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  Adeline ejected an explosive snort. “It isn’t so much what he said. Tedious creature that he is, he never says anything original. He first inquires about Michael’s health, after which he makes noises about his neglect of his ducal duties. Those gems of cousinly concern are inevitably followed by The Hussy’s suggestion that I have Michael declared incompetent and turn the duchy over to her husband.” She gave the hideous green cloth a vicious stab with her pole. “As if I’d entrust even a shilling of the Vane fortune to that grasping pair.”

  Euphemia couldn’t help grinning as her friend proceeded to mutter several colorful invectives that perfectly described their mutual opinion of anyone who dared to defame Michael … their handsome, witty, darling Michael.

  Her grin softened into a fond smile as she lifted the printing plate from her fabric to reveal a midnight blue imprint of a pheasant among fanciful blossoms and curling foliage. She would never forget the first time she saw Michael, though twenty-six years had passed. He’d been so small and dear in his black skeleton suit, so pale, but brave, in his fear of the grandmother he barely knew. It had been a week after the tragedy that was now referred to in hushed tones as The Incident.

  The Incident, as everyone knew, was the duel in which Michael’s father had been killed by his wanton mother’s lover, with whom she’d afterward fled. Michael had been two at the time. Because he’d had no one else, the task of rearing him had fallen to his recently widowed grandmother. Euphemia, who had borne six sons of her own, all long grown at the time, had adored her friend’s beautiful grandson at first sight and had promptly appointed herself his surrogate aunt. Thus, together they had raised him into the glorious man he’d grown to be.

  And together they now stood helplessly by, impotent to free him from the torment he currently suffered.

  Thinking of his terrible state struck her with the sudden fear that he’d taken a turn for the worse. That would certainly explain Addy’s distress, and her reluctance to spill the soup. For though Euphemia was, in truth, the more stout-hearted of the pair, her softer demeanor sometimes prompted Adeline to shield her from the harshness of life … especially when the harshness in some way concerned Michael.

  Unnerved by her suspicion, yet aware that Adeline would evade her questions if she asked them point-blank, Euphemia discreetly probed, “Speaking of Michael, have you received Mr. Eadon’s monthly progress report yet?” Timothy Eadon was the attendant Adeline had hired to look after her grandson.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  A soft sigh. “Nothing new.”

  A wave of relief washed over Euphemia. Expelling the breath she’d been unaware she was holding, she murmured, “Ah. Well, then we must give thanks that he hasn’t suffered any spells of late. How long has it been since his last?”

  “Six months.”

  Euphemia considered for a beat, then nodded. “Yes. I do believe that we may regard his lack of a change as good news. After all, six months is the longest he has ever gone without a spell. If you will recall, he suffered at least one a month right after his illness.”

  “Yes. I suppose.” Adeline had ceased her assault on the cloth and now stared morosely into the vat.

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, what?”

  Euphemia couldn’t keep a note of impatience from creeping into her voice. “Well, if Michael is no worse and the Pringles said nothing out of the ordinary, what has you in high dudgeon?”

  There was a brief silence, then Adeline softly confessed, “It’s Michael’s future. It has me terribly worried.”

  Euphemia gaped at her friend, wondering if age was beginning to affect her mind. “What? Why ever would you fret about such a thing? As duke of Sherrington, his position in life is secure.”

  “Is it?” Adeline looked up, her brow crumpled into a troubled frown. “The Pringles’ last visit left me wondering just how secure it truly is.”

  “Indeed?” Euphemia prompted.

  Adeline nodded. “You know as well as I that The Varlet will be in court the instant I hop the twig, petitioning for control of the duchy.”

  “And we both know that they will never give it to him,” Euphemia countered with conviction.

  “Do we? I am no longer so certain. Should I die before Michael has—er—improved, The Varlet stands an excellent chance of being granted the duchy.”

  “But how? I mean … Euphemia shook her head, unable to even conceive of such a notion. “What grounds could The Varlet possibly bring forth to support such an action?”

  “Madness,” Adeline replied in a funereal tone. “He could have our dearest Michael declared mad.” She met Euphemia’s eyes then, and Euphemia was astounded to see them awash with tears. “Oh, Effie!” she whispered, her voice straining with anguish. “Just thinking of what might become of him if that were to happen—why, I—I—” Her voice shattered, as did her fragile hold on her composure, and a tear escaped down her withered cheek.

  “Michael? Mad? Rubbish!” Euphemia ejected, distressed by her friend’s show of emotion. In the seventy years of their acquaintance, she had seen Addy cry only three times: the first had been when she’d buried her husband; the second was when her son, her only child, had been killed in the duel; and the third was during the crisis of Michael’s devastating illness, when the doctors had despaired for his life.

  Wishing that The Varlet was there now so she could boil him in the ugly green dye, Euphemia rushed to where Adeline stood, declaring indignantly, “Michael is as sane as you—or I—or anyone else in the ton!” Giving her friend a fierce hug, she added, “Saner, even!”

  “Of course he is,” Adeline replied brokenly, returning her hug. “But you know as well as I that there are many in the ton who would argue that point. Don’t forget that everyone who is anyone witnessed his awful spell at Lady Kilvington’s picnic two seasons ago. And then there are those rumors that dollymop spread about.” The dollymop to whom she referred was the jade who had been Michael’s mistress at the time of his illness. “Add all that to the nature of the cures he’s sought and the way he has hidden himself in Dartmoor, and the rumors of him having gone mad seem quite sound.”

  She paused then, her expression growing rueful as she wiped her eyes with the back of her dye-stained hand. When she again spoke, her voice was hushed and as brittle as spun glass. “Of late I have wondered if I perhaps made a mistake in having myself appointed administrator of his duchy. My action could very well be seen as confirmation of the rumors should it ever become common knowledge.”

  “Of course you did the right thing, and to the devil with the rumors,” Euphemia reassured her in a rush. “Michael was in no condition to make decisions during his illness. And now … well … your control is only temporary. The instant he proves himself fit to tend to his own affairs, it reverts right back to him.”

  “Yes, I know. But should I die …”

  “Enough of such talk!” Euphemia interjected sharply, wanting to die herself at the thought of losing her dearest Addy. “You are not going to die, not for many years yet. I simply shan’t allow it.” She gave her friend another hug.

  “I shall endeavor to remember that,” Adeline murmured, managing a wan smile. “Still—”

  “I know,” Euphemia cut in, easily divining her friend’s thoughts. “I cannot help worrying as well.” Suddenly too glum to muster even a pretense of optimism, she morosely mused, “If only there was something we could do to secure his position, I mean really secure it. For now and forever.”

  “Yes. If only …” Sighing, Adeline closed her eyes. “Unfortunately, there is only one way to do that.”

  “Yes.” Unfortunately, Addy was right.

  “And that way is now impossible.”

  Euphemia opened her mouth to confirm her friend’s bleak verdict, then shut it again as an idea began to form … a most intriguing and delicious one. In order t
o secure his duchy—to truly secure it—Michael needed an heir. That meant that he must marry, an advent that had seemed impossible because of his unfortunate condition. Impossible … until now. Barely able to hide her excitement, she murmured, “Perhaps that way may not be as impossible as you believe.”

  Adeline opened her eyes, frowning at her as if she’d lost her wits. “Of course it is. You know as well as I that there isn’t a gel in the ton who will have Michael now, not a decent one. Those chits who aren’t frightened to death of his spells are either repulsed by the notion of them, or scornful of the fact that he suffers them at all.”

  “Which is why he must wed a girl outside of the ton. One of good blood who has no choice but to do as we bid,” Euphemia replied with a smug smile.

  Adeline snorted. “And where, pray tell, do you propose we find such a creature?”

  Euphemia gave her eyebrows a meaningful lift. “Where do you think?”

  “I have no idea, but if you believe—” Adeline broke off abruptly, her eyes narrowing. After a brief pause, during which her expression of crotchety annoyance shifted to one of gleeful calculation, she said, “You aren’t thinking what I think you are thinking, are you?”

  “And what exactly do you think I am thinking?” Euphemia inquired archly.

  A slow smile stretched across Adeline’s creased face. “That we match your granddaughter to my grandson.”

  “Exactly.” Euphemia cackled her delight at her own ingenuity. “You have to admit that is a perfect plan, for everyone. My granddaughter marries a man whom I both love and approve of, and Michael gets a suitable bride. As for this business with the Pringles, well, the very fact that Michael is wed will do much to weaken whatever claims they might ever make on the duchy. Best of all, it will unite our families. You know that that has always been our fondest wish. Just imagine, Addy, we could be sharing great-grandchildren someday.”

  “Great-grandchildren.” Adeline’s expression grew far away and she smiled dreamily. “Can you imagine how very wonderful children from our combined blood would be?”

  She could imagine, easily. “They would be exceedingly beautiful.”

  “And charming. You know how very charming Michael can be?”

  Euphemia nodded. She did know, having been twisted around his little finger for so many years. “And intelligent. I am told that Emily is quite clever, as is Michael.”

  “Their children would be nothing short of perfection,” Adeline summed up.

  Nodding in mutual agreement at that prediction, they fell silent, each smiling proudly as she envisioned her perfect great-grandchildren. After several moments of doing so, Adeline’s smile began to fade, then it disappeared completely. “It is a pretty thought, but I do not think it wise that we get our hopes too high,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “Pardon?” Euphemia blinked several times, frowning as she was pulled from her delightful reverie. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s Michael.” Adeline more sighed than uttered the words. “You know how difficult he has become. We shall never be able to convince him to cooperate.”

  Euphemia’s smile returned in a flash. “Oh, I doubt if much convincing will be required once he sees Emily. After all, Michael has always had an eye for beauty, and Emily is said to be exceedingly lovely. Indeed, she is considered by many, I hear, to be the most beautiful girl in Boston.”

  “Ah. But there’s the rub, don’t you see? Michael refuses to receive anyone. I doubt if he will so much as allow himself to be introduced to her.”

  “Then you must force him to receive her,” Euphemia declared, not about to be thwarted by Michael’s brooding. “Need I remind you that the court awarded you guardianship of his person as well as of his duchy? Should he prove too intractable, you must remind him of that fact.”

  Adeline looked positively stricken. Hanging her head, as if defeated by the very thought of crossing her grandson, she muttered, “Such tactics will never work, not with Michael. He’s far too stubborn to bow to threats. Besides, you know how he resents it when I meddle in his life. Why, he still hasn’t forgiven me for engaging Mr. Eadon.”

  Euphemia sniffed at her friend’s weak-willed twittering. For all that Addy was a dragon in the ton, she was a wet goose when it came to dealing with her grandson. Deciding it high time the boy was taken in hand, she sternly lectured, “Forcing Mr. Eadon’s services on Michael was the best thing you could have done for him. Indeed, the very fact that he hasn’t suffered a spell in six months bears testimony to that fact. As for forcing a match with Emily, well, aside from the obvious advantages, doing so might very well improve his spirits. High spirits make for a healthy body, I always say. And there is nothing to lift a young man’s spirits like a beautiful woman.”

  “You could be right … I suppose,” Adeline reluctantly admitted, though she still looked far from happy.

  “Of course I am. I am always right, aren’t I?” That Euphemia possessed the greater sense in regards to Michael was a fact that had been acknowledged by both women on numerous occasions.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled. Michael and Emily shall be wed.” Euphemia smiled, well pleased with her day’s work.

  “Uh … Effie, dear. You seem to be forgetting an important factor in all of this.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your granddaughter. She could prove as difficult as Michael.”

  Euphemia chuckled drily. “She could, but she won’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I am certain because she shall be given no choice in the matter. I will simply inform her that she is to be wed, and that shall be that. If you truly love Michael and wish to preserve the Vane family name, you won’t give him a choice either.”

  Chapter 2

  Dartmoor, England

  This must be the dreariest place on earth, Adeline thought, viewing the hideous stone gargoyles with distaste. The gargoyles in question were much like her grandson’s current residence, Windgate Abbey, in which she now stood: cold, eerie, and savagely misshapen. Like the gargoyles, which featured the worst possible physical attributes of the ugliest known creatures, both real and mythical, the additions to the abbey reflected the most grotesque architectural innovations of the past six centuries.

  Built in the thirteenth century as a Cistercian abbey, Windgate had been confiscated by Henry VIII during his dissolution of the monasteries, at which point it had begun its metamorphosis into a country house. If legend stood correct, and Adeline didn’t doubt for a moment that it did, the house had been given to a Vane ancestor as a reward for helping the king win the heart of Jane Seymour, his third queen. That that ancestor was most probably instrumental in the beheading of the king’s existing wife, Anne Boleyn, was a detail that was never discussed.

  Standing now in what had once been the chapel nave, but now served as the entry hall, Adeline found herself considering that very detail and thinking that the monstrousness of the house reflected the sin for which it had been a reward. She had just turned her mind to comparing it to Michael’s four other estates, all exceedingly pleasant places, and wondering what had possessed him to choose this one as his refuge, when the majordomo came into view.

  In keeping with the abbey’s alarming image, the servant was a cadaverous-looking giant of indeterminate age with beetled black eyebrows and a twisted beak of a nose. As if those unfortunate traits weren’t off-putting enough to callers, should anyone actually have the temerity to call, the man had an unnerving propensity toward baring his teeth when he spoke, the pointiness of which created the disconcerting effect of a vampire about to partake in a snack.

  He was baring those teeth now as he sketched a surprisingly graceful bow. “The duke is in the summer parlor. If you would be so good as to follow me?” As surprising as his grace was his voice, which was nothing short of beautiful.

 
“Thank you, Grimshaw,” Adeline replied, nodding cordially. For all that he was a fright to look at, he really was a dear man.

  Grimshaw bared his teeth further, into what was his version of a smile, then turned on his highly polished heels and led her up a stone staircase, and into the tortured maze that was Windgate Abbey. As Adeline followed, she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps the most startling aspect of the majordomo wasn’t so much his barbarous looks as their astonishing contrast to his elegant attire. If ever a man was immaculately groomed, it was Grimshaw. Indeed, there was many a London buck who could stand to emulate his style.

  It was the thought of London and the city’s glittering denizens that dragged her mind back to her grandson. Once upon a time he had been the most beautiful and fashionable of them all. And that opinion wasn’t just grandmotherly pride. Before his illness had taken its toll, the entire ton had acknowledged and revered him as their preeminent gallant. He was the man other men wished to be, the one the women sighed over and dreamed of wedding. Indeed, so much the rage was he that it wasn’t at all uncommon for the ladies to raise their cups during tea and propose toasts to his numerous charms. Michael, who had been spoiled from the cradle by adoring females of all stations, had simply accepted their homage as his due.

  Passing from the original stone abbey building into the timber and brick Tudor wing, Adeline considered how much less devastating his current situation would have been and how much easier he might have borne it had he not been so celebrated. After all, being a demigod of sorts had meant that he’d had much farther to fall than if he had been a mere mortal. It also meant that his condition had been granted less tolerance than would have been allowed a lesser man.

  As a prime example of manhood, he had naturally been expected to be impervious to all weakness and imperfection. To show that he was indeed vulnerable and ultimately flawed had been viewed as a betrayal of that expectation, and was thus judged unforgivable. That his flaw should manifest itself in such a shocking manner had made the ton, which had once so worshiped him, turn away in disgust. As for Michael …