The Season

For Lisa,
who believed

For Eric,
who reminds me that love is real... even if boys don't brood about it quite as much as I'd like to think
and

For the women in my life,
who will find themselves in these pages

January. 1815

Blackmoor Estate, Essex, England

The rain
fell
steadily on the slick rocks marking the edge of the Essex countryside, where the land
fell
in sheer cliffs to a frigid winter sea.

His horse was uncertain of its footing, shying away from speed and direction in favor of steady ground. The creatures fear would ordinarily irritate him and mark it for sale or slaughter, but toda
y the wet cliffs made him equall
y cautious. He hadn't planned to make this particular journey today
—
but some things would not wait.

He had received word by messenger early that morning
—
critical information that pointed to the possibility that the scheme he had set in motion was about to be compromised. Someone was determined to ruin everything ... and that someone had to be stopped.

He had done al
l
he could to keep his work a secret. But the earl had somehow discovered everything. Wel
l
, not exactly everything. He didn't know how closely his precious earldom was tied up in the whole plan. Wouldn't that be a surprise? He couldn't wait to see the look of shock on the earl's face. That would make this whole miserable trek in this godforsaken rain worth it.

He turned his gaze to the ocean, where a ship was anchored not far from the bleak Essexshire cliffs. Thirty yards ahead, the path split into two. To the left began the steep descent to the sea
—
too dangerous for a horse, barely wide enough for a man. To the right, the passage continued along the tops of the cliffs and, not far from the fork, offered the perfect spot for anyone interested in watching the events taking place below. There, he would find his prey.

He dismounted just before the split and left his horse, continuing to the right on foot. Without a mount, the advantage of surprise was his. On foot, he moved by instinct. He knew every inch of these cliffs, having traveled them hundreds of times before. They provided the perfect cover for the work he was doing, the perfect rendezvous point for
his partners, and, coincidentall
y, the perfect place to dispose of someone.

The earl had, at long last, made a mistake. And now he would pay.

April 1815

London, England

Oof! I've been stabbed!"

The Duchess of Worthington did not look up from her needlepoint. "Perhaps that
will
teach you to fidget while at the hands of your dressmaker." She cast a sidelong glance in the direction of her youngest child. "Besides, I highly doubt that Madame Fernaud 'stabbed' you."

Lady Alexandra Stafford, only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Worthington, heaved a sigh and
rolled
her eyes. She rubbed the spot at her waist that bore the mark of London's finest dressmaker's needle. "Perhaps not stabbed
—
but wounded nonetheless." Garnering no reaction from either her mother or the unflappable
modiste,
Alex slumped her shoulders and muttered, "I fail to understand why I must suffer this fitting anyway."

The duchess continued with her needlepoint. "Alexandra, there are plenty of young women who would happily assume your position, standing on that platform, 'suffering' through a fitting for that dress."

"May I suggest any one of them take my place?"

"No."

Alex knew when she was fighting a losing battle. "I didn't think so."

The Duchess of Worthington had been waiting seventeen years for her
daughter to be released, finall
y, into the social whirlwind of a London season.

For the last three years, Alex's daily lessons had been shortened to accommodate hours of ridiculous tutorials designed to make her most marketable to those unmarried men whom her mother deemed to be "good catches"
—
which is to say, titled, wealthy, and
thoroughly dull.

Perfectly useful time in Alex's days had been taken up with a rigorous schedule designed by her mother and her governess to break her of
all
her quirks, that is, anything about Alex that som
eone with a thimbleful of intell
igence might find interesting. From "Poise and Posture," a torturous half hour designed to keep Alex's back straight and chin tilted just so, to "Proper Conversation," a playacting session designed to help Alex understand what to say and what not to say to the various men she would be meeting over the course of her first season, to "The Subtlety of the Dance," during which sh
e learned the quadrille, the waltz, the cotill
ion ... and any number of other dances that would give her a chance to try to "appear graceful and lovely" while practicing
all
she had learned about Proper Conversation, the lessons were a precious
waste of time as far as Alex was concerned. Unfortunately, she didn't imagine anything short of Napoleon's army marching straight through the drawing room of Worthington House would steer her mother from the course of marrying off her only daughter and, even then, she didn't put it past the duchess to question the Captain of the French Guard on his lineage and inheritance before surrendering.

After
all
, a
carefully
won marriage was far more important than affairs of state.

The lessons
had
taught Alex some of the rules of the London aristocracy, however.
Do:
pretend to be interested as men regale you with the boring details of horses, hunting, and themselves.
Don't:
reveal any amount of
intelligence
. Evidently, it scares eligible gentlemen off. Also, refrain from suggesting that there must be men who are looking for a woman who knows the difference between Greek and Latin. That particular remark sends governesses into hysterics.

Without considering the repercussions, Alex let out a deep, resigned sigh. And received a needle in the backside for it.

"Ouch!"

Madame Fernaud may have been considered the most renowned dressmaker in
all
of England, but Alex knew better. Clearly, the Frenchwoman was waging a quiet war against her British enemies by poking the young maidens of London to death.

This was the final fitting of the most important of Alex's new gowns
—
the one she would wear to her first
ball
at Almack's in a little over a week's time. An appearance at Almack's was essential for any debutante. Here, London'
s most revered aristocrats —coll
ectively referred to as the
ton
—
were given a good look at the fresh young faces of the season.
Like livestock going to market,
Alex thought to herself, a single eyebrow rising in wry amusement as the corner of her mouth kicked up. The simile was too apt. Of course, most of the other girls who would join Alex for her coming-out had been dreaming of the moment their entire lives. Alas, there was simply no accounting for taste.

A quiet throat-clearing came from the door of the room and Alex, being careful not to move too much for fear of being skewered again, craned her head around to look at Eliza, her lady's maid.

"Excuse me, Your Grace," Eliza directed her words to the duchess while dropping into a quick curtsy. "Lady Alexandra has visitors ... Lady Eleanor and Lady Vivian are in the downstairs sitting room."

"Thank goodness. I'm saved," Alex muttered under her breath and snapped her head around to send a pleading look at her mother. "Please? I've been standing here
forever.
The dress must be
perfect
by now."

Madame Fernaud stepped back from her work and spoke for the first time
. "Perfect is right, Mademoisell
e." She turned to the duchess and said,
"Et
voila.
Your Grace ... she is a masterpiece ... do you not think?"

Alex pounced on this statement. 'A masterpiece, Mother. I rather think we shouldn't fuss with such a tour de force, don't you?"

The duchess, ever a perfectionist
, stood and walked a slow circle around her daughter, casting a critical eye at a seam here, a detail there. After what seemed like an eternity, she raised her gaze to meet Alex's. "You are lovely, Alexandra. You're going to set the
ton
on its ear."

Alex knew she'd won. Her fac
e broke into a wide smile. "Well
, with a mother like you, how could I not?"

The duchess chuckled at her daughter's blatant flattery. "Rather excessive, Alexandra. Off with you."

Alex clapped her hands and hopped down from the raised platform where she had been standing, throwing herself into the arms of her mother and planting a kiss on the duchess's cheek. "Thank you, Mama!" Alex bolted for the door, tossing back a complimentary,
"Merci, Madame Fernaud!
The dress is just gorgeous!
Oui, c'est magnifique!
Thank you!"

Behind her, Her Grace spoke to no one in particular. "What am I going to do with that girl?" If Madame Fernaud hadn't been caught up in her own indignant sputtering at the atrocious treatment her creation was suffering at the hands of Alexandra, she would have detected a hint of laughter in the duchess's voice.

Alex bounded down the wide staircase of Worthington House and skidded to a halt in front of t
he sitting room doors. Harquist
; the long-suffering butler who had been with the Stafford family since Alex's grandfather held the dukedom, was standing at the ready. As Alex's heavy skirts swirled to a stop around her legs, he opened the door to let her into the room.

Casting a twinkling glance at the butler, Alex stiffened her spine and offered her most ladylike "Thank you, Harquist" in his direction as she exaggeratedly flounced into the room.

His somber "my lady" was
still
hanging in the air when two sets of giggles exploded from across the room. Alex's serious expression dissolved into a grin as she threw herself most indelicately onto the nearest chaise
—
across from her closest friends in the world,
Ella
and Vivi.

The three had been friends since birth. Their fathers' boyhood camaraderie had carried on into adulthood and fate had given them each a daughter, born in three consecutive weeks of the year. It was only logical that the girls would become friends, confidantes, and partners in crime.

Lady Vivian
Markwell
, the only daughter of the Marquess of Langford, was the eldest of the trio
—
tal
l
and slender, with her father's dark hair and violet eyes, Vivi's beauty betrayed a sharp mind and a strong
will
also inherited from her father, who was not only wealthy and charming but also a national hero and a high-ranking member of the British War Office.

Vivi's mother had died when Vivi was only seven years old and her father had never remarried. Instead, he had poured his energy into raising Vivi and her twin brother, Sebastian. While Sebastian spent his days at Eton, studying to inherit his father's title and become a peer of the realm, Vivi had grown into a perfectly mannered, distractingly exotic beauty.

The youngest of the three by a mere five days was Lady Eleanor Redburn, the eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Marlborough.
Ella
's delicate features and petite frame, combined with her corn-silk-blond hair and blue eyes, afforded her the exact features that most ladies of the
ton
would have sold their souls to have for themselves.
Ella
's personality defied her porcelain looks
—
she preferred books to
balls
and had even less interest than Alex in the trappings of London society. While
Ella
recognized and embraced the fact that her interests would likely leave her without a husband,
Ella
's mother was beside herself with horror at the prospect of such a life for her daughter. Not that such a reaction bothered
Ella
in the least... in fact, Alex had a sneaking suspicion that her friend considered irritating the countess an added bonus.

Vivi and
Ella
had been with Alex for every step of her life and she couldn't imagine a day without them. And, at that particular moment, she couldn't have been happier that they were there.

"I am
thrilled
to see you! You've saved me from history's longest dress fitting. What perfect timing!"

The girls cast sidelong glances at each other.

"That would explain your odd attire,"
Ella
said drily.

Alex looked down at herself with a groan. "I was in such a hurry to get out of that room, I forgot that I was
still
wearing the gown." She sat up on the chaise and fluffed her skirts. "
I’ll
change in a bit. I'm not venturing back up there until Madame Fernaud has gone. She takes pleasure in my pain."

"Your mother
will
have fits if she finds you lying about in your coming-out gown," observed Vivi. "But since you're here ... stand up so we can have a look at it."

Alex stood, curtsied, and twirled for her friends. Vivi smiled broadly. "It's beautiful, Alex. The
color is perfect on you. Cruel
y or no, Madame Fernaud knows how to wield a needle."

Alex grimaced at the memory of the needle in question and spoke wryly. "Alas ... if only she were as careful with skin as she is with silk." The girls shared a laugh
—
they'd
all
been on the receiving end of the
modiste's
needle
—
and Alex looked down at the dress she'd been wearing for most of the afternoon.

She had to admit that it was beautiful. A rich emerald silk, the perfect color to highlight her bronze complexion, green eyes, and auburn hair, the gown was perfectly fitted to her body from shoulders to neckline to waist
—
a style Alex had never been able to wear before, her age prohibiting her from donning something so revealing. At the waist, the dress
fell
in rich waves of luxurious fabric down to the floor. What made it truly remarkable, however, were the hundreds of tiny handmade rosebuds that were meticulously affixed to the fabric in a diagonal cascade. The flowers, in the same green silk, appeared sparingly at the top of the bodice and
gradually spilled
down the dress, increasing in number. The design played on Alex's uncommon
tall
ness, elongating her form and accentuating her height.

It
really
was a masterpiece.

Ella
interrupted her study of the gown. "If you think you're going to be able to steer clear of marriage in
that,
you're sorely mistaken."

Alex cast a scowl at her friend.
Ella
never minced words. And she was almost always right. Unfortunately, this situation was no exception. The gown was designed for one reason only ... to catch her a husband. For more than a year, her mother had been in a whirlwind of preparation for this, the spring of 1815, when Alex would turn seventeen and be "introduced" to the world. Not that she hadn't been introduced to the world for seventeen years. But this was different. This was her first season, when she would be paraded like a piece of horseflesh in front of every unattached male in London who happened to have a sizable inheritance and an acceptable title. Her mother's goal was to have Alex married off by autumn.

Did anything sound worse?

"I'm simply going to have to try
not
to do this dress justice." Alex's tone was
filled
with resolve. "My mother has her heart set on making my life as
dull
and boring as she possibly can. I mean ... who on earth wants to end up married in Surrey? What a nightmare!" she said to no one in particular.

Ella
leaned back against the soft upholstery of her chair and looked up at the ceiling with disdain. "No one. At least, no one with a mind to think for herself."

"My brothers are
all
years older than I am
—
does my mother pester them to settle down and get married?"

Vivi interrupted, "Yes."

"That's because my mother enjoys pestering her children. But they don't listen to her! The only reason they've agreed to attend any
balls
this year is because they want fodder with which to mock their little sister!"

Ella
this time:
«Well,
you can't blame them. You are exceedingly mockable."

Vivi chuckled as Alex shot her friend a withering glance and carried on. "It's atrociously unfair! Men our age aren't even asked to
attend
ball
s. The idea of boys marrying at eighteen is unfathomable for our set. It's what happens in the country! And yet, we are paraded around like ... like ... cattle ... to be sold ... to the highest bidder!"

Ella
interrupted again. "Wel
l
, to be fair, perhaps it's best men aren't married off at eighteen. Have you
met
the average eighteen-year-old male?"

Vivi's dry remark
followed
. "Mmmm. I'm
still
trying to avoid taking offense at being compared to livestock. Go on, Alex...."

Alex sighed. "I'm just being
silly
, I know. But that's how it feels.
Especially
when you grow up with three older brothers who seem to have an entirely different set of rules."

"You're right,"
Ella
spoke seriously, "but it seems that we don't
really
have a choice. Our options are rather limited."

And
Ella
would know. As the eldest in a family of girls,
Ella
had a familial obligation to marry and marry
well
, setting the standard for her younger sisters... unless she could figure out a way to take herself out of the running.
Ella
had considered any number of options to render herself unmarriageable. The girls had discussed every possibility and come to one conclusion: The fastest way to be set "on the shelf" and ignored was to have one's reputation ruined.

Unfortunately, being ruined was not an option, however tempting it was, for it seemed that ruination was the punishment for anyone daring enough to try something exciting. Girls in London society could have their reputation destroyed in any number of ways, but the biggest offenses were clear
kissing (or something more scandalous) on the lips (or somewhere more scandalous); dancing three or more dances with someone at a
ball
; or visiting a man at his home unchaperoned.

Ella
had considered these options again and again, even going so far as to make lists of the men she felt she could convince to aid her ruin, but she simply couldn't commit to bringing gossip and criticism down upon her family. After
all
, ruination didn't stop at the young lady. Polite society could be devastatingly cruel to her loved ones as
well
.

"Unless I decide to give my mother a case of hysterics and destroy my sisters' chances of ever being matched, I have to settle for remaining unnoticed,"
Ella
said to no one in particular.

Vivi chuckled and shook her head at her friend. "You make it sound so easy! You're beautiful and come with a sizable dowry. Spinsterhood isn't exactly guaranteed,
Ella
."

"Ah, but you've forgotten my most hideous trait. No one wants an
intelligent
wife."
Ella
gave a mock shudder. "Too terrifying a possibility."

Alex laughed. "Sadly, I think you're right. Reveal just enough of your
intelligence
and you're safe from being
courted. Especiall
y by any of the ninnies who
will
be asking us to take a turn about the room at Almack's."

Her friend smiled. "Let's hope so, because that's the best plan I've got. It's the only way my novel is ever going to be written."

It wasn't simply that
Ella
found the idea of a proper marriage to a proper man distasteful, it was that she found it in direct opposition to the one thing she had wanted to do for as long as she could remember.
Ella
had dreams of becoming a great novelist and writing the sort of book that told the story of her time. She read anything she could get her hands on and was rarely seen without her notebooks, which held any ideas and observations she thought would be useful when she
finally
had a chance to
tell
her tale.

Of course, the
challenge
of being a woman who writes loomed over
Ella
's head. Of
all
the respectable novelists in the past fifty years, few had (at least publicly) admitted to being women. But
Ella
was
well aware
that the
small
odds of her being an unmarried female author were slightly higher than the minuscule odds of being a married one. And she was
willing
to bet on them.

"That reminds me," Vivi interjected, "I have an idea for your book that I think might be just perfect." The girls were always trading concepts and plots to be recorded in
Ella
's notebook. "I overheard my father discussing the impending capture of a series of spies
—
English spies
—
who have been trading secrets to the French."

Alex leaned back against the chaise and
pulled
her feet up under her. She
loved
hearing tales of Vivi's eavesdropping. "Oooh ... go on."

Vivi lea
ned forward, a natural storytell
er with a gift for making anything sound interesting. "From what I could gather, the Royal Navy have had some trouble with their secret movements being intercepted by the French. It's apparently quite vexing for the men at the War Office. With Napoleon's escape from exile last month, they've obviously been preparing for a
full
-scale push to unseat him; they've considered a number of possible ways that their coded instructions to naval ships might be intercepted and decoded, but it seems there's only one conclusion. English spies."