The boy with the perpetually serious expression was paying little attention to the book Gregory had given him to
read. Instead, he was strumming his fingers on the rough-hewn table, an oddly adult gesture for a ten-year-old boy. The learned old man hid a fond smile.
“What does ‘homely’ mean?”
Gregory set down his quill. “Well, that depends upon the context in which it was used.” He searched his brain, trying to recall if there were any passages in Homer’s
Iliad
that dealt with someone being described as “homely.” None came to mind. “Why do you ask?”
“Papa took me with him to the village this morning, and while I waited for him outside the blacksmith’s shop, I heard two women talking.” His brow furrowed over a pair of large, startling gray eyes. “They said it was fortunate the next Marquess of Asheburton would not be quite as homely as the current one, unless I died and Lewiston lived to inherit.”
Gregory pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Those ladies were unkind, Lachlan. They meant that your father and your younger brother are not very attractive, which has little to do with one’s ability to be either a good or a bad lord. The idea of judging a marquess by his attractiveness, well . . . it’s ludicrous.”
Lachlan’s brow cleared at the explanation, but the expression in his silvery eyes remained troubled. “I don’t think my father is a very good lord, Gregory,” he said haltingly.
“Why do you say that?” The retired vicar kept his voice carefully neutral. He very much wanted Lachlan to come to independent conclusions about his family. It would never do to lead the boy to form a negative opinion of the people who were raising him; he himself was only here to ensure Lachlan had every opportunity to grow up with all the tools he needed to someday be a proper marquess.
The boy glanced around the small, neat cottage. “Our
home—the keep—is not well-tended, the servants never stay for very long, and the villagers don’t like us.”
Gregory nodded. “All could be signs that your father is not managing well, but do you think he is a good man, my boy?”
The fledgling marquess thought a moment and then nodded firmly. “I do.”
“Well, in that case, perhaps you can learn to help him manage what will one day belong to you.”
Gregory watched the boy carefully for a response.
After another moment’s consideration, Lachlan turned back to his reading. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
Two
London, 1814
Mercy
Ackerly leaned over the banister and watched the two men disappear into the study with her brother-in-law. She sighed with happy adoration and turned back to her seventeen-year-old twin siblings. “Sebastian came to the wedding with some man I’ve never seen instead of bringing another woman.”
“ ‘Another’ woman?” Charity laughed aloud. “You mean a woman other than
you
? You’re only fourteen—not even a woman yourself, much less one with whom Blackthorne would consider being seen.”
Mercy glared at her. “I’m nearly fifteen,” she corrected hotly. “And, besides, Sebastian is going to marry me.”
Charity rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to retort, but Amity spoke up, doing her best to keep her sisters from arguing on Faith’s wedding day. “You said he came with a man you’ve never seen?”
Mercy waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Tall, dark, powerful. The usual. Doesn’t Trevor have any short, ugly friends?” The three girls pushed away from the railing on the landing and continued their descent to the first floor.
“Maybe this mysterious new man has bad teeth or something,” said Charity, her eyes glinting with fun. “Let’s wait here in the foyer for them to come out. That way, Trevor
will have to introduce us, and we can inspect the new person for flaws.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! These men are peers of the realm, not boys from the village.” Amity pointed a stern finger at her twin. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t you dare ruin Faith’s wedding,” she warned.
Charity gave her a look of exaggerated innocence. “I’m just going to get to know him. It’ll make the poor man feel welcome. After all, he’s amongst strangers.” She sighed with an air of mock tragedy. “He probably feels lost and alone.”
They stopped outside the closed study doors. Mercy stared longingly at the panels of polished mahogany, wishing they’d open so she could see her beloved duke, and Charity linked arms with her. “Let’s walk up and down the hall. It will look like we were just strolling by, having a harmless little chat, when they come out.”
Amity shook her head and backed away. “I’ll just go see if Grace and Faith need any help. I’d rather not be anywhere near here when those doors open.”
Inside the study, the hapless victims of Charity and Mercy’s intended ambush were having a comfortable conversation with their host, Trevor Caldwell, the Earl of Huntwick, who had just finished explaining the necessity for the day’s rather hasty wedding. “So you see, since Faith has compromised poor Gareth quite beyond recall, the only possible solution was for her to make an honest man of him.”
“I thought Faith’s debut might go a bit more smoothly than Grace’s,” remarked Sebastian, who was both the Duke of Blackthorne and Trevor’s best friend. “She seemed more logical and less headstrong than the other Ackerly girls we met.”
“That logical streak is the very reason for the haste. Gareth is not at all sure that, given time, Faith won’t find a reasonable way out of the situation. And he seems rather set on having her for his wife.” Trevor laughed. “Besides, I don’t think ‘smooth’ is an adjective one would ever apply to a relationship with one of my wife’s sisters. Something you should bear in mind as Mercy grows older.” He gave his friend a pointed look.
Sebastian looked unconcerned, although a small smile played about his lips. “I suppose the urchin is in town, too, running amok somewhere in your home?” He was reluctantly fond of the youngest Ackerly sister, who had been the inadvertent reason the family even entered their social circle. Had he known the impact his decision to continue traveling that day, despite the late hour and diminished visibility, would have on both his life and his sense of peace, he might well have decided not to take the risk; but he’d overridden Hunt’s warnings, and now the second of his friends had fallen prey to the snapping jaws of matrimony. Both surrenders had stemmed directly from that one foolish decision.
“Last time I saw her she was whispering with one of the twins—I haven’t a clue which—while watching the front door for, I believe, your noble arrival.” Trevor’s green eyes danced with amusement. “I’m not sure how you managed to make it in here safely.”
The third man in the room, listening quietly up to this point, finally spoke. “Twins? How many of these Ackerly creatures exist?”
Lachlan Kimball, the Scottish Marquess of Asheburton, was related to Sebastian, although neither man could publicly claim kinship. They bore a startling resemblance to one another, and most of the
ton
suspected some sort of distant
relationship. It was far less distant than people imagined. They were cousins.
Both men had come into their titles through rather tenuous connections. In Sebastian’s case, he’d discovered he was heir to the Duke of Blackthorne’s estate through a letter sent from a solicitor, and he’d been anything but pleased with the development. Or, more correctly, he’d been displeased with the history he’d discovered. The elderly duke, it turned out, had disowned both of his sons—and with good reason: the pair was undeniably handsome and charming but spoiled by their mother and utterly lacking in principles and morals. After being banished from the estate, the elder son married the daughter of a respectable country squire, breezed through her small dowry and then abandoned the young lady, never to be spoken of or heard from again. Shortly after her husband’s defection, she gave birth to Sebastian. The old duke had kept tabs on his eldest son for a period of time but, considering him a lost cause, decided to turn his attention to his grandson. When old age set in and his health began to fail, he contacted Sebastian, now a young man of considerable independent fortune, and named him his heir.
The younger son—Lachlan’s father—had gambled his way through most of England, using his considerable looks and occasional luck at the tables to charm his way into the hearts and bedrooms of many a young lady. Eventually he’d ended up in Scotland, in a border village, where he impregnated the beautiful daughter of a successful merchant. With his debts following him from England and new ones mounting in Scotland, and faced with the prospect of becoming a father, he also disappeared. Lachlan’s title had come . . . somewhat differently.
Sebastian had learned all this after hiring discreet investigators, something he’d learned to do in his successful early
days as an investor before his elevation. He had then contacted Lachlan and satisfied himself that the man was indeed the son of his father’s younger brother. The two had become immediate friends and, later, business partners.
“There are six sisters,” said Trevor, giving it a moment’s thought. “Patience, the eldest, whom you will discover was very aptly named; my wife, Grace; and then today’s bride, Faith; followed by the twins, Amity and Charity; and finally little Mercy, who fancies herself betrothed to your cousin here.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel and stood. “Gareth and Jon should be here soon.”
Sebastian and Lachlan also stood. “Should I be afraid to leave this room?” joked the marquess.
Trevor opened the doors and glanced out into the hall. He pushed the doors wider and gave his friends a wry, apologetic look. “Absolutely,” he said, his tone colored with amused irony. Mercy and Charity were walking down the hall, arms linked, pretending an absorbed interest in their conversation.
Trevor cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mercy.”
When he raised his eyebrows and regarded the second girl in mute inquiry, she scowled at the realization that he didn’t know her name. “I’m Charity,” she said, then added in a dampening tone. “For the
second
time today.”
Trevor appeared unrepentant. “Charity and Mercy Ackerly, I’d like to present you to Lachlan Kimball, the Marquess of Asheburton.”
Both girls executed halfhearted curtsies. Mercy nodded briefly in Lachlan’s direction before turning her full attention and a dauntingly bright smile on her hero, the Duke of Blackthorne. Charity, though, seemed more focused on Lachlan. Unusually focused. She took a step closer, peering at his polite smile, which was rapidly fading.
“Your teeth are beautiful,” she said in a tone that sounded accusatory.
Though startled by her odd statement, Lachlan merely raised an eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you have an unsightly wart or a disfiguring scar?” She scanned the rest of his face and then actually reached for one of his hands, as though she intended to inspect it, before she remembered herself and snatched back her arm. “Guess not,” she muttered, tossed him an irritated look and walked away.
“Unlike Patience,” Sebastian spoke up, “Charity is
not
so aptly named.”
Mercy giggled.
“I heard that!” Charity called from down the hall.
“You might want to cut your losses and just leave now,” Trevor advised Lachlan. “You might even consider going straight back to Scotland where it’s safe.”
The marquess, however, was staring thoughtfully down the hall. “Interesting girl,” he remarked. “I think I can handle it.”
Two hours later, Lachlan found himself standing on the steps in front of the Caldwell town house, a somewhat bemused expression on his face. “That may well have been one of the oddest experiences of my life,” he announced. The wedding itself had been a brief, somewhat strained and awkward affair, as had been the reception. Additionally, every time he looked around he found Charity Ackerly watching him. If that weren’t disconcerting enough, she steadfastly refused to look away when he caught her eye, leaving him with the distinct impression that
he
had somehow inconvenienced
her
by catching her staring.
“Welcome to the unconventional world of the Ackerlys,”
replied Sebastian, pulling on his gloves. They descended to the street and climbed aboard his coach, settling comfortably across from one another into the deep burgundy velvet squabs.
“I found Patience and Amity quite pleasant,” remarked Lachlan when they were underway.
Sebastian looked unimpressed. “Gareth Lloyd,” he said, referring to the rather grim groom, “would once have said the same thing about Faith.” And with that, they lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.
Three
Pelthamshire, 1815
Though
the Ackerly twins had once been described as homely by the women of Pelthamshire, time had worked its magic and seen fit to bestow the two of them with exceptional beauty. Parasols and time spent indoors had faded the hated freckles, and their complexions were now a creamy alabaster with just a hint of glowing peach on their high, sculpted cheekbones. Their eyes were of an odd cerulean blue, fringed with russet lashes, wide and shining brightly with intelligence and humor beneath delicately winged brows a shade or two darker than the hair on their heads, which had remained a lovely strawberry blonde despite everyone’s prediction that it would darken. But beauty was not everything.
They were also the next pair of Ackerly sisters to make their debut in London. That Season the village was abuzz with speculation, and everyone wondered if it were possible for the girls to make matches as advantageous and connected as those of their older sisters Grace and Faith. Those two respectively had married an earl and a marquess, which had greatly elevated the stature of the family in the small community. The connections had landed the two girls in Madame Capdepon’s School for Girls with half a dozen of their peers, most of whom would never even venture outside the village, much less see the inside of a London ballroom.
“Charity Ackerly!”
Startled, Charity dragged her eyes from the enticing view of the beautiful spring day outside the window and focused on the disapproving face of Madame Capdepon. The room had fallen silent.