by Maya Rodale
Impertinent or not, one of London’s Least Likely had become London’s Most Talked About.
They crowded into Lady Dare’s drawing room, gossiping shamelessly whilst waiting to see if Miss Payton was “at home” to their call. She dared not descend into the viper pit that her drawing room had become, though she did stand at the top of the stairs, listening to the base accusations and declarations of support that drifted up to her through the open doors.
“Miss Payton, there is another caller.”
Farnesworth extended the silver tray bearing one thick vellum card engraved with a lady’s name in a fancy script.
If it was someone else calling about that article she had published this morning . . . then no, she was not at home to callers.
But if it was one of her friends calling with news about John, then yes, she most certainly was available to see them. Upon John’s dramatic arrest at the exhibition yesterday, she had told her friends’ husbands just enough information about her relationship with him that they’d felt immediately impelled to use their rank and power on her and John’s behalf. The more she thought about him, the more her heart and mind returned to the same conclusion: she loved him. He was the only man she would even think about marrying.
To hell with society if they disapproved. Especially if society was the collection of vipers and dragons in her drawing room.
Prudence picked up the card Farnesworth presented.
Lady Castleton.
That was interesting. Possibly terrifying. Potentially terrible.
Now if only she was truly as brave as Lady Dare believed her to be.
“I shall see her in my private sitting room,” Prudence said. “And please send up tea.”
THE REAL LADY Castleton was a slender, petite woman with dark glossy curls, an alabaster complexion, and large green eyes. Prudence guessed that they were approximately the same age. She was also an American, judging by her accent and her forthright manner.
“I understand you were also going by the name of Lady Castleton,” she began without preamble, which Prudence found both surprising and also refreshing.
“The short answer to that is yes, I was,” Prudence replied. “Would you care for tea?”
Lady Castleton nodded yes and said, “My husband is livid about it, as we have just arrived in London and all of our callers are inquiring about his time spent gallivanting around the countryside, gambling outrageously, starting fights with fellow peers, and consorting with a woman who is not actually his wife. There is a tremendous amount of confusion. We are quite horrified by the manner in which the Castleton name has been used.”
“That must be difficult for you and your entry into society,” Prudence said. She knew as well as anyone that name and reputation were everything to the haute ton. They mattered even more than money.
“I’m so glad you understand,” Lady Castleton said.
“Unfortunately, I know how harsh they can be,” Prue replied.
“I hope you can understand that I am eager to resolve this mess and clear our name. We intend to reside in England, and it shall be a long and lonely life if I am not received.”
This was the moment that Prudence had most feared. It could determine John’s freedom—possibly even his life. What easier way to have this matter put behind them than to have the man responsible locked away in prison indefinitely, shipped off to Australia, or swinging from the end of a rope?
But I love him. Prudence drew her strength from this one, basic truth. He had saved her from Dudley and had even saved her from herself. It was time to return the favor.
“There is another matter I’d like to discuss with you, Miss Payton. Lord Castleton and . . .” She, too, wasn’t quite sure how to address John, as evidenced by her hesitation over his name.
“Mr. Roark,” Prudence supplied.
“I could not help but notice that he and my husband bore a striking resemblance to each other.”
Prudence gave a start. “Is that so? When did you see him?”
“Two nights ago, was it? Castleton had him brought round. They were talking in the library for quite some time before the Bow Street Runners arrived. During a momentary distraction, Mr. Roark took the opportunity to escape—he just jumped on one of our horses and fled!”
Prudence quickly concluded that had been the night of Lady Penelope’s Ball. She thought he had forsaken her, but he had only been detained and had further risked Lord Castleton’s ire by escaping. He had kept his promise to her even when it had been nearly impossible to do so.
This man loved her. She loved him. All that stood in their way was his deception, the uproar of society, the law, and Lord and Lady Castleton.
“My point, Miss Payton, is that I suspect that my husband and Mr. Roark are half brothers. One is the rightful heir and the other is lowborn. I cannot in good conscience let him lock up his own brother, but if he is the sort of shifty fellow who will constantly embarrass us and cause us anxiety, then I shouldn’t hesitate to have Castleton lock him up and throw away the key. There are such awful men in the world—did you see that letter in The London Weekly this morning?” Lady Castleton looked sad and placed her hand over her heart before shuddering at the likes of such despicable creatures roaming free. Prudence merely nodded, feeling queasy at the thought of it. Lady Castleton continued, “Thus, I have come to you to learn of his character.”
There was something heady, weighty, slightly thrilling, and a little bit terrifying about possessing power over another person. It left her feeling awed and even afraid of what she could do. In this moment, Prudence understood that she held John’s fate in her hands by the words she chose to say next. Oddly, Prudence thought of Dudley and how he must have felt when he’d hurt her. Had he needed to diminish her to feel powerful?
If she was of a mind to, Prudence could say that a person ought to know their place in society and accept it. She could declare that nothing was more important than a man’s good name—which is why the most damaging thing she’d done in her letter to The London Weekly was call out Lord Dudley by name. In stealing another man’s identity and risking his reputation, John had committed a grievous crime.
Prudence had the power to say all of those things and thereby condemn John to life in prison or some other horrible fate. Of course she wouldn’t. But for a girl who had so long felt powerless, it was a moment that required pause. She would use this power to lift up rather than drag down.
Lady Castleton sipped her tea, waiting.
Prudence finally spoke.
“Mr. Roark is, quite honestly, the best man I know. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he will cease using the name Castleton at once and will not plague or embarrass you again.”
“I did hear that he was violent. . . .”
“Only to protect me from a man . . . like Dudley,” Prudence said. She sipped her tea, while Lady Castleton took in the information that the faux Castleton protected young maidens from the worst sort of scoundrel. Prue then continued, “When I believed him to be Castleton, I saw him behave like a true gentleman, being constantly attentive to my comforts and safety. His manners to others were exceptional. He conducted himself like the best example of a peer of the realm, which is why I believed him.”
“I see,” Lady Castleton murmured. “You have given me much to consider, Miss Payton. I shall confer with Lord Castleton at once.”
“Perhaps another time you might like to join me for tea with my friends, the Duchess of Ashbrooke and Lady Radcliffe,” Prudence said, thus offering Lady Castleton the stamp of respectability that would certainly smooth her entry into society, plaguing rumors of imposters be damned.
Lady Castleton smiled. “I would like that very much.”
There was just one last thing begging to be said. Prudence hadn’t uttered those three words aloud yet, and she wanted John to be the first to hear them.
Eleven o’clock
John hadn’t expected visitors at his cell in Newgate. Except perhaps for Prudence, but
he didn’t imagine that she—a lovely, highborn beauty—would make an appearance in this dank slum of a prison. Why would she? He had kept secrets from her when she had revealed everything to him. He had taken advantage of her trust. Worst of all, she had started to believe in goodness again, and he’d crushed her fragile belief.
He was no better than Dudley.
It didn’t matter that he had wanted to tell her the truth of his identity. He’d been afraid that she would reject him, or leave him, or withdraw when she’d only just started to blossom. It had only been concern for her safety as he’d escorted her back to London that had kept him biting his tongue every time he had wanted to confess.
He should have told her the minute she’d confided in him.
Of course he had to realize this now, alone in his dark and damp prison cell.
But then he did have a visitor, one he least expected.
“Lord Castleton,” John said by way of acknowledgment. The man’s well-made, fashionable, expensive, and clean attire stood in stark contrast to the damp and crumbling stone wall.
“Mr. Roark,” he replied with a nod.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It seems that in spite of being a mere footman, you have friends in high places,” Castleton remarked, which struck John as interesting.
“That’s news to me,” John replied. To his knowledge, he did not have friends in high places. Or was this Prudence’s doing?
“Like myself, these men also have wives who are equally determined to secure your freedom or make our lives a living hell should we leave you here. The choice, we are told, is ours. But I’m afraid it isn’t much of a choice at all.”
John smothered a grin. Definitely the work of Prudence and her friends. God, he loved her.
“There is nothing more vexing than a plaguing wife,” Castleton continued. “A man knows no peace when his wife has her mind set on something. It’s exhausting.”
“Can you not escape to your club?”
“I find it’s better to heed my wife,” Castleton said wearily. “She has consulted Miss Payton about your character, and together they have determined that you are repentant and shan’t cause the Castleton family any further trouble. My wife also has this idea that we may be half brothers.”
Blue eyes glanced at blue eyes. They saw the same thing: a striking resemblance in their features and their mannerisms. And a polite determination to avoid mentioning it.
“There’s no way of knowing, and I wouldn’t expect anything of you because of some connection we may or may not have,” John said. They weren’t family. They might have been fathered by the same man, and they might have grown up in the same house, but they still inhabited different worlds.
Castleton seemed relieved that his lowborn half sibling would not call upon him for any favors. John didn’t blame him.
“You just want to go free, I imagine,” Castleton remarked, glancing around the squalid cell.
“A man can dream,” John replied cautiously.
“We could allow this matter of fraud to go to trial,” Castleton mused.
John tensed. Since he wasn’t the begging or pleading kind, he replied, “Best not waste everyone’s time with such a farce.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m dropping the charges,” Castleton said. John’s head snapped up in surprise. “That, and I fear for my sanity otherwise. Truly, I hope you know how bothersome wives can be. Nag, nag, nag . . . and something about tea with the duchess.”
“I’d give anything to know,” John said, thinking of Prudence. If he got out of here, there was a marriage proposal in Prudence’s future. She might refuse him, but nothing would stop him from asking the question.
“How romantic,” Castleton said dryly. He straightened, ready to depart now that his business was just about concluded. “Well, you shall now have the chance to be enlightened on the matter. However, if I hear of another Lord or Lady Castleton, my wife can nag all she wants, but I will see you hang.”
And with that, John walked free.
Twelve o’clock
If one listened closely, one could hear the sound of many Mayfair hostesses dipping a quill in ink, tapping it ever so lightly on the side of the jar, and scratching the name Lord Dudley from their guest lists. Many had never liked him anyway, tolerating him only because the respected, powerful, and slightly feared Marquis of Scarbrough had demanded that his heir associate with the best society.
Well, not even Scarbrough could ensure his welcome now. Not when most hosts and hostesses were far more concerned about the safety of their lady guests, their daughters, their sisters, their mothers.
Many of the ton still championed the heir of the marquis. Many cast aspersions upon Miss Payton and whoever had penned that slanderous letter in the paper. Quite a few believed her and the author to be the same and wasted no time spreading rumors to that effect. She would be cut, of course. One did not attack the character of a peer of the realm without consequences. Thus, many hostesses did not revise their guest lists, except to remove the name of Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton. She was just a wallflower anyway. . . .
One might also hear the sound of heavy wooden doors closing firmly in the face of Lord Dudley. Butlers read The London Weekly whilst ironing it before placing it beside their masters’ breakfast plates and finishing it after the family had taken turns reading it. Those who were not given the explicit orders to refuse entry to the Dudley family took it upon themselves to prevent such a cruel creature from darkening their doors. For they, too, had daughters and sisters and wives and housemaids who relied upon them for protection and to set an example.
Everyone understood that if Dudley had done such an unspeakable crime to one of his own class, then he very likely took advantage of lower-class girls, too.
At first Dudley thought it was a few butlers, who might find themselves sacked for refusing the future Marquis of Scarbrough. But when door after door after door after door shut firmly in his face, his long-simmering anger started to boil over.
He spewed curses and leapt on his horse, kicking the beast to a canter.
Dudley proceeded to White’s, where the door was always open to its members. His father had put his name down on the waiting list the very day his name had been added to the birth registry. White’s was his haven from the world, his home away from home, where he drank and gambled and held forth with his peers.
Some stuffy matrons might have had their corsets in a twist over that rubbish article in The London Weekly, but his mates would understand that the world was theirs to enjoy. It was in the bloody Bible—God granted man dominion over the animals and everything else. Why were females too feeble-brained to comprehend that? And what was so wrong about following the bloody scripture?
Dudley dismounted in front of the famous bow window at White’s, tossed the reins of his horse to a boy, and told him to wait. Then he stomped up the four small stairs, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. His arrival in the foyer was noted by none other than the Duke of Ashbrooke, who had been embroiled in more scandals than Dudley had fingers.
The duke’s expression darkened as he crossed the room and stood, arms folded over his chest, effectively blocking Dudley’s entry into the club.
“Excuse me,” Dudley said, politely ordering one of the few men who outranked him to get the hell out of his way.
The duke did not move.
But the duke was not alone. Lord Radcliffe, the man all of London had mocked as the Mad Baron, came and stood beside the duke in a similar pose.
Dudley glanced around wildly at the sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor as they were pushed back abruptly. One gent after another came to stand with Ashbrooke, blocking Dudley’s entry into the club.
There was the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon—he was always so damned proper and sensible it made Dudley sneer. Of course he would condemn Dudley. The Duke of Buckinghamshire stood, as did the scandalously heathenish Duke of Wycliff, who had done Lord only kne
w what with savage women during his travels.
All the dukes were out today, it seemed. Of all the damned days!
They were all judging him, too, when they had no right. None.
When that renowned rake Lord Roxbury stood, Dudley felt a flash of rage. The man was known to have seduced half the women in London, and he was condemning Dudley because of one little incident? What was the bloody difference?
Even the Marquis of Huntley—a bigger rogue and scoundrel this town had never seen—stood and joined the others. As if he, who had ruined at least four women, had been one to judge.
Their message could not have been more clear: Dudley had done wrong. He was not welcome. Worse, he was not one of them.
What was he, then?
“This is a club for gentlemen,” Huntley said. Dudley was receiving condemnation from Huntley?
They both had bad reputations, noble blood, and broken noses that hinted at past indiscretions. What was the difference? He didn’t know. Wouldn’t know. He could only sneer in response.
The hell with the lot of them. Dudley summoned all his strength to act as if he was the one shunning their company. Then he stormed out.
It was clear: he would not be welcomed in White’s again.
Dudley was pretty damn sure he knew who had written that damned letter: Miss Prudence Payton. Who was she to ruin a good man’s name?
Three o’clock
In spite of John’s arrest, imprisonment, and subsequent freedom, the Duke of Ashbrooke and Lord Radcliffe still received him when he called as planned. The men gathered in the duke’s vast study, which looked like a duke’s study ought to: large windows, suggesting funds to pay the necessary taxes on them, heavy and engraved wooden desks and tables, richly upholstered chairs and settees, bookshelves loaded with expensive leather volumes, plush carpets that one’s boots sank into. Everything said wealth. Everything said this man matters more than you.
They took seats before the fire and began to converse about the invention, design, and construction of the Difference Engine.
“I think the engine is brilliant,” John said, leaning forward as he did when he was excited about the conversation at hand, and as he done when he’d explained this to Prudence. He felt a pang of embarrassment that he should have been so eager about this engine, when she was well acquainted with it and its inventors. “But what excites me most is the path of innovation it blazes.”
