Kate Noble

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Epilogue

1829

THE
grand townhouse on the corner had not been occupied in more than three years, its furniture covered in dust cloths, its servants a skeleton staff of retainers. But for the past two weeks, Number Seven Berkeley Square had been a beehive of activity. The head butler and housekeeper had been about hiring new parlor maids and footmen, scullery maids and porters. The Pickerings, who lived at Number Eight, learned from their valets and ladies’ maids, who had heard from the cook, who had talked to the gardener, who had spoken to Number Seven’s gardener, who had been informed by the head butler that Sir Geoffrey Alton and his family were to return from the Continent just in time for the Season. Naturally, the Pickerings spoke with the Garretts in Number Nine, who had heard the same information from their ladies’ maids and valets, confirming this juicy tidbit.

Within the afternoon, all of Berkeley Square knew of Sir Geoffrey’s impending arrival. Within three days, all of London Society knew. Almost everyone took the news with equanimity, and those that did not, did not know Sir Geoffrey and therefore could have no opinion. Those of the uninformed who inquired were quickly told the facts: Sir Geoffrey Alton was a very amiable man of middle age and held a moderate-sized estate in Surrey. He was well known to the king and had been sent on a number of diplomatic missions over the past several years. Through wit, talent, and determination, three colors that most London High Society eschewed, Sir Geoffrey had managed during the war with France to become an associate of the current prime minister the Duke of Wellington. Although his own background was somewhat lackluster (Sir Geoffrey was the third son of a country gentleman), his amiability and verve made him acceptable, his shrewd head for investments made him rich, and his marriage to a woman of a historical, if genteelly poor, family made him Ton. Nevermind that his wife’s family never wholly approved of the match, for, even when he was knighted for services during the war, they considered Sir Geoffrey’s money too new and his manners too modern for their traditional minds.

However, it was by all accounts a most happy marriage, as Sir Geoffrey had been devoted heart and soul to his wife, but was widowed a dozen years hence, left with two daughters. The eldest, my goodness she must be near twenty now, was reputed to be quite the beauty. Mothers with daughters bristled at this news, and mothers with sons perked up their ears. Beautiful daughters—however nouveau riche—had a pedigree all their own.

The occupants of Berkeley Square kept their eyes fixed on Number Seven from their front drawing rooms, and one morning—a Tuesday by most accounts, but some dissenting opinions swear it was a Thursday—their efforts were rewarded. A grand barouche pulled up to the front door of Number Seven, its lacquered finish and family crest shining in the sun. Several carriages followed, loaded down with luggage, all bearing the same signature crest. Only the Pickerings were able to make it out easily, reporting that the Alton family signature was very dignified, red lions crossed with blue banners. All watched as the coachman alighted, dusted himself off, and opened the carriage door. Sir Geoffrey emerged first, seemingly in good humor and none the worse for wear. Indeed, he looked in rather good form, a tall man with a straight back and a full head of dark hair verging on a distinguished gray. If his waist was thicker than when last seen, no one commented. Sir Geoffrey then turned and assisted, not two, but
three
females down from the barouche’s height.

The residents of Berkeley Square strained their necks, trying to see if they counted correctly, and indeed they had, all excepting Miss Nesbitt, who later in the week purchased a new pair of spectacles. But try as they might, no one could make out the features of any of the ladies, for their traveling cloaks were heavy and they wore wide bonnets. All that could be said was two of the ladies were petite, and the third was nearly a whole head taller. In moments, the objects of so many eyes were inside Number Seven’s white stone walls, and the carriages hurried round to the stable yard.

Speculation ran rife for two whole hours, until a scullery maid emerged from the side of Number Seven and was immediately pounced on by the servants of the other houses, sent out to await the news. When that news came back, the identity of the third woman was placed. She was not a cousin, a governess, or a spinster aunt as so many had guessed.

Sir Geoffrey, it seemed, had taken a wife.

“
WELL!
It’s good to be back home, isn’t it, girls?”

Sir Geoffrey faced the assembled staff, who stood rigidly at attention, as per the explicit orders of Morrison, the head butler. Sir Geoffrey, filled with ebullient joy from the moment he stepped onto English soil, was thrown into proper rapture at the sight of London, and his household staff were the first outside the carriage to be subjected to his delight.

“Morrison, old boy! How are you?” Sir Geoffrey exclaimed, pumping the old man’s hand vigorously, much to Morrison’s and the impressionable young staff ’s surprise.

“I…we…bid you welcome back, sir,” Morrison said, trying to recover his dignity and straighten his coat at the same time.

“Thank you, thank you…Mrs. Bibb! How’d you do? How are your sisters?” Sir Geoffrey cried out, spotting the housekeeper’s soft, wide form. Dissatisfied with her curtsy, he picked her up, hugged her close, and spun her in a circle, Mrs. Bibb shrieking like a little girl.

Truthfully, Sir Geoffrey was generally an amiable man, but never so much as on the day he arrived home from his diplomatic tours. He enjoyed travel and the connections and influence his work afforded him, but nothing was so good as the sight of his cozy, four-story London townhouse, its eight bedchambers, two drawing rooms, two breakfast suites, two-story library, three formal receiving rooms, dining room, ballroom, music room, conservatory, and one tree, in the rear. His servants were used to his peculiarities. His new wife, perhaps, was not.

The sound of a dainty throat clearing brought Sir Geoffrey’s attention to the ladies behind him. Setting down his housekeeper, he hastened over to take the hand of the petite woman with thick auburn hair and gray eyes that matched her lush velvet cloak.

“My dear, I apologize. Everyone,” Sir Geoffrey announced to the assembled staff, “I should like to introduce my wife, Romilla, Lady Alton.”

Romilla nodded regally, a slight smile playing on her cool, otherwise expressionless face. All of the servants took turns being introduced by Sir Geoffrey, giving their most impressive bows and deepest curtsies for their new mistress. Romilla could not help but be impressed by her newest residence and was quite pleased with the dignity and deportment of the staff. The deportment of her incorrigible new husband, however, was something she was resigned to work on.

“I’m very pleased to meet you all,” Romilla said, her voice bell toned and clear. “Mrs. Bibb”—at the sound of her name the housekeeper stood straighter—“I have heard so much good of you. I’m afraid I haven’t been in London in a great many years, and I will rely on your knowledge of the house to help me find my feet in running it.” Mrs. Bibb curtsied deeply, and Romilla smiled with gracious condescension. ’Twas always important to have the housekeeper on one’s side, and a few compliments as to that person’s ability went a long way toward greasing the wheels. “For now, would you please have someone unload the trunks and take them to our rooms?” A snap from Morrison had the footmen bustling the luggage up the stairs. Pleased with this efficiency, she turned to one of the maids.

“I am desperate for a cup of tea. Could you please bring it to the drawing room? Girls, come with me.” Romilla looked behind her and addressed her two daughters of six months. A radiant beauty and a hopeless bookworm. The beauty seemed too tired from travel to do much beyond nod mutely, but the bookworm spoke up. “Ma’am, I’ll lead you to the drawing room—you don’t yet know where it is.”

“Nonsense!” cried Romilla. “Abigail, must I remind you of your manners? The lady of the house always takes the lead. And I told you, please call me Mother.”

Once Romilla was a few feet away, Gail allowed herself an eye-roll before following.

Romilla tried four doors before she finally gave up. “Abigail,” she sighed, “which way is the drawing room?”

FINDING
the drawing room in perfect order, bookish Gail, lovely Evangeline, and Romilla divested themselves of their cloaks and bonnets and sat down to tea. This was a habit of Romilla’s that baffled both the girls: Every day, no matter what anyone was doing, tea was served at half past ten in the morning. Most of society was not yet awake at half past ten, but since the “Reign of Romilla,” everyone named Alton most certainly was.

Once, Gail had summoned the wherewithal to ask Romilla about her odd habit. Romilla had replied curtly, “I am up before dawn every day and breakfast shortly thereafter. By half past ten I am
hungry
.” A look of concern crossed her face, as she added, “Abigail, dear, it is most rude to inquire as to one’s gastric tendencies—please don’t make a habit of it.”

This made Gail think better of asking why Romilla didn’t simply sleep in later. She’d hate to be accused of questioning someone’s somniferous tendencies.

Not that Romilla could, or would sleep in. She was a doer. A General, waging battle to shape the world to her liking. And the hours of the day were meant to be
used
. An oddity in any family of means, but, Gail thought, she rarely had a claim to normalcy herself.

That morning, as they settled on the sofas, the girls found themselves reluctantly hungry, but Sir Geoffrey had to refuse. He had immediately met up with his steward and was locked in the library, discussing the Alton estate and interests. Without the buffer of their jovial father, both girls were left to the not so tender mercies of their stepmother.

“Well,” Romilla said, looking about the room, “I see I shall have a great deal of work to do in here.”

Evangeline and Gail looked around the front drawing room. They saw nothing at all unpleasant—comfortable walnut furniture and soft butter colored fabrics. Evangeline, wearily silent since arriving home, finally found her voice. “Do you find something not to your taste in this room, ma…Mother?” she ventured, her color perking up under the influence of tea and Cook’s best scones.

Romilla smiled indulgently. “No, my dearest, the room is quite lovely, if a few years out of date. It is simply that you will be receiving your callers in this room, and we want you to be in the most inspiring atmosphere imaginable. This yellow wallpaper, I’m afraid, is not enough for a flower such as you. A dusty pink I think, or a pattern of blue to match your eyes.”

Gail regarded her sister. Evangeline was indeed a radiant creature. She was small and lithe, with a halo of blonde hair that, when unbound, streamed down her back in thick waves. Her face was a perfect oval, with a porcelain complexion that pinked in only the most becoming blushes. Big blue eyes framed in thick blonde lashes completed the tableau. All in all, Evangeline was the portrait of English gentility, a woman exuding spirit and a tremble-lipped vulnerability that evoked the desire to protect and cherish from any man within sight of her. Gail had to admit that yellow was not Evangeline’s color, but she thought it more than a little silly to change a room’s decor to match the eyes of one of its occupants.

Evangeline apparently agreed. “But Mother, I doubt anyone who calls will even notice if my eyes match the room. I find the butter yellow rather comforting, and besides, the color is nicely becoming on Gail.”

Gail blushed awkwardly at the compliment. Evangeline smiled and winked at her sister, which only caused Gail’s blush to deepen.

Shrinking back farther into the cushions, Gail thought how lovely it would be to not have to have a Season this year—to simply read at home or go to the museums or the park and be launched on society next year—when she wouldn’t be in the shadow of her divine sister.

Yet, how she would hate to go through the thing alone!

And because she had reached the advanced age of eighteen, there was no putting off the inevitable. True, Evangeline had managed to turn twenty before attending a formal season, but whenever Gail brought this point up, Romilla was adamant that Evangeline’s advanced age was owing only to the fact that until this year, her options for marriage had been limited to foreign men, something society would surely understand. Gail’s absence from the Season, however, they would not.

There was no getting out of it that way.

So she would have to flirt with gentlemen and make conversation with ladies. Gail honestly didn’t know which would be more difficult. She had watched Evangeline blush and flutter with young men, and she knew she hadn’t the ability. She was too direct to be coy with men, but also would have been hard-pressed to take part in speaking of current fashion and
on-dits
with ladies. It seemed the women of society in any country didn’t realize there was an interesting world outside of their social circle. However, what truly baffled Gail, was that it seemed gentlemen of stature favored women with empty heads above those with useful ones. Surely she would never meet someone she liked enough, or who would like her enough, for marriage.

But that argument hadn’t worked on Romilla, either.

Gail looked up and caught her stepmother regarding her intensely. Gail knew what Romilla thought of her less-impressive stepdaughter: pretty enough, with dark hair and the gold-flecked brown eyes of her father—her one good feature. But Gail was abominably tall, and she moved determinedly, as if always late for an appointment. She was often loaded down with books and could not be impressed upon to care about (or in fact, remember) the rules and dictates of society, much to her stepmother’s constant exasperation. But it wasn’t as if she meant to be rude or wry! Sometimes those things just popped out! And because Gail would not, or could not, mold herself into propriety, it was easiest to remain silent and let her sister shine. She knew Romilla was resolved that Evangeline should be the success of the Season. Meaning that no matter how well Gail looked in yellow, the decor of the drawing room had to go.