First Three Chapters of The Heart of War
- oliviasnowauthor
- Apr 2
- 34 min read
London, England
1815
Chapter 1
“The art of war is… a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin.”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Every unmarried daughter in the ton knew that obtaining an ideal match was a contest of wit, skill, and strategy, and I was determined to emerge the victor. The difficulty, however, lay not in winning a gentleman’s heart—those were surprisingly easy to come by—but in persuading my father to finance the wardrobe such a victory required.
Fortunately for me, I never shied away from a challenge.
I drew a bolstering breath, my hand poised to knock on the door to Father’s study for the third time this week. Today, rejection wasn’t an option.
My second season in London was mere weeks away, and I still lacked a new wardrobe. Strange, as Father had always ensured I wore the finest clothes. Anything less than perfection would mar our family’s name. “Not even a wrinkle,” he’d say every time I left the house.
Perfection had been the standard ever since Mother died. As the sole child of the Weston bloodline, I had to be twice as fashionable as anyone else and three times as charming. The viscount’s only progeny couldn’t be seen as anything but the best. So why was he withholding funds now?
I knocked three times.
“Not now,” Father grumbled from within. “I’m busy.”
He’d been busy for weeks, so I opened the door uninvited, saving him the effort of turning me away yet again. The velvet curtains of his study were drawn, and only a few tendrils of light pierced the heavy tobacco smoke. Father hunched over his desk, scribbling in his ledger, an untouched cup of tea beside him.
“Good afternoon, Father.” I donned a pleasant smile and curtsied. In war, one needed strategy. In society, one needed charm. In my father’s study, one needed both.
“What is it?” He didn’t bother looking up from his work as I sat across from him and removed my silk gloves.
I began my rehearsed speech. “Last year’s season was a great success because you gave me a generous wardrobe. But, my second season is nearly upon us, and—”
Father slammed his quill onto the desk, making me flinch. “You’re asking for money. Again?”
“I’m only asking for new dresses. All the other ladies have bought—”
“I refuse to indulge your frivolous desire for the latest fashions.” He met my eyes with a glare. “Do not ask for money again.”
My fingers tightened around my gloves, but I kept my expression neutral. Father had no patience for beggars; all he cared about was reputation. So I aimed an arrow where his armor was weakest.
“If I’m seen in the same clothes as last year, the ton might assume the estate is struggling. People will talk.”
Father stared at me. For the first time in weeks, I noticed his sunken eyes and pallid skin.
“The estate isn’t struggling, is it?” I asked quietly.
A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the grandfather clock, which chimed five excruciating times. I was about to repeat my question when Father shut the ledger with a loud crack.
“We are ruined,” he growled. “They have tricked us, Helena. Stolen from us!”
I swallowed the thick lump growing in my throat. “They?”
“Investors. Partners. Thieves. They conspired against me and took all of it.”
My pulse was a wild drumbeat in my ears. “When did this happen?”
He waved the question away. “It doesn’t matter when it happened. It only matters that it did.”
“But—how?”
“It’s business, Helena. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” I pushed myself to the edge of my chair, straining to keep my voice even. “Are you saying there are no funds? At all?”
“Don’t insult me. Of course there are funds!” His fist came down on his desk, and tea splashed onto a pile of letters. Likely debt collectors seeking their dues, I realized with growing horror. “Even so, we must be prudent about expenditures until the situation is resolved.”
“And how much longer will these funds last if the situation goes unresolved?”
“Until the end of May. If we’re careful.”
I clenched my gloves so tight my knuckles hurt. Two months—only half of the season in London—was all that separated me from losing our home, my marriage prospects, the only life I knew.
I sat back in the armchair, no longer able to hold myself up. How had this happened? My knowledge of business was not as robust as I’d like, but it seemed unlikely a vast fortune could vanish simply because of a few poor investments, even if the men in question had conspired against my father.
But Father was right; it didn’t matter how it happened. The money would be gone before June, and my future along with it.
“What will we do?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Father drew in a long pull on his pipe, then sighed. The smoke curled around me, and I winced as the acrid stench stung my nose.
“You’ll have to marry,” he said.
“Marry?” I stifled my cough. “Who?”
“Whoever will take you off my hands.”
“But my dowry—”
“Is gone.”
I went completely still. Father watched me through the smoke, his eyes narrowed. But I knew better than to challenge him. Instead, I smoothed the creases in my silk gloves that I’d been wringing. I had turned down eight proposals last season—eight—convinced that a better match awaited. And now, I’d be left with nothing, forced to marry whichever unscrupulous man was willing to settle for a mere pittance of a dowry.
I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled a passage from the only text that had offered true guidance for courtship and society: The Art of War.
In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.
Sun Tzu was right. This was a crisis, but surely I could turn it into an advantage. If I received eight proposals last season, who was to say I couldn’t achieve even greater feats this year?
“Perhaps things are not as dire as they appear,” I said, sitting a bit taller. “What if I were to secure a proposal from a gentleman so wealthy he’d forgo a dowry? Perhaps he’d even give you a loan as part of the marriage contract.”
Father snorted. “Don’t be naive, Helena. No man would pay for a wife, much less her father’s debts. Even you aren’t enough of a prize.”
My smile flickered at his stinging words. But I was used to such sharpness.
“I have trained my entire life for a challenge like this, Father. You paid for years of lessons to make me the most sought-after lady in London. Allow me to put those skills to the test and attract the crème de la crème instead of settling for the first feeble gentleman who chances upon our doorstep.”
Father looked unconvinced, so I did the only sensible thing and laid my hand over his, letting a finger brush up against his wedding band. “If your marriage had been arranged, then you wouldn’t have married Mother.”
Father gave me the same accusing stare he always did whenever I mentioned Mother. They had married for love, but the end of their story was an unhappy one. Still, he’d loved her in a way he loved nothing else—myself included. He hadn’t been the same since her death.
Father stood, ripping his hand out from under mine. He paced the room before pausing in front of his ledger.
“Fine,” he said. “You have until the Walfords’ masquerade ball on the 18th of May to receive a proposal. That will give me time to arrange a marriage for you should you fail. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you do.”
I nodded. However, my victory was tainted by one unpleasant truth: I didn’t know what would happen if I failed. What became of a viscount’s daughter once the family’s title and land were stripped bare?
“How much will I be given for a new wardrobe to ensure my success?”
Father bristled. “I can spare fifty pounds.”
“Fifty?” That wouldn’t even be enough to purchase the fabric, let alone cover the labor cost. I had ten times that amount at my disposal last season.
“Fifty. And not a shilling more.” He arched his brow. “Unless you wish to sell the pianoforte.”
“No!” I cried. I’d rather wear rags than sell Mother’s beloved instrument. “I’ll make do with fifty.”
“Good.” He walked to the door. “Tell the cook I’ll miss dinner. I’m needed at the club and will be home late. Oh, and Helena—” he looked back at me, “—if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, then not even marriage will save you. I will not allow the Weston family name to be marred.”
“May I tell Mrs. Sweete?”
“No.”
“But she won’t tell—”
“If anyone finds out, then no man will take you. Do you understand?”
A chill coursed through me, prickling my skin. “I understand, Father.”
He grunted in approval, then walked out the door without even a farewell.
I stared at Father’s ledger, my hands trembling in my lap. We’d lost a viscount’s fortune seemingly overnight, and our salvation rested solely upon my ability to capture a man’s heart so completely that he’d forgo my dowry and shoulder our debts—all in just over two months.
What had I gotten myself into?
“Enough of that,” I told myself, forcing my breathing to slow. A panicked soldier never fared well on the battlefield. I needed to calm my nerves if I was going to claim victory. I needed a plan.
I needed Mrs. Sweete.
Not that I could share any details of our financial state with her, of course, but my chaperone had a talent for gathering essential intelligence. If anyone understood the terrain of London’s marriage market, it was Mrs. Sweete.
I hurried down the stairs and pushed open the front door, stepping out into the shaded square. Orderly rows of chestnut trees lined the street like sentinels, watching over carriages that rattled through the streets of Mayfair. Crisp afternoon sun kissed the pale facades of each townhouse. Below, gentlemen with walking sticks and ladies with parasols strolled in the balmy spring air, blissfully unaware of the misfortune that had befallen No. 8 Grosvenor Square.
I leaned against the wrought-iron fence at the edge of our property to catch my breath and form my plan. Mrs. Sweete was visiting her sister on the other side of London. Normally, I’d send the carriage for her, but Father was taking it to the club. It was the only place he went outside his office, as of late.
Hiring a hackney coach to fetch my chaperone was my best option. But that cost money, something I hadn’t needed to think about until now.
I hesitated, debating whether I could spare the coins, now that we were practically destitute. I decided that the current situation qualified as an emergency, and Mrs. Sweete’s aid was essential. I fished out three shillings and a tuppence from my reticule.
Besides, I’d be marrying into a fortune soon, and I’d never have to worry about money again.
I hurried to the edge of the street, hoping to wave down a coach, when a familiar prickle lifted the hairs on my neck.
I was being watched.
I glanced around, then caught the eye of a gentleman standing directly across the street from me. As soon as our gazes met, he went completely still.
The man was young, with a sweep of blond hair that fell carelessly over his strong brow. His jaw was sharp enough to cut, softened only by full lips parted in surprise. He wore a well-tailored coat fitted in a way that left little doubt about his broad shoulders and lean frame. My chest fluttered at the sight of him. He was precisely how I’d always imagined Paris of Troy—blond, tall, and handsome enough to steal a queen.
He was truly unforgettable. Odd, considering I made it my business to remember every young man in the ton. Especially the handsome ones.
As any proper lady would, I curtsied and gave him a demure smile. But as soon as I lifted my head, he did something no man had ever done to me before.
He recoiled.
My mouth fell open as he shoved a piece of paper in his coat pocket and sprinted in the other direction.
I stood there, dumbfounded, as he disappeared around the corner of the square. Any man of decent upbringing would have bowed, or at the very least nodded. But this man quite literally ran away.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Oy, watch out!” someone shouted.
I turned in the direction of the voice—only to be met with a face full of cold, dirty water. I froze, not just from the frigid mud seeping through my skirts, but from the realization that I’d been sprayed head to toe with murky, brown filth in front of a dozen people passing by. A pair of women pointed at me, their whispers and smothered laughs making my cheeks burn.
I hoisted up my drenched skirts and strode back into the house, deciding that I wouldn’t send for Mrs. Sweete until the morning. Three shillings may have been an acceptable price to pay, but my dignity certainly wasn’t.
Chapter 2
“Conceal your dispositions, and you will be safe… from the machinations of the wisest brains.”
Mrs. Sweete always spotted a lie—an ability I found most inconvenient when she had been my governess, given my childhood penchant for stealing Father’s fencing swords to reenact famous battles. But when I came of age, and Mrs. Sweete became my chaperone, her all-seeing eye shifted from me to the rest of society, making her the ultimate source of information.
However, as we rode together to the modiste, I didn’t want my chaperone to employ her talent. Father forbade me from telling her about our near-destitution, and it took all of my willpower to keep it secret.
“Did you sleep well last night, Miss Weston? You look pale,” Mrs. Sweete said, tugging at an embroidery thread.
She was a practical woman of thirty-six years, with brown hair tied back into a neat bun and a pair of spectacles. She wore a plain, gray dress with sturdy boots, and she always carried an embroidery project with her. Currently, she was stitching Galatians 5:22 and had used bold thread to emphasize the word longsuffering.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I answered honestly. If I gave even a hint of deception, Mrs. Sweete would sniff it out like a hound. She was already suspicious, considering last season’s gowns were sitting in trunks behind the carriage.
“Were you ill?” she asked. “More stomach troubles?”
“Just a bad dream.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. I did dream last night that Father held an auction to marry me off. He sold me for six shillings to a man with blackened teeth.
“Is Lord Highcliffe well?”
“Father is busy, as always.”
“Too busy to properly fund your wardrobe?”
My fingers tightened around my reticule. “I told you. I merely wish to alter my dresses this year.”
Mrs. Sweete narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Good gracious. This woman should have been a constable, not a chaperone.
I firmly met her gaze. “Quite sure.”
“And you wish to spend only fifty pounds?”
“Frugality is a virtue, and I prize virtue above all else.”
“Hmm.”
I stilled. She only hmm-ed when sensing a lie.
“Would this, by chance, have anything to do with the state of your father’s dwindling finances?”
The blood drained from my face. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “The servants’ salaries were halved. There’s the sudden rise in taxes for your father’s tenants. Then, of course, you’re altering your dresses instead of buying new ones. Usually, I don’t guess without proof, but you just confirmed it.”
I should have been mortified, but a swell of relief washed over me instead. I could now share this burden with my most trusted ally—without breaking my promise to Father.
“You cannot speak a word of it to anyone, or Father will dismiss you,” I pleaded. “Remember, we must conceal our dispositions, and our condition will remain secret, which leads to victory.”
Mrs. Sweete placed her hand over mine. “You don’t have to quote The Art of War at me, Miss Weston.”
I smiled back at her. When I was fourteen, I’d grown bored of the moral tales Mrs. Sweete read to me, and I snuck into Father’s library with hopes to find something more stimulating. I stumbled across Amiot’s translation of L’Art de la Guerre and was enthralled. I spent the next year translating it into English for my own use. When a maid found the stack of papers under my bed, Father insisted I burn all traces of my blasphemous self-education. Thankfully, I’d already memorized every word.
“Your secrets are always safe with me,” Mrs. Sweete said.
I nodded, grateful. Although Mrs. Sweete had an eye for gossip, she hadn’t the tongue for it. When it came to matters of confidence, she was a vault.
“In that case, I’d like to relieve myself of another secret.”
Mrs. Sweete raised a conspiring brow.
“I made a deal with Father,” I began. Mrs. Sweete listened intently as I divulged every detail of my dire quest to secure a wealthy husband—someone willing to forgo a dowry and save our estate—within just two months.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Sweete said as the carriage came to a stop. “With only fifty pounds at your disposal?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she sighed, “if Moses split the Red Sea…”
“The Red Sea is a trifle, Mrs. Sweete. We face far more treacherous waters.”
“And what’s that?”
I tossed a ringlet over my shoulder. “High society.”
The coachman offered me his hand, and I stepped down into the street, feeling rather like a soldier facing her first battle. Or, perhaps, a commander, leading my troops courageously into the fray.
Yes, I rather liked the idea of being a commander. They had better hats.
“Carry those trunks in through the backdoor, Stevens,” I commanded the coachman. “Make sure no one sees you.”
A delicate silver bell announced our entrance to the modiste’s shop, and I breathed in the familiar smell of lavender and beeswax. Silks and muslins of every color decorated the shelves, along with buttons and ribbons. The modiste, a petite woman who bustled around with a measuring tape slung over her shoulder, hurried over with a beaming smile.
“What an honor to have you in my shop again, Miss Weston!” she said. “I was worried you had taken up with another modiste in town. Here, I took the liberty to reserve the most exquisite French taffeta for you. The cream will go beautifully with your raven hair and porcelain skin. Perhaps with a blue ribbon to match your eyes?”
She pulled out a length of fabric which was, indeed, exquisite. I barely restrained myself from running my fingers along the smooth folds.
“Thank you, but I have a separate errand.” I handed my portfolio to the modiste. “I sketched a few designs to rejuvenate last year’s dresses.”
The modiste flipped through my watercolor sketches, her lips pinching tighter with each page turn. “I don’t understand, miss. You wish to alter your dresses? In addition to a new wardrobe?”
“In place of.”
She blinked but recovered quickly. “If that is your wish, then I shall attend to it with the utmost care.”
“And discretion.”
The modiste placed the portfolio on the counter. “Of course.”
“Wonderful.” I opened my reticule. “If we could discuss the cost—”
The bell chimed, and two blonde women in matching yellow dresses entered the shop. My stomach plummeted, and I promptly covered my portfolio with the cream taffeta.
“The Pratts,” I muttered. “How wonderful to see them here.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Sweete pulled out her needlework and found a quiet chair in the corner.
Mrs. Pratt turned around and gave me a reptilian smile. She had the sort of eyes that never blinked, and whether seated or standing, she somehow always looked down on me, despite the fact I was taller.
She tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Sybella, your dearest friend is here!”
“Hel!” Sybella gasped. “What a surprise!”
“It’s Helena,” I corrected. Despite the fact that the Pratts had been family friends for as long as I could remember, Sybella never used my full name. Childhood habits were difficult to overcome, I supposed. Though Sybella certainly had no difficulty overcoming the habit of good manners.
Sybella and I weren’t really friends, though she seemed oddly insistent on pretending otherwise. We had been friendly as children, but our relationship had always been tinged with competition. Every game we played was a contest: who could run faster, who could sing higher, who could eat the most chocolate biscuits.
But something shifted between us last season. Sybella’s smiles grew tight, her compliments barbed. She’d forget to introduce me to her new friends, and she’d tell embarrassing childhood stories about me at parties. It wasn’t open warfare, but it wasn’t like the old games we used to play either. I had no idea what had changed.
Sybella’s eyes narrowed on my reticule. “Oh, Hel, don’t tell me you’re only now arranging your fittings. The season’s nearly upon us!” She patted my arm. “You could always borrow my dresses. After I wear them, of course.”
I forced a smile. “I’m just here to peruse the ribbons.”
The modiste frowned at my lie. But, thankfully, the bell on the door chimed again, and she left to greet the new customer.
“Can you believe the pitiful fabrics this year?” Sybella pouted. “I swear, that greedy woman is keeping the best materials for herself—oh.” Sybella spotted the cream taffeta on the counter. “Now this is exactly what I wanted.” She yanked the fabric, causing my portfolio to tumble to the floor with a thud. I quickly stepped on it, hiding the folder with my skirt.
“What was that sound?” Sybella asked, looking around.
My faithful lieutenant appeared just in time. “Miss Weston, I saw a pair of matching cream gloves next door that would look just lovely on you. Shall we go look?”
“Cream gloves?” Sybella pushed out her bottom lip. “Oh, Hel. I’m in far more need of gloves than you. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your chaperone so she can show them to me?”
“I suppose I can spare her this once.” I gave Mrs. Sweete a subtle nod in thanks.
Sybella turned to her mother. “Oh, Mama, can we get them?”
“Of course, darling.” Mrs. Pratt turned to me, and her unsettling smile spread even wider. “It never hurts to have an abundance, does it, Miss Weston?”
It was all I could do to nod politely.
“Come along.” Mrs. Sweete guided the Pratts out the door. “I believe there’s a matching shawl…”
As soon as they left, I hurried to the counter to finish my transaction. Unfortunately, it was not the modiste who was reaching down to pick up my portfolio, but a man.
And not just any man. It was him.
The recoiler.
“Sir! That is mine!” I called out. But it was too late. He was already flipping through the pages, the hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found my drawings amusing. My heart thundered in my ears, and, without thinking, I rushed forward and yanked the portfolio out of his hands.
He stared at me, surprised.
I cleared my throat and attempted a well-mannered smile. “What I meant to say is… thank you for finding that, sir. I must have dropped it.”
He searched my face, sending a flutter of heat up my neck. He was even more handsome up close. The sun had touched his skin, warming his complexion, and the stubble along his jaw was unexpectedly appealing. But it was his eyes—a striking green, like summer grass—that drew me in most. They crinkled at the corners, as if he laughed often. In fact, he was handsome enough that, if I weren’t in dire circumstances, I would have added him to my list of suitors on mere looks alone and—
I realized with a jolt that I was staring.
But before I could compose myself, he stuck his hand out between us. “Edmond Hawke.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name. It’s Edmond Hawke.” He kept his hand out, as if he expected me to shake it. Who did he think I was, a gentleman at the club?
I ignored the gesture and said, “So, we meet again.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Have we met before?”
Surely he hadn’t forgotten.
“Not officially,” I said. “But we have seen each other before.”
“We have?” He swallowed and lowered his hand. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
He blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. In Grosvenor Square.”
“I—I don’t believe I went to Grosvenor Square yesterday.”
Unbelievable. Was he trying to cover up his offense? Heat rose in my chest, but I willed it down. I was in public and could not allow myself to be unsettled by this man’s selective memory.
“I must be mistaken,” I said, my tone brusque. “Perhaps I saw another man with an identical gold chain and a brown, double-breasted coat with brass buttons.”
He glanced down at his tell-tale coat, then rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Ah, I suppose I do recall being there… briefly.”
“It was quite brief, wasn’t it? As soon as you saw me, you ran away with remarkable speed.” The accusing words stumbled out of me before I could think better of it.
Mr. Hawke drew back. “I assure you, miss, I did not intend any offense. I just—I simply remembered that I was late to a meeting.”
If Mrs. Sweete were here, she’d respond with a “Hmm.” This man was lying, I was sure of it. But why?
Come now, Helena. Behave yourself. What did it matter if he recoiled? I should’ve let the matter rest, but I found myself infuriated by his reluctance to admit the truth.
Perhaps I could coax it out of him.
“It’s unusual to see a man at the modiste,” I said, picking up a ribbon and twirling it between my fingers with a coy grin. “You aren’t following me, are you?”
“Following you?” he sputtered. “Absolutely not! I’m only here to pick up an order.”
“Really?” I set the ribbon down. “Pray tell, what color dress did you choose for yourself, burgundy or dove gray?”
He arched his brow. “It isn’t for me.”
“Your sister then?”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Your wife?”
“No, definitely not her.”
“And why not her?”
He grinned. “Because I don’t have a wife.”
I opened my mouth, then promptly snapped it shut. He likely thought my questioning was a girlish attempt to learn if he was eligible—something Sybella would do. Goodness, why was I so poorly equipped in this man’s presence?
I narrowed my eyes and studied him, hoping to find the answer scrawled across his amused features. But the more I looked, the more puzzled I was. His boots were spotless, without a single scuff, as if he were wearing them for the first time. His cravat was crooked, and his gold watch chain hung too low on his waistcoat. Everything he wore was of the highest quality, and yet none of it fit quite right. In fact, he did not fit quite right.
I plastered on a polite smile. This was a waste of my valuable time. I had better things to do than embarrassing myself in front of strange men.
“Well, I do hope that whoever you give it to doesn’t recoil upon seeing it.” I gave a curt dip of my head. “Good day, sir.”
I strode across the shop and picked up another ribbon to examine, hoping Mr. Hawke would leave before he unsettled me further. I was not so fortunate.
“Are you sure you want to purchase that ribbon?” he asked from behind me.
I turned to find him leaning against the display shelf, arms crossed over his broad chest and mischief glinting in his eyes.
“You are following me, aren’t you?”
He held up his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m only helping you avoid a bad purchase.”
“Are you insinuating I have poor taste in ribbons?”
“It’s not your taste that’s of poor quality. It’s the ribbon itself.”
I scoffed. “This silk is from Pescia. It’s the finest silk one can buy.”
“That silk is not from Pescia.” He leaned forward, his face inches from mine. I startled, ready to protest his untoward behavior. But he was only reaching for the shelf behind me. He grabbed a scarlet ribbon and held it out. “If I were you, I’d purchase this one. It’s real Italian silk.”
I gritted my teeth. “I think I know my silks.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that your ribbon is fake.”
Enough of this. I waved down the modiste. “If you’re so sure, Mr. Hawke, then how about we make a wager? Two shillings I’m right.”
“There’s no need—”
“Then you admit you’re wrong about the silk?”
His lips pressed into a flat line just as the modiste appeared at my side.
“May I help you?” she asked, glancing between us.
“This,” I handed her my ribbon, “is from Pescia, correct?”
“Oh, yes! We just got it last week. You have an excellent eye, miss.”
I tossed Mr. Hawke a victorious look.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but this silk cannot possibly be from Pescia.”
The modiste’s smile wavered. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He tapped the ribbon’s label. “Giordano Pullano. He closed his shop five years ago because of disrupted trade routes during the war. It never reopened.”
“W-what?” the modiste stammered.
Mr. Hawke gave an insufferable shrug. “It was reported in The Gazette. August 14th, in the year 1810. Page three. I could locate the article as proof, if you wish.”
I frowned. He just so happened to remember a specific article from five years ago? I highly doubted that.
Mr. Hawke leaned toward the modiste. “I recommend correcting your labels. It wouldn’t be good for business if people found out your merchandise was… substandard.”
The modiste blanched. “It—it must have been my shop girl. She’s always making mistakes. I’ll see it fixed right away. Please, allow me to wrap up the ribbon you’re holding as a gift to make amends.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am.” Mr. Hawke held the ribbon out to me with a confident tilt to his head. “Take it. It’s yours.”
“No, thank you,” I snapped. “I just remembered I have an entire chest of ribbons at home.”
“Very well. And, um—” He scratched his jaw. “Regarding the wager—I’m perfectly content to let the matter rest.”
“How magnanimous of you.” I fished out two shillings. “But I insist.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“Take the coins.”
“I must refuse.”
I firmly placed the two shillings on the shelf next to him. “Take them or leave them. I don’t care. Now, I wish you a good day, sir.”
I turned to leave, but he quickly said, “It’s for my mother.”
“What?”
“The dress order. You asked who it was for. It’s a gift for my mother.”
Before I could even sputter a response, he swept the coins into his pocket, then bowed and walked over to the modiste to collect his order. I blew an angry breath out of my nose and stormed behind fabric shelves, hiding there until the blessed chime marked his exit.
What in heaven’s name had come over me? Had I really allowed a man of all creatures to unsettle me so? The Art of War taught me to never swallow bait offered by the enemy, and yet I had let Mr. Hawke feed me a three-course meal of humiliation.
The bell chimed once more, and Mrs. Sweete joined me at the counter.
“The Pratts are purchasing not one but three pairs of gloves,” she reported. “They will return shortly.”
“Then we must make our escape swiftly, Lieutenant Sweete.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Never mind.” I turned to the modiste to pay my fee, then spotted the scarlet ribbon made of real Italian silk on the counter.
“That gentleman forgot his ribbon,” I said, my tone making it clear I thought him anything but a gentleman.
The modiste hesitated. “He didn’t forget, miss. He told me to give it to you. He left these as well.”
She held out two shillings.
My jaw clenched shut. “That vile scoundrel.”
The modiste offered a nervous smile. “Should I wrap it for you, miss?”
“Absolutely not!” I said just as Mrs. Sweete said, “Yes, please.”
I spun to my chaperone, betrayed, but Mrs. Sweete placed a calming hand on my shoulder. “It’s the finest ribbon in the shop, and men always flock to you when you wear red. It’d be a loss not to use it to your advantage.”
My pride urged me to refuse the gift. The scarlet ribbon was beautiful, but it was also an insult. As much as I despised the thought of accepting it, I couldn’t help but think of the French taffeta that was supposed to be mine, and how it would belong to Sybella instead. This entire season was supposed to be mine, and now it was nothing more than a mad race for survival.
Suddenly, the ribbon felt less like an insult and more like a challenge.
“No need to wrap it.” I shoved the ribbon and the two shillings into my reticule. I paid the sum owed, then left the shop with my head held high.
Once we were seated inside our carriage, Mrs. Sweete pulled out her needlework and asked, “Who gave you that ribbon? Was it the man I saw leaving the modiste?”
I tossed my reticule containing the ribbon onto the bench. “He’s no one worth mentioning.”
“He was quite handsome, was he not?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Hmm.”
I sighed. Yes, Mrs. Sweete always spotted a lie.
Chapter 3
“One mark of a great soldier is that he fights on his own terms or fights not at all.”
Every game required players, and it was my sole objective during the first ball of the season to select who would play in mine.
I stood on the marble balcony overlooking the ballroom. I wore a soldier-red gown—one of my newly altered ones. The color felt appropriate, considering I was assessing my potential candidates the way a commander does his enemies.
Laid out before me were plenty of eligible members of the Swarm. That was my term for the hive of suitors who flitted around unwed ladies like bees in search of a flower to pollinate.
There was Mr. Bradford. He stood by the refreshments, taking a bite out of a jelly tart that had dripped onto his cravat. He was kind enough, I supposed. But he was a fourth son with hardly a pittance of inheritance. Not to mention, he was uncommonly weak chinned. I scratched him off my mental list.
The handsome Mr. Knight was an obvious choice—a naval officer with a decent inheritance. He hadn’t been in London for months, and when I saw the pregnant young lady on his arm, I realized why. He must have married shortly after his proposal to me last season. I turned him down, of course. Clearly, he had moved on. Another name crossed off the list.
I spotted Mr. Addington on the dance floor. He was a tempting candidate, for he’d inherit a viscountcy and a fortune along with it. But he lurked around the card tables and horse races, and I couldn’t tolerate a gambler.
Unfortunately, Mr. Addington caught my gaze just as his dance ended. He smiled and abandoned his partner to join me on the balcony.
“My dear Miss Weston, you are radiant when you wear red.” He kissed my hand, leaving behind a moist imprint on my glove. “And you smell like summer rain and oranges.”
He reeked of brandy, but unlike Mr. Addington, I didn’t make it a habit to comment on how people smelled.
I politely removed my hand from his. “Good evening, Mr. Addington. How is the Viscount Sidmouth?”
“Father is still breathing, unfortunately,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Miss Weston, do you have any spots open on your dance card for the likes of me?”
I handed him my card. “I look forward to it.”
He signed his name, bowed, and left. I tapped my nails on the gilded railing as I continued my search.
“The harvest looks thin,” I muttered to Mrs. Sweete. She had accompanied me tonight, since Father claimed to have too much work to do. He had likely locked himself in his study to brood within a thick cloud of cigar smoke.
“How about Mr. Middleton?” Mrs. Sweete asked from the chair beside me. As always, she was picking at her needlework. “I hear he brings in six-thousand pounds a year.”
“Well, I hear he’s handsy with the maids.”
“Mr. Pollard?”
“Spends all his time hunting and hanging the poor beasts on his walls.”
“Mr. Carr?”
“Shockingly loose in the haft, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Sweete set down her needlework, her expression softening. “Are these qualities really impediments, Miss Weston? I thought you wanted a fortune more than a husband.”
“Would it be terribly greedy of me to want both?”
Mrs. Sweete was quiet for a long moment as she took stock of the crowd. “What about John St. Clair, the Baron of Cranford?”
I frowned. “Lord Cranford? Isn’t he too old?”
“He’s only forty-two, which is just six years older than me, I’ll have you know. And he is a gentleman through and through, one who brings in ten-thousand pounds a year.”
“Ten? Good heavens. But, if he’s so eligible, why hasn’t he married yet?”
Mrs. Sweete returned to her needlework. “Perhaps he hasn’t found the right woman.”
I leaned over the balcony, scouring the room until I found the man in question. Lord Cranford idled in the corner, the furthest he could be from the dance floor, as if he might catch an illness from it. He had the beginnings of a receding hairline and was never seen without his walking cane, which eased his limp. He was handsome in a mature way. But I’d never considered him as a candidate, since he was more than twice my age.
Though that wasn’t the real issue.
“The baron is rather… boring,” I said. “He once went on about the life cycle of the silkworm for a full half hour.”
Mrs. Sweete’s look was patient yet firm.
“Very well.” I blew out a defeated huff. “He’s a fine candidate. I’ll go speak with him. How do I look?”
“Perfect, as always. The ribbon in your hair is especially lovely.”
“And the dress?”
“No one would guess it was altered.”
“Except for one,” I grumbled. Despite my efforts—modifying the neckline, replacing the sleeves, adding beading along the waistline—Sybella had sniffed out my fraud like a bloodhound. “That dress is just like the one you wore to the Townshend ball last March!” she had said as soon as I walked into the ball. Luckily, Mr. Bradford had appeared, nervously sweating through his stained cravat, and asked Sybella for the next dance before I had to make up a lie.
Someone tapped my shoulder, and I sighed, not wanting to deal with yet another ineligible suitor. “Forgive me, but I was just about to take some air.”
“How unfortunate for me, ma chère.”
I know that accent, I thought. I turned around to find Henri Marceaux grinning back at me. It had been two years since we last saw each other, though he looked much the same. He wore a purple waistcoat with lace cuffs and enough pearl buttons to fill a jewelry box. His well-coiffed hair was tied back with a matching purple ribbon, framing his perfectly white smile.
I could practically hear Mrs. Sweete’s description in my ear. Eight-thousand pounds a year. His family fled from France during the war and swore loyalty to England. A bit of a fop, but his family is untitled, and he’s eager to climb the social ranks, especially to prove himself to the English crown.
In other words, he was the perfect candidate.
“Mr. Marceaux!” I said with genuine delight. “I hadn’t realized you’d returned from your travels. How were they?”
He bowed deeply and came back up with a dazzling smile. “Italy was divine, but even Rome pales in comparison to the beauty of English roses such as yourself. If I had known the enviable Miss Weston was officially out, I would have returned sooner.”
I opened my fan with a coy flick of my wrist. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Mr. Marceaux.”
“What will, dare I ask?”
I couldn’t request a dance, of course, as that would seem far too forward. Instead, I wielded my fan beneath my neck, ensuring the dance card tied to my wrist was on full display.
“I am shocked, Mr. Marceaux. I didn’t think you were the type to need instructions on how to impress a lady.”
He chuckled, a smooth, honeyed sound. “And I’m shocked that you still have openings on your dance card. Perhaps I can remedy that. Care to dance avec moi?”
I held out my card, victory warming my chest. “Oui, monsieur.”
He signed it, then kissed my hand. “May I bring you a drink?”
“If you must.”
With a wink, he strode down the stairs. I glanced down at his signature and blushed. He had drawn a small heart beside his name.
“Add Henri Marceaux to the list of candidates as well,” I told Mrs. Sweete.
“Him? But he’s a traitor to France.”
“I always felt Dante was too severe when he reserved the bottom layer of the inferno for traitors. After all, Mr. Marceaux’s efforts have saved many English lives. How is that a bad thing?”
“I’ve heard he’s a rake.”
“A harmless one. Yes, he’s a flirt, but he has never overstepped.” I fanned myself as the man in question smiled up at me from below and held up two champagne glasses. “We’ll watch him closely. Perhaps enjoy the view while we’re at it.”
Mrs. Sweete paused. “Isn’t that—? It is!”
“Who?”
“That tall gentleman there,” she pointed toward the stairs, “with the light hair and the red waistcoat. Look familiar?”
I followed her gaze—and froze.
It was Mr. Hawke.
He was halfway up the balcony stairs, looking down at the dance floor below. My throat tightened as the memory of our last encounter resurfaced. I could only hope my cheeks were not as red as my dress—or his waistcoat. Heavens above, what if he wore red deliberately to match me, anticipating that I’d wear the scarlet ribbon? I’d look like a foolish girl in love, wearing his ribbon in the mere hope he’d find me again.
I turned to Mrs. Sweete. “I need you to remove my hair ribbon. Now.”
She glanced at my hair then shook her head. “It’s woven in too tightly. There’s no time.”
“Then we must find a way to remove that man.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a matter of utmost importance.”
“But—”
“He’s an enemy to the crown, a danger to the country.”
“Miss Weston—”
“Perhaps if we hired a thief-taker to—”
“Miss Weston!” Her eyes darted behind me. “He’s coming your way.”
My chaperone fled to her corner chair just as Mr. Hawke stepped in front of me. It was poor timing, for Mr. Marceaux returned with my drink at precisely the same time. The two men assessed each other.
Heaven help me.
“We meet again,” Mr. Hawke said to me with a bow of his head. At least he remembered his manners this time. He looked more put together, too. His cravat was tied correctly, and his watch chain hung on the right button. Even his hair seemed more kempt. If I didn’t know how horrid his personality was, I’d go so far as to say he looked handsome.
Mr. Marceaux lifted his chin at the intruder. “I don’t recognize you, monsieur. I’m Henri Marceaux. And you?”
“He’s an expert on silks,” I answered dryly. “I’ll take my drink now.”
The Frenchman raised an eyebrow and handed the blessed champagne over.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Hawke said with a nod. “Though, I must correct my introduction. I’m no expert on fabric. I’m nothing more than a concerned customer.” I withheld my frown as his gaze floated up to the ribbon in my hair. “It suits you.”
“The dress?” I asked, purposefully aloof.
“The ribbon.”
I made a show of touching my hair. “Oh! I hadn’t realized. My chaperone must have brought it home without my knowledge.”
“Hmm,” came a voice from the corner.
I waved Mrs. Sweete off behind my back. “I told my maid to pick out the hostess’s favorite color. I suppose the marchioness likes red.” Wanting to steer the conversation away from me, I asked, “Have either of you met her and the marquess yet?”
“Oui,” Mr. Marceaux drawled, “charming woman.”
“I have not yet had the pleasure, but…” Mr. Hawke rubbed his freshly shaven jaw. “Oh, I did meet his cousin, George Richards.”
“You’ve met the duke?” Mr. Marceaux asked. “That’s no small feat. His circle is most exclusive. It’s a formidable challenge to even get an introduction.”
“What’s formidable is his skill at battledore. If you enjoy the sport, I could introduce you to him. Maybe we could have a little tournament?”
Mr. Marceaux raised his glass. “I look forward to it.”
“As do I.” Mr. Hawke’s green eyes landed on me. “Would you like to join us?”
I took a sip of champagne, feigning disinterest. Of course I wanted to meet the untouchable duke. After all, he could be a potential candidate, even if he was an ornery hermit of a man. But I wasn’t about to owe a favor to Mr. Hawke.
“Sports don’t interest me much,” I lied. “I prefer social activities that challenge the mind.”
Mr. Hawke had the audacity to look intrigued. “Such as?”
I took another sip, buying myself time to think of something more interesting than sporting with a duke. “Well, just last month I had the most stimulating conversation with Lord Byron.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Sweete said again. I resisted the urge to glare at her. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d been invited to a large dinner that Lord Byron also attended, and although we didn’t talk to each other, we did talk in the same vicinity as each other. And what is conversation if not two people talking?
Mr. Marceaux’s eyebrows shot up. “Byron? The poet?”
“Oh yes. In fact, he read his newest poem to me.” He had read it to all the guests, but the men didn’t need to know that. “Let’s see, how did it go? She walks in beauty in the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies.” I placed a hand on my heart. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Not nearly as lovely as you, ma chère,” Mr. Marceaux said with a wink.
Mr. Hawke cleared his throat. “She walks in beauty, like the night.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The poem.” He stood a little straighter. “The correct word is like, not in. And it continues: and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
My grip tightened around my glass. “How do you know that? Lord Byron hasn’t even published it yet.”
He shrugged. “Prinny gave me a copy of Byron’s manuscript.”
“Prinny?” I coughed.
“Forgive me. I meant Prince George.”
The fragile remnant of composure within me snapped. “I know who you meant—” I caught myself and forced a smile solely for Mr. Marceaux’s sake. “Are you saying the prince gave you Byron’s unpublished works?”
Mr. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “It was just a small token of thanks for some business we did together.”
Heat simmered beneath my skin, and it took everything I had not to level the insufferable man with a glare.
“I met Napoleon once,” Mr. Marceaux piped in, “before I left France, of course. He never smiled. His wife on the other hand—she was enchanting.”
His words hardly registered. I was too focused on Mr. Hawke, who I suspected was basking in smug triumph beneath that paper-thin show of humility, having so neatly name-dropped both a duke and a prince in one conversation. Very well, I thought. If this man wished to battle, I’d happily draw my sword.
I opened my mouth to attack, but Mr. Marceaux said, “I don’t think I caught your name, monsieur…?”
Mr. Hawke bowed his head. “Apologies for not introducing myself properly. My name is Edmond Hawke.”
Mrs. Sweete squeaked behind me.
Mr. Hawke turned to face me, his eyes shining. “I just now realized that you haven’t given me your name yet, Miss…?”
“You don’t know her name?” Mr. Marceaux laughed. “Why, you’re in the presence of greatness, sir. This is the Miss Helena Weston, only child of the Viscount of Highcliffe, and the sole reason half the men in London bother to get out of bed in the morning.”
Mr. Hawke cocked his head. “Only half the men?”
“The other half know they don’t stand a chance, so they don’t get out of bed at all.”
I smiled into my champagne glass. “You flatter me, Mr. Marceaux.”
“Miss Weston,” Mr. Hawke repeated slowly, as if my name were something peculiar.
Applause sounded from the dance floor as the song ended and a new dance began.
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Mr. Marceaux said, “I’ve reserved this dance with Miss Pratt. I’ll see you at the club, Hawke? Maybe for a game of cards?”
“I don’t gamble,” Mr. Hawke said.
I lifted an eyebrow, thinking of our bet at the modiste. “Don’t you?”
He shifted his stance. “I returned the shillings to you. They were next to the ribbon.” He glanced up at my hair. “And clearly you found that.”
Despite my smile, my teeth clenched so hard I feared my jaw might snap.
“No matter, Hawke. Instead, you can buy me a drink and tell me all about Prinny.” Mr. Marceaux kissed my hand above my knuckle. “Try not to miss me too much before our dance, ma chère.”
And with that, he was off, leaving me unbearably alone with Mr. Hawke.
“I also have this dance scheduled,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Miss Weston.” Mr. Hawke stepped forward. “Do you have an opening on your dance card?”
“What?”
“A dance.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “I promise I won’t run away from you this time.”
Unbelievable. What on earth was this man doing—eclipsing me in front of Mr. Marceaux one moment, then asking to dance the next?
I glanced back at Mrs. Sweete, hoping for her intervention. But she nodded at me, urging me to accept. I gave a discreet shake of my head. But she returned it with a more emphatic nod. Dread pooled in my stomach. Clearly Mrs. Sweete knew something I didn’t.
“Fine.” I reluctantly handed Mr. Hawke my card.
He took it. But his grin quickly fell. “You have only one dance available.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And it’s a waltz.”
“Is it?”
He sniffed. “I’d prefer the quadrille. Or the cotillion.”
“Well, those are taken.”
“Can’t you switch?”
“Absolutely not!”
He held the dance card out to me. “Forgive me, but I… I, um, forgot I had a prior engagement.”
“A prior engagement. Really?” I snatched the card out of his hand. “You promised you wouldn’t run away from me, and yet here we are. Again. If you’re so averse to dancing with me, then why ask in the first place?”
His eyes widened. “I did not mean to offend you.”
“What did you mean?”
His throat bobbed, and his eyes darted down to the dance floor. “I just—I have a headache. I should sit down.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I had used that exact excuse twenty minutes prior with the handsy Lord Reed. Clearly, Mr. Hawke had asked me to dance just so he could withdraw his offer and seize the upper hand. It was practically a slap in the face.
“You needn’t explain more,” I said sharply. “I understand perfectly.”
“Miss Weston—”
I held up my hand to stop him. “Next time you play against the duke, tell him I’m rooting for him.”
I gave a brusque curtsy, then walked off. It took everything I had to wear a pleasant smile, lest the nosy mamas start gossiping. I took Mrs. Sweete’s arm and pulled her to the other side of the balcony, leaving Mr. Hawke and his cruel games behind me.
As soon as we were out of earshot, I whispered, “Please tell me at once why you insisted I dance with that man.”
“That man,” she said, “is Edmond Hawke. I hadn’t realized it until he said so.”
“And who, pray tell, is Edmond Hawke?”
“From what I’ve heard, he’s a newcomer to London. Unwed and quite eligible.” Mrs. Sweete drew a deep breath. “And he possesses an income of fifteen-thousand pounds a year.”
“Fifteen?” I paled. It was an impossible amount. I craned my neck and watched Mr. Hawke join the crowd below. He positioned himself at the edge of the dance floor and stared intently at the dancers, likely seeking a more suitable partner.
“Should I add him to the list?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But he meets all of your requirements. His income is far higher than any other—”
“He could spin straw into gold for all I care. I will not lower myself by pursuing such an arrogant man.”
“That leaves you with only two candidates, Lord Cranford and Mr. Marceaux.”
I twirled the end of the scarlet ribbon around my finger and grinned. “That’s one more candidate than I need.”
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