Page 1

Naturally, I shall attend Lottie’s wedding, but I cannot promise to remain for the house party’s duration. You know how much I detest the boorish things, Edie. Particularly as I know our odious Kellinggrave cousins will be present.

Besides, my research won’t permit me to fritter away an entire week on frivolous activities. Toward that end, my amanuensis, my valet, and perhaps even my research assistant shall accompany metoDovetonwick Court.

Please inform Mother and ask her to make the arrangements. Also, give her, Lottie, and the rest my warmest regards. Expect us Thursday next.

~Lord Constantine Kellinggrave, in response to his sister,

Lady Edyth Kellinggrave’s reminder of their sister’s upcoming nuptials

29 August 1818

Bedford Square, London, England

A few minutes past seven in the morning

Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and sans jacket and waistcoat, Constantine—Con to his closest friends and family—stood before his scuffed and scarred double-sided walnut partner desk. Eyes narrowed, he cocked his head, listening.

Yes, the brisk footsteps he’d come to recognize these past few days announced his amanuensis had arrived for work. Early again, as she had been every day since he’d grudgingly retained her services.

Regrettably, he couldn’t fault her for her promptness.

Time to don his armor, gird his loins, gather his shield and sword, and prepare for battle.

He swept a gaze around the room, which had become less research sanctuary and more combat zone in recent days.

Soft rays of sunshine filtered through the open navy-blue draperies festooning the three arched windows opposite the long room. The streams of sunlight caressed the equally scuffed and scarred oak floor and the single taupe, crimson, and cerulean-blue Aubusson carpet sprawled haphazardly in the center of the rectangular room.

Dust motes floated in the luminous beams, performing a taunting dance before they drifted to rest on the myriad of surfaces cluttered with specimens, journals, documents, and all manner of curiosities. And dust. A fine layer coated almost everything.

Gilly, the once emaciated mongrel of undeterminable pedigree Constantine had rescued from the streets two years ago, lay prone upon the floor, soaking in those same rays. As if sensing his master’s focus, Gilly thumped his wiry, multi-colored tail once without deigning to open his copper-brown eyes.

A wry grin pulled Constantine’s mouth upward on one side.

Gilly had taken to a life of luxury and ease as readily as a nobly born duke.

The feminine stride grew closer and, if possible, even sharper, as if the deceptively decorous Miss Faith Roth announced with her dainty feet what she didn’t dare say with her pink Cupid’s bow mouth.

Not that he initially noticed her pretty mouth.

It’s just that she so often pursed those plump lips, pulled them into a disapproving ribbon, or bit the lower pillow—no doubt to prevent telling him to bugger himself—that he couldn’t help but notice how nicely shaped they were.

Never mind Miss Roth’s lips.

Another day of subtle verbal sparringand intellectual dueling was about to commence.

You enjoy matching wits with her.

Constantine snorted, and Gilly cracked open a sleepy eye.

Determining naught was amiss, the dog relaxed and resumed his nap with a shuddery sigh.

Not by half, Constantine didn’t enjoy the daily scuffles with his scribe. No more than he’d relish a carbuncle on his bum or appreciate a monstrous stye in his eye.

Refusing to look toward the entrance, yet acutely aware of each clipped step drawing Miss Faith Roth nearer, he drew his eyebrows together as he considered the scientific journals he held in either hand.

Would he have time to read either or both while traveling to Dovetonwick Court for his sister’s wedding? Likely. With a nonchalant shrug, he added the books to the stack of papers, books, and documents he’d already placed inside his satchel.

Naturally, not attending the nuptials wasn’t an option—Mother would never forgive Constantine—and he wanted to see Lottie exchange her vows.