Chapter One
London, 1809
It was, by all accounts, a rather typical night at
White's. The men of London's social elite had gathered
together for another evening of drinking and gambling and
bragging to their hearts' content.
Who would have guessed that these rarefied members of the
ton were about to witness the scandal of the Season?
As usual, the most crowded spot in the great room was
around the Marquis of Templeton, or as most people called
him, Temple. Not exactly the proper address for a man who
by chance, or rather by birth, was the Duke of
Setchfield's heir, but Temple he was, and, many suspected,
Temple he would always be.
Cut off by his imperious grandfather from any family funds
because of his wastrel ways and because he wouldn't bend
to the duke's constant demands, he made do as he could, by
being the perfect houseguest, the best of company.
In short, he was invited everywhere.
There were advantages to having the marquis as a part of
one's social event. He knew all the gossip. He could spot
an ill-tied cravat across a shadowy room faster than a Bow
Street runner could collar a pickpocket. With the aid of
his trusty lorgnette, he could tell whether a man's coat
had been stitched by Weston or by a country tradesman
copying the master tailor's latest trends for half the
price.
If you needed to know what color was best to wear to Lady
Brickton's fΓͺte, which young miss had the plumpest dowry,
or from whom to obtain the finest, fittest, and best
polished Hessians, then Temple was your most capable
confidant.
So it was that the marquis moved through the ton like a
blithe and welcome breeze, invited everywhere -- for it
would never do to snub a future duke -- and laughed at for
the follies, foibles, and bill collectors following in his
wake. He lived his life without an apparent care in the
world, as long as one discounted his agonizing search for
a tailor who would overlook his continual lack of funds.
In truth, he was a man to be envied.
In truth, he was a man living a singularly calculated lie.
So while he stood in White's, the living example of all
that was wastrel and foolish about the ton, his mind was
far away on more pressing matters. Problems so urgent that
few would have thought they'd find anyplace to lodge
amongst all the wool and lint that most believed made up
the interior workings behind the marquis' engaging smile.
Especially considering his current subject of discussion --
a lecture to young Lord Harry Penham on how to select the
perfect valet.
The jest lay in the fact that Penham, on his first Season
in town and a greenling in every definition of the word,
obviously knew nothing of the fact that Temple had never
hired a valet, let alone that he couldn't afford the
services of one.
Temple's only servant was a disreputable one-eyed man who
drove the marquis' carriage and ran his errands. Elton was
recognized by one and all, and most held him in fearful
regard, for it was rumored that Temple had bought the man
off a scaffold -- if only to have a loyal servant who
wouldn't mind an infrequent salary.
But obviously Penham knew none of this, for he hung on
Temple's every word as if he were receiving Holy
Scriptures.
"What agency are you using?" the marquis asked, his
lorgnette tapping at his chin. "For you'll never find the
right fellow without the help of a good agency." He eyed
the disgraceful state of the younger man's cravat and made
a tut tut noise that signaled his wholehearted
disapproval. "Let me guess, you've retained Fogelmann's?"
When Penham nodded, Temple shuddered and clutched at his
heart. "Upon my horror, you'll be sporting some Oriental
tied piece of silk before the end of the week." He glanced
at the gathering crowd. "Which I daresay might be an
improvement on this." Temple took his lorgnette and
swirled it through the mess of lace and silk that made up
Penham's woeful attempt at a waterfall.
Several in the crowd began to chuckle.
"Well, I-I-I-" Penham sputtered, quite flustered at being
put in the spotlight by the infamous marquis. "I-I-I
didn't know."
"Obviously." Temple sighed again and eyed the man from
head to toe. "A Cambridge man, I suppose."
Penham nodded again, this time a little more warily.
"Whatever are they teaching there these days?" Temple
stalked around the young man, tapping his lorgnette in his
palm like a riding crop. "A gentleman must be prepared for
all sorts of calamities. Why, you never know when your
valet may take ill," he advised. "Or for that matter, run
off complaining about lack of wages or some other
nonsense." This comment brought a hearty round of
laughter. Temple winked at his audience over Penham's
head. "It is imperative that you are able to do a
respectable job yourself or you'll never catch the eye of
that certain lady."
This brought Penham's attention up in an instant. "But I
didn't think anyone knew that I -- "
"Tut tut," Temple said. "Read the betting book, my good
man. Or better yet, read the Morning Post. You and Nettle-
stone have caused quite a sensation with your competition
for that lady's hand."
"My intentions toward her are quite honorable," Penham
asserted. "Not that the same can be said for my rival." He
nodded toward Aloysius, the seventeenth Baron of Nettle-
stone, who sat across the room playing vingt-et-un.
"Yes," Temple drawled, sparing a glance first at one man,
then the other. "I daresay your heart and estate in Dorset
could use the improvements her fortune will bring more so
than that drafty pile of rocks Nettlestone calls home."
Penham tried to stammer out a response, but Temple stopped
him with a shake of his head ...
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