Chapter One

London, 1856

As Thomas, Viscount Armstrong, digested Harold Bertram’s
words, he came up straight in his seat, his hands finding
the curved arms of the chair. Although the marquess
delivered the request with all the gravity of a clergyman
officiating a funeral, Thomas prayed he hadn’t heard him
correctly.

“You would like me to do what?” Thomas issued the question
in a soft voice and an even calmer tone, but the sound
cracked the air like the report of a rifle.

The marquess gave a mirthless laugh and shot a quick glance
at the study doors before shifting his regard back to him.
“I am asking you to-to take my daughter under your care
during my stay in America.”

Thomas suffered through the second such insupportable
request in as many days—this one even more painful than the
last.

Only the prior day, a peer in the House of Lords had
presented him with the kind of offer that sent honest men
hurtling full-tilt down the unsavory road to perdition. He
hadn’t thought it could possibly get more unseemly than
that.

He was wrong.

What Harry spoke of was not about politics and one thousand-
pound bribes; this was one hundred times worse. “It would
be—er—up until the new year unless I could conclude the
negotiations in less time.”

Harold Bertram, the Marquess of Bradford, or Harry as he
preferred close acquaintances to call him, was not a lack
wit—though many might doubt that assertion at the present
time. He possessed the sharpest mind in matters of finance
and business, and could articulate—when not suffering a
brain lapse—with the eloquence of an orator the likes of
which Caesar and Henley never saw. However, his nineteen
year- old daughter could fray the nerves of even the most
battle-seasoned soldier. Thomas himself could attest to
that. Fixing the marquess—who had fallen conspicuously
mute—with an unblinking stare, Thomas cocked his brow. Harry
must have indeed taken leave of his senses. The chit had
finally driven him to that.

“If this is a joke, I assure you, I do not find it the least
bit amusing,” Thomas replied, when he finally recovered
enough to speak. “I mean, we are speaking about Lady Amelia,
are we not? Unless, pray tell, you have yet another daughter
hidden away who is not a disrespectful termagant?”

A round of uncomfortable clearing of the throat ensued,
followed by a weary-to-the-bones exhalation. “Heavens, then
tell me what I’m to do with her? If I take her with me, I
would have neither the time nor energy to keep her out of
her usual mischief, especially in a country where I lack
familiarity. At present, you are the only person I trust
enough to come to regarding this matter. Perhaps if the trip
weren’t of such importance, and I could rearrange my
schedule. . . .” Harry sent him a silent look of appeal. At
his words, Thomas’s conscience received a faint prick, but
thankfully, the feeling lasted no more than a few seconds.

In his estimation, voyaging to America in the interest of a
business endeavor could not compare to subjecting himself to
playing taskmaster to Harry’s recalcitrant daughter. Leaning
forward, Thomas’s fingers curled into the napped fabric of
the armrest. “If you requested I take your place at the
guillotine or the hangman’s noose I would consider that less
of an imposition.”

Harry’s eyebrows met above a straight patrician nose as his
mustachioed mouth gave a faint twitch. “I am going to be
frank with you. That gir—daughter of mine seems most
determined to deliver me to an early grave. She’s managed to
embroil herself with yet another ne’er-do-well. This time,
if my manservant hadn’t been so careful, I would be forced
to call that worthless Clayborough my son-in-law.” He spat
the man’s name as if a more foul sound could not pass his
lips.

“Harry,” Thomas said on a long, drawn-out sigh, subsiding
back into the chair. “Perhaps it would be best if you
permitted her to marry whomever she pleases. Wouldn’t it be
easier than chasing her across the wilds of every county in
England? She has reached the age to wed.” Let some poor
unfortunate bastard take her on. Thomas was certain the man
would be crying foul within months of the marriage once he
realized the bargain he’d struck.

A dull thud echoed throughout the study as Harry’s fisted
hand collided vigorously with the glossy veneered finish of
his mahogany desk. “No! The last thing I want is that
wastrel for a son-in-law. Heavens above, I am well aware my
daughter is a considerable handful, but I have a duty as her
father to protect her from such men.” His voice dropped low.
“Her poor mother would turn over in her grave if she knew
what has become of her only child.”

A poignant sadness dimmed the light in his friend’s eyes at
the mention of his departed wife, and in that moment, Thomas
was ashamed of his unfeeling suggestion that he knowingly
allow Harry’s daughter to wed a gambler and fortune hunter.
But good God, if any woman deserved such a fate, surely Lady
Amelia Bertram topped that ignominious list.

To even contemplate Harry’s request—which he certainly was
not—would be a hairbreadth shy of insanity, but the friend
in him felt compelled to justify his refusal. “Just what
would you have me do with her in that time? I will assume
you wouldn’t allow me to put her to work?” Though, the
thought did bring a rueful smile to his face. It would be
nothing less than she deserved. Thomas was certain she
didn’t even know the meaning of the word, much less
participate in any activity more taxing than angling her
insolent nose in the air.

Harry’s face brightened like a street urchin spying a crown
on a sidewalk along the streets of the East End. “Now that
is something I never considered. It is really a capital
idea, albeit somewhat unorthodox. Yes, it might be just what
she needs to acquire a modicum of temperance. This time I am
determined she learn her lesson. Mind you, the work itself
cannot be menial or anything of that sort.” The latter he
added more solemnly.

So, Harry would be amenable to putting her to work. Thomas
had only intended it as a joke. The notion was absurd. He
smiled. But so fitting.

After a moment, the marquess’s eyes sparked again. “Perhaps
she could act as a companion to your sisters?”

Thomas sobered immediately. The gleam in his friend’s blue
eyes signified hopes soaring high, something he had to quash
before he found her deposited on his front doorstep, trunks
and all. “My sisters will be accompanying my mother to
America for six weeks this winter.” And one of the ten
plagues of Egypt would plunge London into utter darkness for
three days if he even considered thrusting Lady Amelia upon
his family.

Plowing a hand through his hair, Thomas sighed again.

“Lord, you’ve seen us together. I’d have an easier time
taming a wild boar. She’d exhaust my patience in the first
hour, never mind days, much less weeks on end. What your
daughter needs is a guard dog.”

Harry compressed his mouth into a straight line. “Or perhaps
you can find her a suitable gentleman who will divert her
from her more, er, spirited activities,” Thomas corrected
more judiciously. He really must remember to whom he spoke.
As close as he and Harry were, the poor man was the girl’s
father.

Harry tugged at the brass closures of his navy blue
waistcoat as if it had suddenly become too tight. “Well, I
cannot say that I particularly blame you, as the two of you
did not have an auspicious start.”

Ha! That was like saying Waterloo had been a mere spat
between neighboring countries. “I’d say that would be
phrasing it nicely,” Thomas said, his tone arid.

Pushing the chair back, Harry slowly arose. Thomas took his
cue and came swiftly to his feet. With resignation sketching
his features, the marquess extended his hand across a desk
surfeit with plumed pens, elegant black inkwells, and stacks
of papers and books. Thomas accepted it with a flash of
regret. Not regret for refusing his request, but regret that
it had been one he could not in his right mind accept. Had
he been feeble of mind, perhaps. Sound of mind, never.

“I bear you no ill will, although I had hoped . . .” Harry
offered a faint smile. “It is quite unfortunate that Amelia
did not choose to take up with a man more like you.”

Thomas’s gaze probed his friend’s as he disengaged his hand.
He had known Harry for six years and was well aware of the
man’s deep affection for him. But surely Harry hadn’t made
this proposal with hopes that he and Amelia would . . . ?

He tried to veer away from the thought before it could fully
form in his head and take up residence in his mind.
Unfortunately, the thought had a life of its own. The utter
notion was beyond absurd, but in all likelihood would send
Harry into fits of jubilation—were he inclined to such
behavior.

A union between he and Amelia would not only give the
marquess a son-in-law he both admired and respected but more
important, someone with mettle enough to control his unruly
daughter.

A dark laugh emerged from somewhere deep in Thomas’s throat.
“That would indeed be a match bound for the fires of
perdition.”

A wry smile twisted Harry’s mouth. “Yes, it appears so.” In
silence, both men made their way to the study entrance.
While they paused at the door, Harry clapped his hand across
the width of Thomas’s back, giving his shoulder two solid
thumps.

“I still have another month before my departure. If you
should reconsider, please let me know.”

Thomas admired the man’s doggedness, but he’d willingly
board a ship of prisoners bound for New South Wales first.