Chapter One
2 May 1813 London
Theo Quenten, Viscount Northam, opened one eye, closed it again and contemplated death, either his own or that of the person currently working on his brain with a pickaxe.
Someone was moving stealthily about his bedchamber. He hoped it was his own chamber because the way he felt, if it belonged to a lady, he could not have put up much of a performance the night before, let alone recall her name now. Then he remembered that deliciously wicked ladies, and their more professional sisters, were out of bounds now.
His birthday. That was what had caused the torture that was resolving itself into an almighty hangover. He was twenty six, he’d been Lord Northam for thirteen months, and had celebrated last night with the determination to put a year of sober, responsible living, and what it had just led to, behind him. For a few hours he’d wanted the old hedonistic, spendthrift existence he had enjoyed before, when the title had been a distant prospect and he had floated through life, borne aloft by his own optimistic nature and his indulgent uncle’s money with his father’s poor health the only blight.
Then his uncle was murdered, his father survived just a month as Viscount Northam, and Theo had been catapulted into what should have been wealth and responsibility and was in fact the horror of being a prime suspect for homicide.
He shuddered at the memory and opened both eyes with a wince and an oath, muffled by a mouthful of bedclothes. Some idiot had drawn the drapes back.
‘My lord?’ That was Pitkin, his exceedingly nervous valet, which meant he was, at least, in his own bed.
‘Devil of a hangover,’ Theo muttered.
‘I thought… that is, I asked Cook for a remedy. If you would like that, my lord? Or – ’
‘Give it here.’ Theo lurched up from the pillows, took the glass held out to him and gulped the contents, eyes closed, trying not to breathe. Only the Devil knew what Cook put in her corpse revivers, but they worked after a few moments of anguish.
‘Breakfast, my lord?’
‘Coffee. Black. Hot. Now. Do not mention food.’
Pitkin tiptoed out so softly that it was as distracting as a troop of cavalry passing through – a considerable achievement for someone so slight and short.
Theo opened both eyes and wondered whether today was the day when he finally lost patience and gave the man his notice, even though he was competent, hard-working, had good taste and was discreet.
All these things had been promised by Michael Flynn, the Duke of Calderbrook’s red-haired henchman cum valet, when he had recommended Pitkin to Theo. ‘He’s perfect, except that he can’t say boo to a goose, is a terrible worrier and may drive you to drink,’ Flynn had warned. ‘But he deserves a chance. His first two employers sacked him within weeks because he’s so nervous, although why he is, I have no idea.’
Flynn had found him Pitkin as a favour to Jared, Viscount Ravenlaw, best friend of Calderbrook and the third husband of Theo’s aunt-by-marriage, Guin. Viscounts needed proper valets, Jared had said. Firmly. An untrained manservant hired on the cheap to look after a carefree bachelor would no longer pass muster.
It had been three months now but Theo decided to restrain his impatience for another day. He owed them all for exposing the true murderer of his uncle and at least employing a valet was one thing he could do like a proper viscount – and even that felt as though he was pretending.
Pitkin sidled in with the coffee, put it down and then fled to the dressing room. Theo sipped and waited for his head to reconnect to his spine. Either he was out of practice at carousing, or he was getting old, because the evening had been nowhere near as enjoyable as those he nostalgically recalled.
The Season was in full swing, the weather was balmy and the Marriage Mart had opened its arms wide to a young viscount unencumbered by debt and with a reputation for wildness now, apparently, behind him. And he knew that what was expected of him was to make the appropriate marriage to a well-bred virgin with good child-bearing hips and a hefty dowry.
He was trying hard to do all this right, so he had. Or, at least, he had identified the well-bred virgin – without, naturally, inspecting her hips too closely – and had put the question the day before. Her father, the Earl of Prestwich, had been delighted at the prospect of acquiring Theo as a son-in-law. The bride, Lady Penelope Haddon, had seemed less rapturous, but perhaps that was either her strict upbringing or a naturally bland personality. He did not know her well enough to tell.