style="font-size:15px;"> ISBN-10: 1-4967-1691-4
First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: July 2020
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to Dan—because I’m a very lucky lady!
Acknowledgments
Turning a manuscript into a book is the work of a dedicated and passionate team. I’d like to give thanks to everyone who was part of the Countess of Harleigh team. Melissa Edwards, my agent, for finding the perfect match for my manuscript. To John Scognamiglio for being that perfect match and for his good humor and patience in working with a new author. Thanks to the whole Kensington team for bringing this book into the world, with special thanks to Robin Cook and Pearl Saban whose eagle eyes caught every slip and typo I left them.
Many thanks to my Authors ’18 family, whose support helped me navigate this treacherous debut year. To Mary Keli-ikoa, Emily Wheeler, and Bea Conti for your feedback and encouragement. And to my family and friends for your support and love.
Chapter 1
August 1899
London in late summer was really no place to be. With society thin and events like Ascot and the derby a distant memory, the few of us remaining in town were hard-pressed for entertainment. But if one were required to spend the summer in London, one could not choose a better site for an afternoon soiree than Park Lane, with Hyde Park on one side of the street, and some of the largest mansions in London on the other. One might almost imagine oneself in the country. If one were in possession of a superior imagination, that is.
Though the garden was large by London standards, there were a good forty or more of us gathered here, dispersed between the conservatory at the rear of the house and the small tables scattered across the lawn. It made for a bit of a squeeze and might have been terribly uncomfortable if the sun were not playing its usual game of hide-and-seek.
This was my first summer in town and I can’t say I found it to my liking. My previous summers—in fact, most of my previous nine years in England—had been spent in the countryside of Surry where my late husband, the Earl of Harleigh, dropped me off and left me shortly after our honeymoon.
He returned to London and his bevy of mistresses.
I didn’t mind the country so much as I minded the mistresses. That’s where I raised our daughter, Rose. And except for annual trips to London for the Season, it’s where I stayed, like the dutiful wife my mother raised me to be. You see, before I was Frances Wynn, Countess of Harleigh, I was Frances Price, American heiress. I found neither role particularly satisfying, so a year after my husband’s death, I left the Wynn family home, with my young daughter in tow, and set up my household in a lovely little house on Chester Street in Belgravia. Now I was in charge of my life, and I enjoyed it immensely, though I could wish my funds allowed for trips to the country in the summer.
I stepped down from the conservatory to join the group at the nearest table for a glass of champagne—Lady Argyle had planned this soiree in a grand style. No watered-down punch for her—when I caught a glimpse of a marine blue hat perched atop a head of chestnut waves. Ah, Fiona had arrived. As she moved through the crowd toward me, I saw her ensemble was also blue, trimmed in peach and white.
Sadly, I wore mourning. Again. This time for my sister-in-law, Delia, who died three months ago under rather unfortunate circumstances—which I’d prefer to forget. She’d left behind two sons and the current Earl of Harleigh, my late husband’s younger brother.
Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be at this gathering, but my brother-in-law, with a degree of compassion I never dreamed possible, refused to plunge his young sons into deep mourning, with the requisite black armbands, silenced clocks, and attention to nothing but one’s grief for the duration of a year or more. Children needed the joy of childhood, he insisted, and decreed we’d all observe half mourning for no more than six months. Social codes be damned.
I jest not. Graham, the staid and starchy Earl of Harleigh, disregarded a firmly embedded social convention.
There just might be hope for him yet.
As applied to myself, Graham’s decree meant I could venture out in company and would not be forced to wear black all summer. Though I was restricted to gray and lavender, black was decidedly worse. For this occasion, I wore a lavender confection, suitably light in weight and fashionable for the season, topped off by a cunning wide-brimmed hat, but gad—it was lavender. Did anyone look well in this color?
“Darling!”
Fiona had caught sight of me and raised a hand in greeting. A parasol matching the trim on her dress dangled from a loop on her wrist. Her path to me intersected with that of Sir Hugo Ridley, who, upon noting her destination, raised his hand in greeting and followed in her wake.
She reached my side, bussed my cheek, then backed up to acknowledge our companion. “How do you do, Ridley? It’s been an age since we’ve met.”
I’d known Ridley for a number of years. He was a friend of my late husband, one of the few I didn’t avoid. Like Reggie, he spent far too much time drinking, gambling, and generally wasting his life. The effects of his habits revealed themselves in the pallor of his skin, the slight paunch of his stomach, and the circles under his eyes. Unlike Reggie, he was devoted to his wife and could be amusing when he exerted himself.
He gave us a nod. “Lady Harleigh. Lady Fiona. I’m surprised to find you both in town this late in summer. Does that mean you’ll be attending our little soiree in honor of the Glorious Twelfth?”
The Glorious Twelfth referred to the twelfth of August—the official start of the shooting season, when all—well, most members of the upper class return to their estates to shoot various varieties of fowl until February. The Ridleys, however, were Londoners through and through and never left town. Instead, they held an annual gathering on the twelfth for those who stayed.
“I’ve already sent my reply to Lady Ridley. My family and I will be delighted to attend.”
Ridley smiled and turned to Fiona.
“As it happens, I’m on the eve of my departure to the country. Nash must shoot, you know,” she said, in reference to her husband. “In truth, I’d hoped to take Lady Harleigh with me.” She thrust out her lower lip in a caricature of a childish pout. “Are you sure you won’t come, Frances? Nash and I would love to have you.”
I caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you for the invitation, Fiona, but that arrangement doesn’t suit my houseguests.” I was dejected to have to decline her offer but I could hardly accept her invitation and bring along three extra guests, and my daughter, and her nanny. “Besides, my sister is determined to stay in town to be near Mr. Kendrick.”
“Young love,” Ridley said. “Will they be making an announcement soon?”
A footman in black livery stepped up to offer a tray of refreshments, beads of sweat visible on his forehead. Poor man. Ridley distributed flutes of champagne among us and waved the man off. The three of us set off on a stroll across the lawn.
“They haven’t yet set a date for the wedding,” I
