sending water flying from her bonnet. “You must have a friend who needs a wife, Charles?”

Perry took a step back.

Octavia turned to Perry. “Oh, hello, Peregrine. Don’t worry. I didn’t mean you.”

“But Octavia,” Charles said, “right now I’m in the middle of—”

Perry nudged him. “He’s in the middle of the single life. That’s what he’s in the middle of, and that’s no place for a young lady.”

Octavia tilted her head to one side, regarding them both with suspicion. “I thought gentlemen sought young ladies to marry. My book says...” She lowered the case she was carrying to the floor.