Prologue

         Though the room was close and by all accounts rather modest, the sunlight that filtered in through the window illuminated it so pleasingly that it took on a comforting, golden hue all of its own. The view outside the window, too, was rather modest, showing a crowded London street below that teemed with humanity. Annabella Kelly stood with folded arms, watching the bustling merchants and women hurrying to and from market without really seeing them.

         It was an unseasonably warm April, with unaccountably clear skies, and everyone seemed glad to take advantage of the fine weather. Punctuating the endless stream of workers were fine gentlemen and ladies. The ladies wore light dresses in bright, cheerful colours, contrasting sharply with the more drab garb worn by the labourers. Instinctually, Annabella could feel her eye being drawn to them; she noted cuts, colours, trimmings, how bonnets were being worn this spring; drinking it all in without even really thinking about it. She had an eye for detail, a trait that served her well.

         Some ladies raised parasols in defiance of the spring sun, anxious to protect their fair complexions. Some walked arm-in-arm with gentlemen as they strolled, gloved hands resting just-so on the elbow of their escorts. Annabella closed her eyes, sighing just a little, and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. It would be a fine thing to be able to ramble about town like that, stopping to peer in shop windows, strolling in the park…

         The sound of thick, syrupy breathing filled the room behind her, disrupting Annabella’s reverie. What mean you, standing at the window and daydreaming? she chastised herself. She pulled away from the window, and turned back to the small but comfortable room.

         There was a small dressing table with a polished glass mirror in the corner, and a cedar trunk pressed against the wall next to it. A thick rug, faded a bit with age, covered the honey-coloured wooden floor, helping to insulate the room from both sound and chill. The dominant feature, however, was the bed in the centre. The frame was dark wood, and though simple, it had been polished to a brilliant shine. It was piled high with blankets, beneath which rest a figure that breathed laboriously.

         Prudence Kelly had once been a stout, strong specimen of a woman, with a square jaw and thick auburn hair. Now, she was only a shadow of her former self, her eyes sunken, her face grey and sagging. Her hair had lost its lustre, and was thin and limp beneath her cap. It was terrible for Annabelle to attempt to reconcile that this shade that struggled to breathe was her proud, indomitable Mama.

         “Shall I close the drapes so you may rest easier?” Annabella asked softly.

         “Nay, my girl, let the sunshine in,” the woman replied, her voice rasping as she spoke. “Open the window a mite, would you, dear? I should like some fresh air—it smells like a tomb in here.”

         “Mama, you’ll catch a cold,” Annabella admonished her, then instantly regretted her words.

         The figure on the bed laughed softly, a sad remnant of what had been Annabella’s strong, vibrant mother. The laughter quickly devolved into a fit of coughing. “I don’t expect that matters just now,” she said.

         Annabella swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat, nodded, and turned to raise the window sash a little. The sounds of the outside world flitted in, and a delicate breeze brought in the smells of the street. Mrs. Kelly breathed deep, sighing a little appreciatively.

         “Smells like Mr. Bakewell is making his famous walnuts again,” she said wistfully.

         Annabella nodded again, smiling in spite of herself. Her dear mother had a notorious sweet tooth, and a particular fondness for the local confectioner’s candied walnuts, roasted and tossed in sugar and spices. “I could run down and get you some, if you like,” Annabella offered.

         Mrs. Kelly shook her head, the slightest of gestures. “I am not sure I have the appetite, dear one.” She clearly saw Annabella’s stricken look at that, and attempted her familiar teasing, japing tone. “Besides, I cannot send you out into the street with your hair down like that—what would they think of you? You’d be locked up for a shameless tart, no question,” she said with a weak smile.

         This was a familiar joke between them, that Annabella, who was by nature a very good and dutiful girl, was always in danger of being run in for some sort of criminal mischief. It was so far from the truth as to be humorous. The truth, which Mrs. Kelly was happy to tell anybody , was that Annabella was the very best of daughters. Nothing delighted her more than when said daughter responded in kind.

         Annabella shook her head playfully at her mother, sending ripples through her golden hair that fell about her shoulders. She was far past the age at which it was acceptable for young girls to run about with their hair down, but she had left it loose this morning. “I thought you might like to brush it, as you used to do. You always said you found it soothing,” Annabella said, coming to sit in the small, straight-backed chair next to the bed.

         “I seem to recall you finding it less than soothing,” Mrs. Kelly said with another breathy laugh, which only set her to wheezing again. Annabella forced her mouth to stay in the shape of a serene smile, but her eyes stung with tears as she watched her mother struggle for air. “No, darling girl, I find I haven’t the energy for it today,” she continued between wet breaths. “I haven’t the energy for much of anything, truthfully,” she said with a weak gesture at the discarded needlework at her side.

         This alarmed Annabella to no end, for she had never seen her mother with still hands before. Always, she was busy embroidering, beading, stitching, cutting, measuring; when she was not working at her craft, her hands were stirring the pot for their dinner or scribbling numbers in her account books. Annabella had never seen her mother so still, so quiet before, and it was heart-breaking.

         The silence between them grew heavy, and Annabella reached over to take the hand of the only mother she had ever known. It did not matter that there was no blood between them; Prudence Kelly had always been forthright with Annabella that the girl was a foundling. This mattered not to Annabella. “You chose me, to love me as your own when you were not obligated to, which is the greatest of gifts and compliments,” she had told her more than once with the greatest sincerity.

         Mrs. Kelly lifted her other trembling hand and placed it on top of her daughter’s. There was much that Annabella would like to say to her, and yet, she knew that her mother knew all that was in her heart. “Yer a good girl,” the older woman rasped. “You’ve taken such care of me,” she said with a sad smile, “I fear you have sacrificed much of yourself. Promise me you will live well, now.”

         “Mama, this isn’t the time—”

         “Now is exactly the time,” Mrs. Kelly insisted with surprising forcefulness. For just a moment, there was just a glimpse of her old self. “Do not argue with me, it is tiring. All that was mine, is yours now. Should you wish it, you will be far greater and more prosperous than I could ever be.”

         Annabella pressed her mother’s hands. “Of course, Mama, I will make you so very proud.”

         “Be happy, darling-dear, and I shall be proud.”

         Silence fell between them again, punctuated only by the harsh sounds of Mrs. Kelly attempting to breathe. A burning sensation invaded Annabella’s eyes, tears threatening. She blinked them away stubbornly, refusing to cry and distress her mother further in this delicate time.

Just then, a breeze wafted through the room again, lifting the lightweight drapes ever so slightly. Fluttering, flitting, flapping its wings delicately, a small yellow butterfly was carried in on the breeze. Annabella started backward as it darted quite near her face for a moment, then it pirouetted in the air and landed on Mrs. Kelly’s left shoulder.

         “Ah,” Mrs. Kelly sighed, as if she had just seen an old friend that had delivered a piece of long-anticipated news. “Look here: now I’ve a butterfly on my shoulder. It’s my time soon.”

         “What?” Annabella asked, not understanding.

         “A butterfly on the shoulder means death looms in the corner of the room. A soul of the departed has come to tell me, or at least that is what my Irish ancestors believed,” Mrs. Kelly said with another wistful smile down at the little creature.

         Reflexively, Annabella clutched at her own left shoulder. Mrs. Kelly laughed at the gesture, which only resulted in more coughing. “Don’t put too much stock in stories, Annabella,” she said, gasping for breath. “Now, why don’t you high yourself over to the window and tell me who is out on the street. I imagine the whole neighbourhood is out, and I should like to know who is stepping out with whom.”

         Annabella laughed a strangled sort-of laugh; Mrs. Kelly was ever-fond of her gossip. With a last squeeze, Annabella stood, withdrawing her own hand from her mother’s dry hands with a sound like a whisper. Annabella turned back to the window, still fighting tears.

         “The butcher, Mr. Carlisle, is in front of his shop,” she reported, spotting the short little bald man.

         “Clean apron?”

         “Clean apron,” Annabella confirmed.

         “Waiting on Mrs. Blackwell, I imagine,” Mrs. Kelly murmured.

         “Probably so. It’s a shame he cannot just be open about his regard for her, but I suppose that would be less entertaining for us,” Annabella mused. Mrs. Kelly did not reply, only breathed her horrible, wet breaths that became shallower and shallower with each passing hour.

         Annabella shook her head slightly, looking farther down their street. “Many of the ladies are wearing their calicos,” she commented, noting the prevalence of the patterned dresses. “I suspect they shall regret it when the rain returns. Still, they are beautiful this year, so many new patterns and colours.” She was vaguely aware that she was babbling, but she could not stop herself. If she stopped speaking, then she would be forced to acknowledge that the only other sound filling the room was her dearest mother struggling to breathe.

         “Ah, and here’s Mrs. Jenkins—oh Mama, you would not believe the hat she has on! It’s the colour of salmon and nearly two feet tall,” Annabella said, thinking of how her mother used to take great joy in their neighbour’s questionable millinery tastes.

         No sooner had she finished these words than there was a new sound in the room behind her. It was soft, so soft that she was not even sure she heard it first. It was not precisely a sigh, being as delicate and inconsequential as the flap of a butterfly’s wing.

And then, there was only silence.

The silence was somehow worse, more crushing than the laboured breathing that had preceded it. Annabella reached up to grasp the window frame tightly, catching the drapes in her hands as well. Irrationally, she refused to turn and look behind her, feeling that as long as she looked out the window, focusing on the life and movement below, she would not have to acknowledge the horrible reality behind her.

Tears, hot and cascading like a spring rain, flowed down her face. Her mother had undoubtedly wished to spare her the pain of having to watch her slip from this mortal coil, just as Annabella had wished to spare her mother her tears at the end. Still, as if she were being watched, she refused to sniffle or sob.

Her eyes, watery and blurred as they were with tears, caught the smallest of movements from about the height of her waist. The small yellow butterfly, with a strange kind of determination, fluttered out the small gap of the open window, and out into the open London air. Annabella fixed her eye on it, staring at it as it looped and dipped, and at last disappeared into the deep blue sky.

Chapter 1

One year later…

Annabella Kelly was not afforded many quiet moments in her life. Though young, having barely passed her twentieth winter, she could not remember a time without work filling her days. She did not begrudge this fact, as she felt doubly blessed to work alongside the woman she called “Mama,” and she also genuinely loved her craft. She found an easy, meditative stillness in plying her needle.

         What idle moments she could steal were usually to be found at the start and end of each day. She was fond of beginning her day by sitting at the counter to the front of the small but well-appointed shop she ran with her mother at the corner of Bond Street. They were fortunate in securing a corner shop, as this meant they had windows on both sides. In the very quiet hours before the business day began, Annabella would take up her post at the counter, thumbing through the latest fashion plates, and sipping on her coffee – her one true vice. Her mother would sit next to her, dissecting the delicate watercolour and ink drawings of the great and beautiful garments from Paris.

         Now, however, the stool next to Annabella was empty. There was no one to talk with about form, colour, or craftsmanship. More often than not, their talking would turn to observing people, giggling about the petty dramas and squabbles of their neighbours. The shop had been jovial, full of comradery and easy affection. Annabella felt her loss most keenly at these times.

         She knew she should be working in her ledger, attempting to balance the books, but it was a joyless task. The accounts were shrinking, the year of mourning and change taking their toll. Clients were fewer, hesitant to purchase from such a young modiste. Annabella could calculate the yardage of fine muslin needed for an afternoon dress without skipping a beat, but these columns of numbers that did not add up to much money, exhausted and frustrated her.

         Sighing, she pushed the ledger away, reaching to sip from her delicate porcelain cup of lukewarm coffee. Her gaze was naturally drawn to the world outside her shop windows. The sky was brightening from the sullen early-spring grey of pre-dawn; with the sun, the people of London were beginning to stir and rise. Already, coal and newspaper deliveries, maids hurrying to fetch the day’s milk and meat, and other merchants were moving about.

         Setting her cup down carefully, Annabella reached for the lone candlestick she had allowed herself, pulling it closer. It was always a struggle, balancing the need for light with the cost of candles, particularly as she required the best white candles for her work. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and a lock of her warm golden hair slipped loose of its moorings and fell across her forehead. She exhaled, then tucked it behind her ear, the action reminding her of the times her mother would do it for her.

         I cannot afford to be sentimental, she thought ruefully. Indeed, her hands reached for the embroidery hoop she had brought down with her. Stretched across the frame was fine muslin, and a half-completed monogram. Around the letters were sprays of flowers and the smallest of butterflies, all worked in pastel shades of silk thread. As always, she fell into the familiar rhythm of pulling her needle, pausing only long enough to unlock the door to her shop as the clock struck nine.

         Annabella continued on in this manner, content if not precisely happy, until the bell above the door tinkled gently, announcing the arrival of a customer. Annabella looked up and blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting; it was a similar feeling as being buried deep in a book for hours and being jolted out of it.

         Though it was not, in fact, a customer, Annabella was not displeased, for she immediately spotted a familiar face. Penny Talbot was a woman of middle-age, but her round cheeks and up-turned nose gave the appearance of one much younger. Compounding this was her propensity for full smiles and pink dresses. Matching bright red curls peeked from beneath her bonnet and hung on either side of her face, highlighting her bright green eyes.  

         “Dear-dear Annabella,” she said, coming forward and holding out her hands. Annabella could not help but smile at her, rising from her stool and taking Penny’s hands fondly. Acquaintances were always “dear” according to Penny, and the closest of friends were “dear-dear.”

         “Penny, how good it is to see you,” Annabella said, leaning down slightly to accept the light air-kisses that Penny offered her cheeks. She had picked up the habit during a trip to Paris with her husband, and she imagined it made her tres Continental. Annabella did not dissuade her from this notion.

         “It is so good to see you behind the counter again,” Penny said, removing her mauve-coloured gloves one finger at a time. “The last time I came by, the store was shuttered.”

         “Yes, I was…away, for some months. In Ireland,” Annabella clarified.

         Reflexively, Penny took Annabella’s hand again. “It was good of you to see your mother…settled back among her own people.”

         Annabella nodded, forcing herself to remain light and breezy. “Yes, she always said she wished to be returned home. I imagine she would be pleased.”

         “Did you see any of her relations while you were there?”

         “Yes, well,” Annabella amended, “that is, what few of them there were. Some distant cousins, and an aging great-aunt. I stayed with her in her house in Belfast.”

         Penny’s round green eyes shone with sympathy. “It really was the two of you, alone together in the world,” she said. Annabella nodded, feeling the now-familiar pang in her heart at the loss of her mama.

         As if sensing this pain, Penny quickly brightened and changed the subject. “And here you are, hard at work as ever,” she said, leaning over to view the embroidery hoop that rested on the polished counter. “Honestly Annabella, your mother was skilled, God rest her, but you are a true artist,” she said appreciatively, one finger touching the embroidery delicately.

         “More’s the pity then, that an artist must starve,” Annabella sighed.

         Penny looked up in alarm. “You are not in such dire straits as that, are you?”

         “No, but I do worry about what the future will hold,” Annabella confessed.

         “Has there been no work since your mother passed?” Penny asked, casting an eye about the shop, stopping to appreciate the finely dressed mannequins.

         “A little, but not enough to satisfy either myself or the account book,” Annabella sighed. She nodded to the embroidery hoop. “My current commission is an order of a dozen handkerchiefs for Lady Bronson. Otherwise, it’s been mostly stockings and gloves.”

         “Mr. Talbot does so admire the clocked stockings you gifted to him last Christmas,” Penny offered.

         Annabella could not help but smile at her friend as she settled back on her stool. “It will all come to naught, the madness for full-length trousers will make its way across the Channel before you know it.”

         “Never!” Penny gasped. “I don’t think I care for a world where one might not see a forest of well-turned-out calves in every ballroom.”

Annabella laughed at that. “Speaking of Paris, how was Mr. Talbot’s latest purchasing voyage?”

Penny’s green eyes sparkled. “Oh, the usual French madness. They are refusing our English cottons now, so much in the way of linen and silk in Paris. Mr. Talbot secured the loveliest silks, however, so it was quite worth the bother. We’ve completely restocked the warehouse, thank goodness.”

“If I should ever get a commission worthy of your fine fabrics, I shall come down to the waterfront to browse,” Annabella promised, gazing longingly at her stack of fashion plates.

“Be sure you do—Mr. Talbot will be obliged to give you the best bargain.”

Annabella smiled at the mention of Penny’s devoted husband. “I really must thank Mr. Talbot for all that he has done to help me in this trying year,” Annabella said thoughtfully, showing a grateful face.

Penny waved her off. “You know that he was a great friend of your mother’s late husband, and we are more than happy to help in any way we can. Come to dinner tonight, and your repayment shall be to give both Mr. Talbot and I a break from each other’s tiresome company.” Though Penny was clearly having a jape, her eyes sparkled whenever she spoke of her husband.

Annabella laughed in spite of herself. It was absurd, for she had never known two married people so well-suited and fond of each other. Still, she nodded, her spirit gladdened: I may not have piles of gold, but I am wealthy in friendship.

Chapter 2

Allan Hardy, the newly minted Duke of Brandon, rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing his head to stop aching. Scattered across the desk before him was a chaotic assortment of maps, deeds, wills, bequests, and codicils. Wax seals, ribbons, and embossed stamps peeked out from among the pages. The day was barely half-over, and the Duke was already feeling the strain of poring over so many documents.

         He had dismissed his solicitor earlier, hoping to find some titbit or overlooked passage that would allow him an out from his present duty, but none had materialised. He had always known that he would assume his father’s title and seat; that was thoroughly expected and planned for. He had an unbreakable sense of duty that had been instilled in him from a young age, and he took it very seriously.

         Therefore, on his father’s death, he had thrown himself into the work of managing the estate and his posting at court. Of course, with the Regent bouncing in and out of power, it was all a bit chop-and-change, and nothing was settled in that regard. For the first few months of inheriting the duchy, things had progressed pleasantly, all things considered. Duke Hardy had a head for management, being a rather logical sort of man, and solutions to problems seemed to appear quite easily to him.

         It had all been quite agreeable…until the solicitors had come knocking a week ago. In the simplest of terms, it seemed that the new Duke of Brandon was the victim of fate, and the whims of a newly imported king over a century ago.

         The Brandon estate was large and sprawling, encompassing a good number of farms and even woodland. However, there was a particular quirk about this particular dukedom: it butted directly up to the estate of another duke, the Duke of Sussex. This was all due to the first Georgian king’s attempts at seeking loyalty among the nobility, and elevating those in his inner circle, and a lack of understanding about English geography and custom. So it was that the original Brandon estate was halved, and the title of Duke of Sussex created.

         Things had been cordial, if a bit cool, between the two families for the past hundred years. Allan had always known that the original estate was a matter of some contention, but he had thought it would not amount to much for him personally.

         He was very, very wrong.

         The late Duke of Sussex, having been tragically killed at sea at a young age, had left no male heir. There were no cousins, no long-lost relatives that could have the dust brushed off them to assume the seat. There was only the Dowager Duchess, and one daughter. With no heir, according to a stack of legal documents thicker than the Bible, the estate would devolve back to the Duke of Brandon—to Allan.

         Allan had always wondered why his father had made no bones about choosing a bride; most other noble fathers made matches before their children were out of the nursery, or at least set some sort of expectations. The late Duke of Brandon had always taken what Allan had thought to be a blasé outlook to the whole question of marriage.

         Now Allan knew that it was simply that there was already a plan in place, and the late Duke needed not have troubled himself to make further demands on his son. Allan scrubbed his face with his hands, leaning back in the padded leather chair. His father’s repeated emphasis on the importance of duty and honour only exacerbated Allan’s feelings of being trapped.

         He was honour-bound to marry the daughter of the Dowager Duchess of Sussex, and thus a son would inherit both, satisfying both honour and the law. That was his future, and there was not much he could do to escape it. To refuse would be to leave the Dowager and her daughter, one (he grimaced as he read the name) Patience, adrift and without a home.

         The very thought of an arranged marriage chafed at him, redolent of centuries gone-by. He was not a radical, but he believed in the logic and reason of the Enlightenment, and he believed that a marriage based on at least some measure of feeling was more likely to succeed than a cold one.

         Come now man, be honest with yourself—it is also that you simply hate being told what to do, especially by generations of dead men, he chided himself. That thought did nothing to settle him, and he stood abruptly, causing the chair legs to squeak on the floor. He had discarded his jacket earlier and rolled his shirtsleeves to his forearms in an effort to preserve them from ink stains.

         There was a good prospect from one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, and he strode over to take it in. The fields of the estate were coming to life in the early spring sun, the grass beginning to shade to the familiar emerald green of warmer weather. The Duke knew the borders of the estate as well as he knew the back of his own hand, and it was easy to pick them out. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning one shoulder against the window frame.

         Still, he could not help but reflect, the joining of our two estates would truly be something to be reckoned with. Already, he was beginning to mentally survey the terrain and the assets of the two combined. There was no denying that it would be a holding of legendary size and wealth; few other families would hold such sway in the kingdom.

         “Perhaps that is the way forward,” he murmured. If he could just focus on the practical aspects of the match, there was nothing objectionable about it. After all, why shouldn’t a duke marry the daughter of another duke, especially when she came with an estate that rivalled his own? If he really tried, he could temper his expectations…maybe. Much would depend on the daughter, this Patience.

         Allan was not a regular at court any more than was required, but he could not recall seeing her name among the young ladies being presented; nor could he recall even hearing her discussed. One of course knew of the Dowager Duchess of Sussex, a great beauty and formidable woman in her own time. There was some great tragedy there, though, but no one spoke of it anymore. He knew nothing of the Dowager nor her daughter, beyond that which was explained in the coldest of terms in the legal documents.

         This is the first step, then, he decided. He would seek to learn what he could about Patience, and proceed from there. He would naturally be expected to call upon her and her mother, but he refused to enter into a matron’s drawing room unprepared, never mind marriage negotiations.

         Turning about, he reached for the small silver bell on his desk and rang it firmly. A footman entered shortly after, and he instructed the servant to fetch his valet, the housekeeper, and his private secretary. Feeling much better now that some action was undertaken, Allan awaited the arrival of his retainers with his arms crossed behind his back.

         When they entered the small office, the Duke began dispatching orders as efficiently as a field marshal. “Smythe,” he said, addressing the valet, who dipped his head. “If you would be so good as to prepare my top-boots and inform the stables that I intend to go out riding.”

         “At once, Your Grace,” the valet said, bowing as he withdrew from the office again.

         “Mr. Williams,” the Duke said, addressing the secretary, a small, tidy man who straightened and pulled at his sleeves. “I wish to call and pay my respects to the Dowager Duchess of Sussex. If you would have a note sent over inquiring as to convenient dates? Thank you. I shall also see if you can acquire a copy of Burke’s Landed Gentry, that should be helpful as well.”

         The two male servants thus dismissed, he turned his attention to the housekeeper, a redoubtable woman with small, beady eyes and a sharp jaw. “Mrs. Moore, I find myself needing to ask you to perform a duty not strictly in your purview,” the Duke said, coming around to lean against the front edge of the desk.

         “How can I help, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked, curiosity shining in her dark eyes. There was little a female servant liked more than intrigue.

         The Duke had to fight a grin and maintain his collected ducal manner. “Do you have any communication with the servants on the Sussex estate?” he inquired.

         The housekeeper thought for a moment. “I used to know one of the housemaids, but I’ve not seen her for a time, Your Grace,” she answered. “The house has been closed for a number of years now; the Dowager packed off to London over ten years ago.”

         “Ah,” the Duke said, disappointed.

         “I’m sure I could make some inquiries of my own, if it’s a matter of particular interest to Your Grace,” Mrs. Moore said, tossing out a line to see if she could hook some gossip.

         “It’s a small matter, but I find myself curious about the Dowager and her daughter. I know little about them, and I feel that it is my duty as the new duke to get acquainted with the neighbours,” he said smoothly. It was close enough to the truth, and believable enough to hide his true purpose.

Mrs. Moore studied him for a moment, then lifted her chin. “I shall write a couple letters and tell Your Grace at once if I should learn anything.”

The Duke nodded, and Mrs. Moore bobbed a curtsey as she departed. Alone again, Allan pushed his chestnut-coloured hair from his forehead. Though nothing had really changed, the heavy weight of duty that had been sitting on his chest all morning eased slightly; he always felt better when he had a course of sensible action before him.

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