To His Mistress

And so it begins...

I don’t believe it, she crowed. I just don’t believe it.

Elvira, Countess of Shelton, stared at the framed weaving as she planted her hands on the edge of the table. Slowly her weak knee straightened, the purple damask velvet of her skirt unfolded, and she stood, blue veined hands digging into the small of her back. She had been sitting too long. The older she grew, the more difficult weaving became. Not that she minded, not now. Not with her goal in sight.

She stepped around the table to view the work from another angle. It was still there, adjacent to the miniature of Alexander’s first dog and the dented standish. Hero, that was the dog’s name. Stupid name for a common mutt. The mangy thing came from the village, couldn’t boast a grandsire with breeding, but Alexander tromped the fields day in and out with Hero. That was the summer after he entered Eton. Shelton was livid. He wanted his son under his thumb studying with the bailiff rather than running free across the acres.

She ran a knuckle along the crested standish. Shelton, the intolerant beast, threw it when Alexander was sent down from Oxford for refusing to discuss Plato’s ‘nonsensical’ theory of forms. Her husband had terrible aim. Instead of braining Alexander, ink sprinkled the rug; the linen paneling had to be replaced. He broke her favorite Sevres vase.

Shelton had been almost as stupid as Hero, and that was saying something.

He rode Alexander hard. He wanted his son to be the consummate earl; he wanted Alexander perfect, as he thought himself perfect. The clothhead didn’t live long enough to reap what he sowed.

The dog and Plato were seeds in the weaving. There were others; items to represent them were woven into the frame. Together, they pointed to Alexander’s unfortunate tendency. Determination. A strong will. Flicking the standish, Elvira snorted. A mealy mouthed term, strong will. Sounded admirable. Truth was, Alexander was the most pig-headed man alive.

If not for his stubbornness, Alex would be a decent son and a good earl. He didn’t game his estate to the bone. Gossips didn’t cluck over his ladybirds. He did what was right. Alexander was a respectable earl, but...

He did wrong as often as right. She’d had to step in, direct events her own way.

Elvira ran her eyes over the weaving. Her son and his life–his passions, hates, and his confounded perversity–were laid out in the frame for her to manipulate. She had been working on it for a year, uncertain as to its value or ultimate usefulness. It was an experiment that succeeded. Now she knew she was right. Here was proof.

Briggs thought she was addled, but here in the weaving was indisputable proof. A diamond ring was caught in the scarlet ribbons that formed the canvas of the weaving. Nestled between the mongrel and the standish, the marquise diamond was bigger than her thumbnail, flawless blue white. She reached with aristocratic, slightly gnarled fingers and tugged at the ring. Woven in tightly, it refused to come loose.

It is finally going to happen, Elvira announced to the room at large. Clapping her hands with bourgeoning exhilaration, she stepped to the bell pull. Giving three vigorous tugs, she summoned Briggs, that doubting Thomas.

It took several minutes for him to arrive. She spent the time circling the weaving, inspecting each item. Yes, the spoon angled to the east. It was Alexander’s first spoon, the one he used for porridge. He hated porridge, but Nurse, the only person to ever bend him to her will, insisted.

The knock she had been awaiting sounded. Come in, she said, hiding her excitement behind the studied pose of languid lady. The butler entered, followed by a neat maid carrying a silver tea service. Elvira’s toe began to tap.

Briggs, I did not order tea. With the economy of movement of the superior butler, he swung up the leaf and set the elbow of the gate leg table in front of the fireplace. The maid slid the tray onto the tabletop.

No, my lady, Briggs intoned, but your custom is to take a cup at this time. I anticipated your request. With maddening deliberation, he aligned a Windsor chair to the table. Under his exacting eye, the maid pulled out a rag and flicked at any specks of dust that had dared to settle on the seat.

I don’t want tea.

With a snap of his fingers, the butler ignored her petulant comment. The maid knelt and picked invisible lint from the carpet. Elvira’s thumb and index finger rubbed together convulsively. Her toe cramped, tapping on the age-faded arabesques of the Persian rug.

He handed the maid a tinderbox; she circled the room, lighting candles. When every taper sparkled flame, the maid looked to him for instruction.

Elvira snapped, That will be all. The maid curtsied and left, leaving the door open. Briggs began to follow her out.

Hector Briggs, where do you think you are going?

He turned and bowed. The formalities. Of course, we are to observe them. Will that be all, madam? Dropping the mien of the superior butler, his lip curled with sarcasm.

For Merlin’s sake, Elvira exploded. No, that will not be all. You know very well I rang for you to view the spell, not bring a tea tray. I have completed it. I did it without your assistance, and I succeeded, without your assistance.

Really?

Take a look. Elvira’s finger, sore from pulling ribbons and tired from tapping her thumb with irritation, shook as she pointed at the weaving stretched across the worktable.

Impassive, Briggs folded his arms behind his back and stood at the bottom of the table. His eyes went over every inch of the weaving as if he checked critically for flaws in an underling’s work, inspecting and noting every wrinkle, every crimp in the scarlet ribbons. Then he moved to the east, north and west of the table, searching out snags. It took forever; by the time he was back at the south end of the table, Elvira was again tapping toes and fingers.

So? she demanded in the tone that wilted debutantes and shriveled hardy chaperones.

So if you have finished, the maids can lift the rug and beat it. It has been too long since this room was cleaned.

Briggs. He did not respond and Elvira stalked forward until they were nose to nose. Say something, you old goat. Well?

Well, nothing. Where did you get that? Briggs pointed to the ring.

Don’t be obtuse. That is the culmination of the spell.

And you believe it shows that your son will wed?

Of course. At long last, despite his obduracy, Alexander will marry. Within the month, if I read the weaving correctly. But it won’t last. The irregularities prove it.

Briggs shook his head disparagingly. I don’t agree. He will wed, and it will last.

Look at the diamond, man. There, look in the center of the stone. It is blood. Not Alex’s–his bride’s. She can bleed from the heart, for all I care. The omen is she will not last as Alexander’s wife and omens do not lie.

I don’t read the weaving the same way. A bit of red buried in the stone means the heart. They will develop a passion to rival that of Guinevere and Lancelot. The marriage will last. He turned from the table with a dismissive nod. At last you will have an heir to continue the line. That is what you want, after all, Stanton blood flowing in a new generation.

Not from that girl. Elvira slapped her hand on the table.

Why not?

Look at her hair.

It’s dark. So?

So I want grandchildren with Alex’s hair. It is the distinguishing feature of every Earl of Shelton from the time of Arthur. His father had it. It may have warmed an empty brain in his case, but the hair breeds true, generation after generation. Alex has it along with my intelligence, a fitting memorial to the alliance of Denhardham and Stanton. Glorious, guinea gold hair, not weak flax, not common brown. If he marries her, Elvira’s fingernail stabbed a ribbon, the color may dilute.

Your son’s hair is yellow, not gold.

Elvira drew up, a poker-straight aristocrat from the tip of her Brussels’ lace day cap to the cramped toes in her too small satin slippers. You are a daft old man, she said, biting off the words. His hair is golden. And this marriage will not last.

You have such faith in your magic. The butler’s words complimented, but the tone was caustic.

Elvira seethed. I wager you won’t lay your words on the line.

His eyes narrowed. A wager?

Yes. Your assessment against mine.

And what shall be the stake?

That which you have always wanted. Briggs stilled and Elvira smiled. Yes, old man. If you win; if Alex marries and remains wed, producing an heir from that dirty haired chit, I will buy that piece of property you want. What is it called?

Whole Place, Briggs said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. And if you win, my lady–if your son manages to shed himself of this brown-haired wife, what will you claim?

Your seat on the Council.

Briggs studied the conjunction of ribbons holding the standish and spoon in the weaving as if they held the answer to the question of Merlin’s existence. And the terms?

No holds barred. We may each influence the situation as we like.

No holds barred short of physical harm, Briggs warned. You can’t hurt the girl. Gambling with magic is reprehensible enough. If you indirectly–or shall I say inadvertently–create a spell that puts her in danger, I won’t have a Council seat for you to win. I’ll be stuffed in the crystal cave. If you are lucky, you will also. The least the Council of Mages will do is strip you of your powers and banish you till eternity.

Elvira nodded. If the nod was reluctant and her mind was whirling, looking for loopholes in the promise, she did agree. She would not split a hair on the girl’s head.

They bickered, shook hands. The wager was set. Her son, Alexander Stanton, Earl of Shelton, was going to acquire a wife. Once he did, the dowager Lady Shelton would do her damnedest to see the marriage ended. The butler, Briggs, would do everything in his power to see the marriage succeed.

She sat to drink stone-cold tea and he departed to chivvy the footmen on setting a proper dining table, both knowing that whatever happened, the magic was going to fly.

Chapter One

Well, my dear, have you settled on which volumes to take? Miss Sibley laid a hand on the jumbled pile of books. I doubt you will want many. Reading is not the favored activity in London. No more living life through books for you, my dear.

The dark-haired girl gave a look of scorn to the books and turned back to tucking tattered handkerchiefs down the side of the portmanteau on the bed. Oh, no, she said. Susan’s cousin wrote that balls, the theatre, and riding in the park take up one’s time. When would I ever wish to read?

If you will not want them, why did you pull these books off the shelf? So far, you have managed to complete your tasks without vacillating. Do not begin now. Do they go or do they not?

Miss Sibley lectured on graceful movements, but there were more important matters to attend at the moment. Katherine Scoville turned to her governess with an excited bounce. Her small stature might lead one to believe she was but a child, but the gentle swelling of her bosom revealed that this was a girl almost grown into a woman. Almost. She’d had enough almost.

Who cares? Imagine, Miss Sibley, tomorrow I leave on a grand adventure. London is full of life, full of lending libraries. Susan says her cousin thinks Hatchard’s the best. Surely Uncle Charles will allow me to go to Hatchard’s. So, you see I have no need to take these musty old bores with me. I have read them several times each; I need new books.

Sibbie humphed and patted her nose with her lavender-soaked handkerchief. Without thought, Katherine’s hands fluttered to the ribbon under her bodice. Such a bad habit, pulling on the ribbon, but comforting when what would come soon had her stomach bouncing as much as her toes. Uncle Charles is kind, isn’t he? When Mother and Father died, he let you remain with me when he might have sent you away. And now to give me a season. Not every guardian would be so kind.

The governess grasped Katherine’s hands with a scratch of her age-roughened ones and unwound the ribbon. Yes, your uncle is exceedingly kind and I have been glad to stay with you. But now you are ready to go on with life. She gave the fine-boned hands a shake.

Just remember, dear, you have no experience of the world. Reading books about Italy and Greece is not the same as visiting foreign lands, and Shapwick’s society is narrower than you can imagine. I regret that there has been no opportunity for you to meet people of breeding.

I know the Willmores.

The vicar, Miss Sibley sneered. Third son of a fourth son. Not the kind of breeding that matters. Friendship with Susan Willmore has not prepared you to meet the beau monde. If there were good families in the area, it would have been different.

You have breeding.

She blinked, looking pleased as punch, yet pained. Still not the kind that matters. Now, finish. Your bags must be in the carriage tout suite.

Miss Sibley sat at the dressing table as Katherine tucked the framed drawing of the Green Man from Mappowder’s Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in the bag. Mama drew it; it was her prize possession. Eight years since Mr. and Mrs. Scoville died, Sibbie mused out loud. I believe your parents would be proud of your manners, my dear. I tried to instill...

Katherine stopped listening. London. The opera. Art galleries. Fine gentlemen with breeding. She would meet the one man destined to love her forever. Where have you been all my life? he would whisper. I have been searching for you. I have pined for the sight of your glowing...

Have you checked the drawers? Sibbie’s voice drowned the gentleman’s compliment.

Every nook and cranny is emptied. To conceal her frustration, Katherine danced the Boulanger to the wardrobe and pulled open the warped door. See, only my nightdress and tomorrow’s traveling gown remain. She closed the door with her hip–nothing else lined it up–and danced back to the bed.

Then she sobered. She would be in London, but Sibbie would go to Cornwall. Would her old governess ever meet her handsome beaux? Whole Place was old, dark, and musty with the smell of age and unwashed floors. What should she have done without dearest Sibbie? Perhaps she would have drowned in the dust under the bed.

I shall miss you, slipped out despite her determination to remain strong. Katherine clung to her governess. Miss Sibley gently smoothed tendrils of hair from her face.

You may miss me, as I will you, dear Katherine. Whomever your uncle asks to chaperone you will be able to guide you in the ways of the beau monde much better than I. Enjoy your time in London to the fullest.

I will. But I vow I will send for you when I wed my gallant duke.

* * *

Bursting through the front door with firm purpose, Katherine hurried behind the carriage to the yawning boot, where an aged footman wrestled with a collection of luggage. Thompson, you won’t forget, will you? You promised to tend the kittens. They are too young to be without a mother and you know Tommy Tranor will drown them if given the chance.

Course, missie. he said, I already promised t’ feed the bits, an’ I always keeps m’ promises. I’ll take ‘em in me bed if’n they gets lonely without ye. He turned back to stuffing portmanteaus around Charles Bradley’s trunks. Katherine handed him the last bag and he fixed her with a gimlet eye.

And Tommy Tranor ain’t going to do nothing to the kitties, Miss Kate, less’en God wills it. If they’re going to grow, they’ll grow. Thompson closed the boot.

Before she could respond, Sibbie, dear Miss Sibley, grabbed Katherine’s hand and steered her to the side of the graveled drive.

Katherine, I would speak on one more subject, she said urgently.

Why, Miss Sibley...

Your uncle will be out directly–there is little time. Hush and listen, child. She took a deep breath. I know you wish to have a marvelous season with handsome men to gallant you about, but my dearest Katherine, pray find a husband right away.

Her bluntness was startling, but Sibbie was not done. I heard things last night. Mr. Bradley’s affairs are not in good order; indeed your uncle could be on the edge of ruin. It is imperative you are under the protection of a congenial husband before disaster befalls–

A shout broke her off. Come, chit. Time to be off.

Miss Sibley winced. Oh, my dear child, heed my words.

Katherine gave her a swift hug and ran across the gravel. At the carriage door, Thompson lowered the steps. The man’s hands shook with spasms of age; it gave her a moment to look back. Miss Sibley stood where she left her, in front of a dormant lilac, hands clasped.

Why should Sibbie be concerned? Uncle’s affairs had never been in order–just look at the state of the manor. Neglect blighted all but the few rooms Miss Sibley arranged for their comfort. Of course Katherine would find a good husband. Surely two or three eligible London bachelors would be devoted to her–and by the end of the season she would choose among them. No need to fear Uncle’s precarious situation.

Katherine climbed the steps, lifting the hem of her blue serge traveling gown. If she became a duchess, she would have three grand footmen to assist her. One to hold the door, one to place the step (kneeling even in a puddle,) and the third to oh-so-gently steady her on the step. Everyone would envy her fine footmen. Their buttons would be silver to gleam in the sun... She paused on the step.

What color livery should they have?

Hmm, royal blue went nicely with silver buttons–but forest green may be more unusual. How tall should footmen be? Susan’s cousin once wrote about a ball at some lord’s house. The footmen matched in height. Oh my.

Someone poked her in the back and Katherine lost her balance. Oh, for a footman to catch her now. Instead, Uncle Charles wrapped his meaty hand around her arm and pushed.

Stop dreaming, he growled. Caleb waits to put the horses to and you stand on the step lost to the world. Her arm ached where he gripped it, but Katherine kept her head high. Practice for being a duchess. She favored Bradley with a brilliant smile. That smile would drop every eligible lord in town at her feet. Then she could decide who merited the next dance.

Somehow, her uncle was not impressed. Climb in, climb in. I want to rest the night at Stratford and if you plant yourself on the carriage step, we will hardly reach Coventry.

He pushed again and Katherine fairly leapt the last step, flying to the far corner of the carriage. The old mottled red plush cushion hinted that the journey would not be as comfortable as a handsome duke’s carriage would provide. Oh well, the journey would last only a few days. Soreness was worth the end in sight.

Bradley hefted his bulk onto the bench. Truly, he should take more exercise. His wheezing was alarming. Thompson latched the door and Bradley jabbed the ceiling with his walking stick, a signal for the coachman to proceed. With a jolt, the carriage moved. Anxious for a last glimpse of home, Katherine plastered her nose to the grimy window.

Goodbye, Thompson. Goodbye, dear Sibbie, she whispered. Already she was unable to make out the governess’s features. Then they drove around the bend in the drive. She faced forward with a wiggle, squarely on the lumpiest part of the squab.

Uncle, she ventured to converse. Do we go straight through to London, or shall we take side excursions? In reply, he pulled a paper from the side pocket of the coach and with a snap of the page, began to read. Annoyance popped up like weeds in the vegetable patch. His consequence was such that Charles Bradley seldom deigned to acknowledge questions from young ladies such as Katherine. In eight years as his ward, they hadn’t exchanged more than a few sentences at a time.

Katherine plucked the irritation from her soul as she would dandelions from the kale. Of course, she would learn of any excursions when they occurred. At the very least, they must spend the night at an inn. Her uncle could not push his horses past 60 miles a day. They would kneel in the dust and expire from the effort. She settled more firmly on the lump, her feet barely brushing the floor, like a child needing the chair legs sawn. She slid as the carriage rocked. Oh, to be taller.

Dismissing her greatest shortcoming, Katherine mentally composed a biography. The papers would need it when her uncle announced her engagement to the duke. Mr. Charles Bradley, of Shapwick, in the county of Dorset, (long miles from Wolverhampton, where she was born,) announces the marriage of his niece and ward, Miss Katherine Scoville...

How to describe her family? The Bradley’s never had many pretensions, though her mother’s father was a prosperous baron. Grandfather Bradley married Grandmother and lived quite happily until Grandmother died of the fever.

Grandfather then got silly, Mama said, may she rest in peace. He married the daughter of a tenant farmer. Katherine’s step-grandmother was not a nice woman. Charles Bradley was the son of that lady. He looked something like her, especially with two chins. He wore stylish clothing, but his stomach protruded and his waistcoat was a good three fingers too short, so his clothes did not look quite as Katherine’s papa’s, may he rest in peace.

Bradley was seldom at Whole Place. He spent the year in London, going to Brighton and to house parties. Katherine stayed at the manor with Miss Sibley and the servants and never went anywhere, not even to school. The duke must not be told she had never been in a carriage before.

The biography for the betrothal announcement had best be brief.

Ah, my. But she was going to London. There would be a goodly number of handsome gentlemen to converse with. Their waistcoats had better be the proper length, or they would get short shrift from her. And she would find her duke. Katherine practiced duchess posture.

* * *

Her forehead banged the wall of the coach and she blinked sleep from her eyes. Where were they? She looked past Uncle Charles, who had cane in hand and hat firmly on his head–oh, a coaching yard. They must be stopping to change horses. She hoped her uncle allowed time for a repast.

A grimy ostler rushed to open the door and lower the step, unruly strings of lank yellow hair caught in his eyelashes. Bradley prodded him with the cane and lowered himself to the ground. His stomach did tend to unbalance him unexpectedly. Thank goodness he did not squash the ostler.

Half an hour is what you get, Missy, he threw over his shoulder. Tend your business and snatch a bite. I won’t wait on dawdles.

Yes, sir, Katherine said, sliding over hill and valley of the cushion to the door. Shall you meet me in a private parlor? I need to wash the dust off... Bradley had turned away. She sighed and smiled as the ostler grabbed her hand to help her down. He left a black streak on her glove.

Katherine’s eyes darted, disregarding proper ducal behavior. She didn’t want to miss an iota of this, her grand adventure. The yard was nearly empty; the only other coach there was unlike any she had ever seen. The seat was above her head. It looked grand–black wheels picked out with yellow and the seat buttery cream. The cushion was thick like a feather pillow. Two splendid black horses pawed and danced. No white, not even around their ankles. Glossy and rippling with muscle, they looked ready to fly.

The boy holding the horses wore livery like the blue of her imagining, but the buttons were gold, not silver. Collar and cuffs striped gold and white. How cunning. Katherine eyed the lovely equipage as she walked to the inn, turning her head to survey the horses. The one shook its head at the boy, who reached up to pat...

Oomph. She ran into a tree trunk. It didn’t hit her nose, as that was pointed at the lovely carriage, but from her shoulder all down her front she tingled. She blinked and stepped back. Who planted a tree in front of the door?

Stupid her. The tree trunk was one of a pair of gentlemen. His back was to Katherine. Of course she was the clumsy one. Not attending her path, but the yard, she ran into–oh my, she ran into the tallest gentleman she ever met. He turned, looking to see who bumped him. Her nose could poke the middle button on his waistcoat without tilting, but angels sang, he was that lovely.

Then an imp kicked the angels silent. Did she feel small? He looked over her head, frowned, then looked down.

Her first handsome gentleman. His hair was a shocking blaze of gold, straight and thick, pushed back from his forehead. His eyes were piercing blue. He was just plain lovely, except for a grimace so twisted it would frighten kittens away from a trout filet.

Watch where you are walking. His bass voice grumbled in her empty stomach. I do not tolerate heedless children. Go find your keeper. With that throaty snarl, he turned his back on Katherine again.

She was a step away, staring at his coat. The material looked fine, stretched across straight, broad shoulders. What to do? An apology was appropriate. That’s it. Duchess poise would melt his snit. Then he might flirt with her.

She rushed into speech. I do make my apology, sir. I was engrossed in admiring that splendid carriage and those two perfectly lovely horses. They are so proud I imagine they run like the wind. And then I thought how delightful it would be to travel on puffy cushions instead of the lump in the pad in our carriage. The lump is just where I have to sit and most uncomfortable. I just did not pay attention to where I was walking.

Her breath was gone, but there was more to say. I did not desire to discommode you. I just wished to see every detail of such an exquisite equipage and so turned my head. I trust you received no injury?

She chose her very best smile. It should melt the hardest heart and make the gentleman smile back. Katherine waited for him to turn and give her that smile. Instead his back, covered with velvety blue cloth, shifted not the tiniest bit.

His grumpiness said, The perch is far enough above the springs. I find driving the phaeton, even over these abominable roads, puts no more stress on the axle than a ride through the park. You find it comfortable, do you not, Perth?

Those drawled words infuriated. He was ignoring Katherine, just as her uncle ignored her. What to do now? She glanced around. Uncle was in the inn. The only persons to be seen were herself, three ostlers, the boy in the smart livery and these men. And no one, absolutely no one, was looking at her. Two sets of perfectly polished men’s boots did not shift one inch.

Carefully, she circled the boots and hurried the few remaining steps into the inn. Rushing around the doorjamb, she stood against the wall, her eyes fastened to the floor. She couldn’t peek back outside, not for all the lending libraries in London.

Unquestionably, the fault was hers. Her back pushed the rough plaster wall; she would never be able to move again. Miss Sibley, put your arm around me. Give me a hug and whisper, ‘Never mind, love. You behaved quite well enough.’ She would unglue Katherine from that horrid wall. She would be comfortable again. Katherine closed her eyes and imagined lavender.

After a few minutes, she mumbled, I cannot remain here or I won’t have a cup of tea. Her hands pried the wall from her back and she looked around.

The hall was long but not very broad, stairway straight ahead and open doors on either side. Not well