An Unsuitable Heiress: A gorgeous regency historical romance from Jane Dunn

By Jane Dunn

‘Do you realise, Corinna, just how hard it is for a young woman of irregular birth, without family, fortune or friends in the world? Marriage is the only way to get any chance of a life.’

Following the death of her mother, Corinna Ormesby has lived a quiet life in the countryside with her cantankerous Cousin Agnes. Her father's identity has been a tantalising mystery, but now at nineteen Corinna knows that finding him may be her only way to avoid marriage to the odious Mr Beech.

Deciding to head to London, Corinna dons a male disguise. Travelling alone as a young woman risks scandal and danger, but when, masquerading as a youth, she is befriended by three dashing blades, handsome and capable Alick Wolfe, dandy Ferdinand Shilton and the incorrigible Lord Purfoy, Corinna now has access to the male-only world of Regency England. And when she meets Alick's turbulent brother Darius, a betrayal of trust leads to deadly combat which only one of the brothers may survive.

From gambling in gentleman’s clubs to meeting the courtesans of Covent Garden, Corinna’s country naivety soon falls away. But when she finds her father at last, learns the truth about her parentage and discovers her fortunes transformed, she must quickly decide how to reveal her true identity, while hoping that one young man in particular can see her for the beauty and Lady she really is.

Sunday Times bestselling author Jane Dunn brings the Regency period irresistibly to life in a page-turning novel packed with romance, scandal, friendship and colour. Perfect for fans of Jane Austen. Janice Hadlow, Gill Hornby, and anyone with a Bridgerton-shaped hole in their lives.

Praise for Jane Dunn:

'Brilliant, sparkling and very clever.' Elizabeth Buchan

'Jane Dunn’s THE MARRIAGE SEASON gives all the immersive pleasure of Georgette Heyer’s brilliantly confected Regency novels, in a sublime alternative world of joy. Bridgerton look out!' Melanie Reid, The Times

‘Outstanding, perceptive and delightfully readable.’ Sunday Times Books of the Year

‘Jane Dunn has written a splendid piece of popular history with the ready-pen of a highly skilled writer, endowed with remarkable insight.’ Roy Strong, Daily Mail

‘Jane Dunn is one of our best biographers.’ Miranda Seymour, Sunday Times

What readers say about Jane Dunn:

‘Absolutely brilliant book. Easy, interesting and certainly a page-turner. Enjoyed reading this book so much.’

‘I loved this book, Jane Dunn writes with an insight into Elizabeths and Marys psyches that is mesmerising. I couldn’t put it down and was gutted when I finally finished it, at a loss of what to read next.’

‘One of the best books I have ever read. I have always been interested in this period of history and felt that this book and the way Dunn writes helps to bring history alive. Once I started reading I could not stop.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781804835340

Jane Dunn

Described by the Sunday Times as ‘one of our best biographers’, Jane Dunn writes about women and their relationships, and sisters in particular. Her books include a biography of the sisters Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell and the bestseller Elizabeth & Mary, which looks at the lives of the cousin queens Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and lives in Bath with her husband the writer and linguist, Nicholas Ostler.

Book preview

1

ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

In the early dawn of a warm June day in 1815, the Earl of Ramsbury stood on the balcony and surveyed his land, spread before him in the rising mist. He was old now and resembled the great golden eagle whose eyrie he had found in the Hundred Acre Wood; shoulders hunched, but poised for flight, his hooded eyes as keen as ever. An old duelling scar across his cheek told of a more reckless past. He gazed on the park before him, its ancient oak trees sheltering his deer and prize flock of Oakbourne sheep, their breed named after his family and the estate. His spirit was now at peace. The war was finally over. Napoleon had abdicated and his beloved only son would be home at last.

The night before, he had watched the sky alight with the bonfires blazing in celebration on village greens and hill tops, as far as the eye could see. After days of chilling rumours of defeat, the news of victory had the added euphoria of divine reprieve. The despatch had reached London only a week before, when Lord Ramsbury was at his town house. The atmosphere had been febrile. It was still the height of the Season, but anxieties about the progression of the war inflamed every discussion. Speculation was rife, the gentlemen’s clubs were taking bets, newspapers were full of rival reports ‘from the battlefield’, victory and catastrophic defeat were in the balance. With so much wild talk, and his own fear for his son, Lord Ramsbury had struggled to maintain his composure.

On the evening of the twenty-first, he had attended a grand dinner and dancing in a mansion in St James’s Square. He was uneasy socialising on such an extravagant scale when only 250 miles away the nation’s future was being decided by their own sons and husbands in a field filled with the dead and dying. The Prince Regent and his brother did not share his qualms and were on good form, their presence a great social coup for the hostess. Most of the rich and well-born, in London for the Season, crowded the candlelit rooms.

It was a sultry night and the windows of the first-floor ballroom were open to the air when, close to midnight with the musicians about to strike up, a roar was heard from the street. Everyone was startled by the commotion, and then the double doors into the ballroom were flung open. A muddied, bloodied figure, straight from the carnage of the battlefield, dashed into the room. Lord Ramsbury recoiled: it was as if a lost soul from hell had stumbled into the midst of the glittering scene.

The bejewelled woman beside him grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What terror can this be?’

‘He’s travelled for days; looks like he’s barely slept,’ her companion said with authority.

‘But his clothes! They’re dark with blood, as if he’s come from a slaughterhouse.’ Her gasp was more of a sob. The assembled beaux and beauties held their breaths as this emissary from another world approached the Prince Regent. No one knew if he brought news of triumph or national ruin.

Only when he laid the two French flags and the captured Imperial Eagles at the feet of the Prince did the assembled guests understand which way the war had gone. These bronze and gilded eagles were iconic symbols of the might of Napoleon’s Grande Armée, and more fiercely defended than anything, other than the Emperor himself. The young officer proclaimed in a voiced cracked with fatigue, ‘Victory, victory, sire,’ and handed over a sealed despatch. The relief was palpable; a great shout, then claps and cheers rang out, and the candles guttered with the communal exhalation of breath.

The Prime Minister hushed the exultant crowd and read from Wellington’s despatch the awful roll call of the fallen, the best of the country’s nobility. The Prince openly wept. Lord Ramsbury’s heart was overcome with dread. He sat down on a chair to steady himself as the names added humanity to the record of slaughter. There were gasps and stifled cries as people heard mention of sons, brothers, friends. When the Earl felt he could bear it no longer, a touch on his shoulder stilled his fear. He glanced up into the grief-stricken face of the foreign minister, Lord Castlereagh. ‘Never fear, Ramsbury. Your son is not among those in this despatch. Go home to Oakbourne and await his return. It’s what he would wish.’

The exuberant energy of the ball had dispersed like hot air into the night and, despite their hostess’s protestations, her guests, shocked then sorrowful, had begun to drift away. As people collected their evening cloaks and hats, she was overheard complaining to her elderly husband, ‘Surely, the untimely news of the Waterloo victory could have been kept until the morning!’

Early the following day, the Earl of Ramsbury left for Hertfordshire. On his arrival home, he asked his servants to make ready his son’s quarters. He turned to Merivale, his loyal factotum who had known him all his life. ‘Lord Oakbourne will need his horses too. Can you tell the grooms to bring them in from the fields and condition them for use?’

His son loved his horses and was a fine rider and driver, and member of the exacting Four-in-Hand Club. For that reason, he had chosen to buy a commission into the 11th Hussars and had been sent to Portugal in 1811 to take part in the Peninsular War against France. He was again recalled to the conflict in the early part of 1815 and had become one of the heroic cavalrymen who had harried Napoleon’s troops, and finally gained mastery over them at Waterloo.

So it was that Lord Oakbourne’s proud father stood on the balcony in the early dawn light, watching the mist rise off the grass, wreathing in airy wisps through the canopy of the trees. All seemed well with his world. For two and a half centuries, the Oakbournes had lived in this great Elizabethan house and managed the estates. The Earldom of Ramsbury was a gift from the Great Queen for their ancestor’s diplomatic grace in the Low Countries. The current holder of that title narrowed his eyes. In the distance a figure on a horse was riding up the long drive. As he came better into view, it was clear he was cantering at quite a pace. He rounded the curve by the lake and the Earl recognised a courier. His heart started beating so hard his chest seemed to vibrate. He knew only bad news travelled this fast. He called for Merivale to show the courier into the library as he descended the grand staircase to the hall.

Leaning on the carved mantelpiece, Lord Ramsbury was still an impressive figure of a man. He seemed to gather strength from the adamantine cool of the marble under his touch. This was his favourite room in the house, dark and book-lined with carved oak griffins on the piers of the bookcases. A large east window spilled the morning light onto his desk, and on the walls tiny rainbows danced, refracted through the glass drops of the Venetian chandelier. In all seasons, he could enjoy a view of the lake, glimpsed beyond the copse of silver birch at the water’s edge. There was consolation in the ancient beauty and familiarity of such a place.

The dusty-coated messenger was ushered into the room. A thin young man with watchful, unhappy eyes, he held a despatch in his gloved hand. Ascertaining that the gentleman before him was indeed the Earl of Ramsbury, he passed over the document and waited to see if he was needed to convey any message in return. The Earl knew there would be nothing to say. He waved him away. Sitting at his desk, he unfolded the paper with his long white fingers, trembling now. He read the official handwritten document, the destruction of his hope and happiness. ‘My son, my son,’ was all he said, his voice broken as his head sunk onto his hands.

Merivale had entered the library without a sound and stood behind his master. He placed a large hand on his shoulder: two old men united in grief. Merivale’s broad humorous face was stricken. Lord Ramsbury lifted his head. ‘He was shot while attempting to capture one of the last French cannon.’

‘We always knew he was a hero, m’lord.’

‘At least he died instantly. I am grateful he did not suffer the agony of a slow death.’ He could not bear to imagine the horror of the tens of thousands of men and horses dying in the field. His head sunk to his hands again as an involuntary shudder ran through his body. Merivale placed a glass of brandy on the desk and left the room. All Lord Ramsbury’s fears had come to pass; his hopes for his son and his patrimony now lay in ruins. He felt almost incapable of dealing with such a reversal of everything that had mattered in his life. His own heart was beyond repair, but now it was the future of his estate and the family name that preoccupied his mind.

Every man with a grand lineage to consider knew that the continuity of land and title through generations mattered more than any individual’s life or death. After sitting for a while in stricken silence, Lord Ramsbury’s face regained some colour and determination. He opened the door and called for Merivale. ‘I shall be off to London tomorrow, to see my lawyers. Can you ask the stables to get the post-chaise ready?’ He moved purposefully back to his large desk below the window, collecting his documents together in a leather case.

He picked up the glass of brandy and drained it. The burning spirit gave him a temporary jolt and a sense of the urgent work that remained. As long as blood coursed through his veins, as long as he could thrill to the eagle’s flight or skylarks’ song, then he had life. The long-suppressed memory of his daughter sprang to mind. With a stab of shame, he realised he had last seen her when she was five. Little Cory, her pudgy hand on his knee, her hazel eyes looking up into his with a mischievous gleam, as she handed over a drawing she had done of his favourite greyhound, Fly. The memory quickened his pulse and he said in a voice cracked with feeling, ‘Merivale, I need you to find Corinna.’

‘We lost her, m’lord, when her mother died. I don’t know where she disappeared.’

‘How old was she when you last saw her?’

‘About twelve, I think. Yes, it was the autumn, her birthday. About seven years ago now. I remember you had sent a silver cup as a present.’

‘Has it really been so long? After the Countess died, why didn’t I think to try and find her?’ He looked up at his old retainer, lines of anguish etched deep into his face as he counted what may have been lost for ever.

‘You had other things to worry about, m’lord.’

‘Yes, maybe so. But my neglect of her has no excuse. Now it’s urgent. Can I entrust you to find her? I hope we’re not too late.’

In London, the celebrations had continued, with even more drinking and rowdiness than usual. Fireworks and impromptu street parties added to the racket that kept the old awake and set fire to at least one building in the city. A special edition of The London Gazette was published out of sequence on a Thursday and Lord Castlereagh delivered the government’s response in the House of Commons, with extravagant talk of medals and monuments, and a palace to be built for the victorious Duke. The gentlemen’s clubs were full of hyperbolic discussions of the battle and the heroic feats of the British and Prussian troops. The 11th Hussars were lauded to the skies for their part in capturing the last active French gun. The armchair generals felt they had a stake in their glory, as many of that legendary regiment were scions of the great noble families and, even more significantly to the assembled gamesters, were also well-known members of the famous London clubs.

In the effervescent atmosphere of the Daffy Club, a young man sat with his friend chatting about the latest news. Alick Wolfe was tall and well-made with an open, friendly countenance and unruly dark brown hair. He seemed almost too big for the low-ceilinged room. His large brown eyes were crinkled at the corners with laughter. ‘I can’t wait to see Napoleon’s campaign coach. Apparently, it’ll be paraded through the streets.’ He turned to the handsome young buck brooding by his side.

Despite the excitement all around them, the quaffing of gin, the betting and boasting, Raven Purfoy looked bored. ‘Oh Al, you’re such a young shaver,’ he drawled. ‘I’d only be interested in getting meself some of those Bonaparte diamonds the tricky Prussians looted. Or just the solid gold necessaire would do.’ His dark eyes were lightened by the ghost of a smile.

‘Dammit, Rav! The Prussians were top trumps. We couldn’t have beaten Boney without them. They deserved anything they could snaffle.’

At this moment a willowy youth dressed in the height of fashion entered the room. His jacket of finest sky-blue wool was padded at the shoulders and nipped in to a wasp waist, his starched shirt points so high he could barely turn his head, but his merry, childlike face and blond curls undermined the dramatic contrivance of his clothes.

‘Here comes the flash kiddy.’ Lord Purfoy raised his eyebrows, a sly smile on his lips.

‘Don’t be so hard on Ferdy. He’ll grow out of it,’ Alick Wolfe said as he waved and Ferdinand Shilton picked his way through the roistering crowd to pull up a stool. Alick Wolfe threw his linen handkerchief across to him. ‘There’s ale all over the table; mind your sleeve.’

‘Thanks, Al. Well, me flash coves, what’s the drift?’ Ferdinand Shilton liked to bandy boxing cant around as if he was an aficionado of the Fancy, when really he had neither the build nor the inclination to spar with the professionals at Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street establishment. He wiped the stool before lowering his pristine pantaloons onto the stained wood.

‘We’re just discussing the capture of Napoleon’s coach. Height of luxury. Went everywhere with him, even exile in Elba.’ Raven Purfoy looked lazily from one friend to the other. ‘They found his gold-embossed duelling pistols. When’s he going to indulge in a duel on the carnaged plain of Waterloo?’ he scoffed, draining his tankard of ale and pushing a plate of fried sprats across the table. ‘Those fancy wheels ain’t goin’ nowhere. It’s all dickey now with him.’

‘Cleverer than the devil; who’s to say he won’t escape again?’

‘Ferdy, don’t be such a nincompoop. They’ll triple-bolt the door and throw away the key. There’s no chance they’ll risk him mobilising another army.’

‘News of the carnage continues. Shockingly bad.’ The young dandy shook his head sadly. ‘So many more killed and wounded. Do you remember Arthur Clifton? He was at school with us, excelled at the Wall game, always to the front of the crush. Cut down at Quatre Bras.’

‘My sworn enemy.’ His lordship seemed unmoved, then added, ‘Hell of a way to die though. Wouldn’t wish it on the worst of cullies, even such a Captain Hack’em as he.’

‘Oh, I almost forgot. One of the best of men, that terrific horseman you raced against, Rav, Lord Oakbourne, the Earl of Ramsbury’s son, fallen in the last hour of battle.’

Alick Wolfe had been watching some young blades gambling on the outcome for a fly caught in a spider’s web by the window, but when he heard Lord Oakbourne’s name he turned towards his friends. ‘Lord Oakbourne? Where did you hear that, Ferdy?’

‘Cousin works in the War Office. He recognised he was someone we knew. Top of the trees, never find a better man.’

‘’Tis true. That’s a tragedy for the old Earl. Loses one heir and gains another. But not, I’m afraid, such an exemplar of nobility.’

‘Why? Who is he?’ Lord Purfoy’s interest was piqued. He knew and liked the Earl of Ramsbury and had visited him at Oakbourne Park. This was a significant estate and the old man was known for his wealth and chivalrous character. ‘It’s one hell of an inheritance. Who’s the lucky heir?’

Alick Wolfe had his head in his hands. ‘My brother,’ he said as his shoulders slumped.

‘What? Not the Wicked Wolfe! Devil take ’im!’

‘I know. He’ll become even higher in the instep.’

‘I’m sorry, Al. He’s already the prince of presumption. It should be you, not him. You’re much the better man.’

‘But I’m not the senior cousin.’

‘You sure ye share the same father?’ Mr Shilton gazed at his friend with innocent blue eyes.

‘Yes. Poor Mama stayed on the farm and did not escape our tyrant pater long enough to take up with any likely gallant. Anyway, I look like Darius.’ He gave a wry smile. How much easier life would have been without him as an elder brother.

‘You’re not as handsome, ye know, but you’re an out-and-outer. Trust ye with my life.’

Alick Wolfe grasped his friend’s hand in thanks, and then looked at them both and spoke with some urgency. ‘Raven, Ferdy, I must go and see Darius. He’s probably not yet awake. No doubt, up half the night gaming—’

‘Or whoring!’ Lord Purfoy intervened, his languid demeanour animated by a cynical smile.

‘That too. But he may not have heard the news. Better get over to Albemarle Street and tell him.’ He stood up, his good-natured face full of trouble.

‘I’ll take you up in my curricle. I’m going that way.’ Raven Purfoy was half out of his chair, ready to leave.

‘Is there room for me too?’ Ferdinand Shilton sprang to his feet with the exuberance of a puppy.

‘There is. But not for your coat! Those shoulders take up more than half the space.’ They all laughed as they left the tavern and its rowdy clientele. Lord Purfoy whistled for his tiger, who had been tooling his horses up and down Holborn, and a navy-blue curricle drawn by an immaculate pair of greys swung into view.

‘Taz. Why weren’t you here when I needed you?’

Raven Purfoy’s tiger was a small man with the physique of a jockey and the wizened face of a mischievous monkey. He spat into the gutter then muttered, ‘Well Gov, ye don’t want them rum prancers gettin’ chilled while yer niffy-naffy culls get half-foxed at the Daffy?’ It was obvious he did not hold his lordship in any kind of awe. He stroked the horses’ foreheads, muttering soft endearments, and sniffed at the sight of Mr Shilton as he climbed up onto the seat.

‘Honestly Rav, I don’t appreciate being called a niffy-naffy cull by your man.’

‘I fear he doesn’t really appreciate your coat. By the way, who the devil is your tailor? Not Weston or Meyer, I’ll bet.’

Still smarting, Ferdinand Shilton was not about to be deflected and continued his plaint, ‘Why do you put up with such disrespect from one of your servants?’

‘Shove up,’ said Alick Wolfe as he squeezed onto the seat beside his friends.

Lord Purfoy grasped the reins and called out, ‘Spring ’em, Taz.’ The high-bred horses launched forward into a smart trot. As they moved off, his tiger swung himself onto the platform at the back of the curricle.

Raven Purfoy turned to eye the young blades squashed in beside him and drawled, ‘Frankly, he can call my friends what he likes and he can call me what he likes; he’s the best tiger in London.’

Mr Shilton was still brooding over the aspersions cast on his sartorial choices. ‘What makes him so good? Looks a paltry shrimp to me.’

‘His wondrous way with horses. All my friends are angling to get him.’

Alick Wolfe leaned across and lowered his voice, aware of the small, wizened face just behind him. ‘Why does he stay with you then, Rav?’

‘Because I picked him off the streets and recognised his particular genius.’

‘Yessir! That ye did.’ A throaty chuckle sounded behind them, quite out of keeping with the diminutive body from which it had emerged. Alick Wolfe laughed, but Ferdinand Shilton was put out at this blatant lack of deference.

Raven Purfoy ignored his tiger’s intervention. He concentrated on weaving his curricle through the carriages and horsemen crowding Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘He’s a loyal cove. His love is for the animals, and that’s all I ask.’ The horses were trotting now in elegant symmetry, the motion lulled the occupants, quelling further discussion. Eventually they turned into Albemarle Street and could see the grand colonnades of the Royal Institution. ‘Where’s the big bad Wolfe’s lair?’

‘Just there, the red door. By Grillion’s Hotel.’ His lordship pulled his greys up and Alick Wolfe sprang down.

‘Handle this carefully, Al. It’s quite a shock y’know.’

‘Don’t worry, Ferdy. My brother’s about as sensitive as a dead pig.’ He waved, seeming more sanguine than he felt.

‘Gird yourself, Al.’ His friends saluted as the horses pulled away and trotted towards Piccadilly.

Darius Wolfe’s butler opened the door. His genial old face lit up at the sight of his master’s younger brother, standing tall on the doorstep with the sunlight catching his wavy brown hair.

‘Good afternoon, Gibbons. How are you? How are your knees?’

‘Not too bad when the weather’s warm like now, thank you, Master Alick.’ He had been the senior Wolfe’s man and had known both boys since they were cubs. He still looked on Darius with indulgence and considered his reprobate behaviour merely an excess of animal spirits, but it was Alick whom he loved. ‘We haven’t seen you for some time. I hope we find you well?’

‘Very well, thank you, Gibbons. Much relieved at the news of the war. Such carnage, though. The tragedy.’ His face was downcast and the old man put out a hand in consolation.

‘Yes, indeed. Perhaps we were lucky that it went our way?’

‘I think you’re right. But our views are not popular at the moment when national pride rules the day.’ They both laughed. ‘Is my brother in?’ He glanced into the handsome hallway where the upward sweep of the cantilevered stone staircase dominated the view.

Gibbons’ wise old face looked guarded for a moment. ‘He is, but he’s occupied at the moment. Might you return later?’

‘Occupied with business. Or ladybirds?’

‘I couldn’t really say, sir.’ The old man’s loyalties were split and he looked even more uncomfortable.

‘Don’t worry your head on his account. I know my brother well enough by now. Just tell him I’ve got urgent news.’

Gibbons went to the library door and knocked discreetly.

‘What is it?’ came the harsh response.

‘Your brother is here, sir.’

‘Tell him to go to hell, I’m busy.’

‘He says he has urgent news, sir.’

There was a pause and then the gruff response, ‘Oh, well, I suppose you’d better show him in, Gibbons.’

Alick Wolfe strode to the door and, to save the old butler any further embarrassment, opened it himself.

Inside he found his brother, looking darkly dishevelled, sitting on their father’s Jacobean chair with a tousled-haired beauty in his lap, hastily rearranging her clothes. His defiant eyes met his younger brother’s impassive gaze.

‘You have a talent for turning up when you’re least wanted.’ Darius Wolfe pushed the young woman off his lap and smacked her bottom. ‘Get thee hence, doxy.’ Her lovely face was unmoved as she walked to the sofa and continued to do up her buttons, then sat to slip on her stockings.

‘Darius! How can you talk so to a young lady?’

‘Very easily, I assure you, Al,’ he said coldly, looking up at his disapproving younger brother with dark, hollowed eyes.

‘Don’t you mind him, sir. Flashes his gab when he’s cup-shot. Means no harm. Just sulky after his gaming losses.’

Alick Wolfe looked at the young woman, her startling pale Titian-haired beauty luminous with youth. ‘What’s your name, Miss…?’

‘Louisa, sir.’

There was a snort of derision from Darius. ‘Don’t play the flash harlot, Loo. You’re no more a Louisa than I’m the Prince Regent! Be gone with you.’

‘Surely you’re going to take her home?’

‘No, why?’

‘Because you’re a gentleman, Darius, whatever else you may be.’

‘I’m afraid you’re wrong there, brother.’

‘Miss Louisa, I will take you home in my brother’s curricle. Where do you live?’

‘The Angel Islington, sir.’ Her blue eyes gazed at him speculatively but when she saw his expression of surprise she added, ‘My sister lives off Piccadilly. In Rupert Street. That’d do.’

Darius Wolfe’s laugh was mirthless. ‘You’re a chancer, Loo!’ Turning to his brother, he said, ‘She lives just round the corner in Grafton Street. She’s a crafty minx, just after a ride in the curricle.’

‘Miss Louisa, can you wait in the hall for a minute, while the horses are harnessed?’ Alick Wolfe opened the door for her as she cast a mischievous glance back at his brother. He turned to Gibbons with a polite request. ‘Could you summon the groom to harness up my brother’s bays to the curricle?’

‘You’re such a prig, Al. You always play the Sir Galahad. Why don’t you just kick over the traces sometimes? It would make me feel a hell of a lot better!’ Darius Wolfe was still semi-dressed, with his cravat undone and his linen shirt untucked from his breeches. He looked exhausted as he glowered at his brother.

‘You know nothing of my life; you’re not interested. So don’t start telling me how to conduct myself.’ The old brotherly antagonisms had risen in Alick Wolfe’s breast. His brother’s sense of entitlement and superiority rankled deeply.

‘I know you disapprove of me. But neither do you know me. I’ve had a hell of a week, betting against the war. I’ve lost a fortune. I needed some comfort and diversion.’

‘The fiend on thee! Betting against the war? That’s unpatriotic madness!’ Alick Wolfe paced the room, exasperated by his brother’s unprincipled indulgences. His face was flushed with feeling as he raked a hand through his hair. Glancing across at his elder brother, he glimpsed a melancholy in his handsome face.

‘I was following the Rothschilds’ lead. It was rumoured Nathan was selling gilts hand over fist, which made everyone think he knew the war was going badly. You know how good his network of informers is. So I sold.’ He quaffed the remains of the brandy in his glass, his dark eyes even more veiled than usual. ‘But I wasn’t as quick as he to start buying again, just before the news of Wellington’s victory became official. He doubled his fortune, I halved mine.’ He poured himself another brandy and, as an afterthought, offered a glass to his brother who waved it away.

His dark head had dropped to his hand and his younger brother felt a kind of sympathy for him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I suppose it’s no worse than Papa would have done,’ he said in an attempt at consolation.

‘That rakehell would have beggared us both if he’d had a chance. Thank the devil the main estate was entailed. Now, of course, I’ve almost beggared myself. I fear Hades awaits. Worst of all, I’ll meet our papa there; that makes my fate doubly alluring.’ He stood up, as tall and muscular as his younger brother, but more energetically tensed, like a panther ready to strike. ‘You’re lucky to have the Manor Farm to do with as you please. Freehold and unentailed. It may not be much, but it’s yours.’

‘I should be going. I’ll return your equipage and walk home from here.’ Alick Wolfe turned towards the door.

‘Wait, brother! What urgent matter propelled you hither at this hour?’

‘I had forgot. Ferdy Shilton heard that Lord Oakbourne was killed at Waterloo.’ The news had an electrifying effect. From exhausted and dissolute, Darius Wolfe became a gimlet-eyed predator.

‘By God! The devil’s on my side at last. The Oakbourne estate and the Earldom of Ramsbury! What news to cheer a sickening soul.’ He prowled across the room, his good looks animated by the prospect of advancement and gain. ‘I can’t quite believe it. Nihil opportunius vidi! Thank you, Al.’

Alick Wolfe’s brown eyes, the laughter long fled, followed his brother’s pacing form with an inscrutable gaze. ‘Sadly, it’s not such good news for Lord Oakbourne and his fond papa. There is but a heart’s beat between the heroic heights and the Stygian depths.’ He was suddenly overcome with the pity of things, with the wastefulness of war.

‘If you were a gamester you’d know that sometimes the bones fall against you. It’s life, Sir Galahad, not as you’d like it, but true all the same.’ Darius Wolfe laughed and saluted his younger brother.

With an answering wave, Alick Wolfe opened the library door and entered the hallway, offering his arm to Miss Louisa. The curricle was drawn up outside.

‘Thank you, Gibbons. I’ll see you again.’

‘I hope soon, Master Alick.’

Alick Wolfe handed the young woman up then swung up beside her. The horses were frisky and for a moment he concentrated on keeping them from veering into the path of a town coach and four trotting fast towards them. He turned to his companion and was struck again by her beauty; a vision of Botticelli’s Venus came to mind.

‘I’m Alick Wolfe, Darius’s younger brother.’

‘Didn’t know he had kin,’ she said, gazing up at him sweetly.

‘We’ve always been havey-cavey with each other.’

‘You look like him, but not so handsome.’ She was emphatic. ‘I think he’s a rum duke.’

He found it surprising she had such a high opinion of his brother. ‘What’s your family name?’

They were just approaching Piccadilly and he was concentrating on joining the other carriages and horsemen along this busy highway. Small knots of soldiers, just returned from Waterloo with hag-ridden faces and tattered clothing, spilled into the road, surrounded by men slapping them on the back and leading them into the Black Bear or the Hercules Pillars tavern for a celebratory ale.

‘Louisa Flowerdew. My dada has a farm just outside Staines in Middlesex. Grows flowers for the gentry.’

‘What a suitable name. And how did you meet Darius?’

‘Delivering to the house next to his. He quizzed me if I’d like some hot chocolate. I’d be a rattle-head to say no. I never went home again.’ Her voice was matter of fact.

He was startled. ‘What did your parents say about that?’

‘Driving his chaise and four, they could see he was well inlaid. Thought I might make more of my life hanging on his sleeve.’

‘But he hasn’t offered to marry you?’

‘Lawks no!’ She seemed shocked at the presumption. ‘But he did offer to look after me. He’s rented some rooms, far above my touch. Better than shuffling in the muddy, cold fields and making do in a two-room byre with me mam and da.’ She seemed cast down by the thought of this alternative.

‘Do you want me to take you to your sister’s or would you rather go home?’ He turned and asked her with a kindness that seemed to surprise her.

‘I’d rather go home, if you please.’

‘To Grafton Street?’

‘Yes.’ Then in a rush of words, she confided, ‘You see, Mr Alick, I’m increasing.’

He drew the horses into the side of the road and stopped. He was shaken by the news, so casually imparted. ‘You mean you are with child?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does my brother know?’

She became agitated and clutched at his arm. ‘No, and he must not know,’ she said in some distress. ‘He told me if there was a babe, it’d be my responsibility alone. He would deny it was his.’

‘And is it?’

Her eyes blazed. ‘Course it is! I ain’t bin with no man but Darius.’

He was gratified to see her display such mettle. He realised she was not quite as complaisant and easily bullied as he had at first thought. He set the horses off