Cover image: An 18th Century Woman © Laura Kate Bradley, courtesy arcangel.com
Cover design copyright © 2017 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Author photo © 2017 Annalisa Rosenvall
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2017 by Sarah M. Eden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: June 2017
ISBN 978-1-52440-351-5
To Jewel, who read every incarnation of this story and expertly helped me decide what to keep, what to change, and what to pretend I never wrote in the first place
Acknowledgments
I could not possibly have written a character possessing Daphne Lancaster’s particular expertise with any degree of accuracy without some tremendously helpful resources:
Chemist and Druggist and The Therapeutic Gazette, two nineteenth-century British trade journals, which provided detailed information on the apothecary profession in the 1800s.
William Joseph Simmonite’s 1865 guide to Medical Botany, which offered invaluable and incredibly precise information on the use of herbs for the treatment of disease and ailments in the nineteenth century.
Additionally, I wish to acknowledge with deepest gratitude:
Karen Adair, who keeps me on task and hopeful, who laughs with me and bemoans with me and who cheers me on when I need it the most.
Pam Howell and Bob Diforio, the greatest team an author could hope for.
Samantha Millburn, for always taking my writing to a whole new level. You are amazing!
My family, for putting up with all the chaos and encouraging me to tell these stories.
Chapter One
London, October 1806
Daphne Lancaster stood hidden in the shadows of her brother-in-law’s terrace, spying on Society’s first introduction to a young lady of unparalleled beauty. The belle of the ball that night was none other than her own older sister. Athena had always been inexpressibly stunning. No one, however, had ever lacked the words to describe how very plain Daphne was.
The first such comments had come from a Mrs. Carter when Daphne was six. “Such a lovely looking family, the Lancasters,” Mrs. Carter had said to her sister. “Except for that little Daphne.”
“Yes,” had come the unwavering reply. “A little mouse of a thing. Has not a bit of her mother’s beauty, poor girl. She’ll not amount to much as far as looks, I’m afraid.”
After overhearing that conversation, Daphne had spent an entire month attempting to overcome her unfortunate plainness. She had worn ribbons in her hair and had shined her own shoes twice a day. No matter the strength of her desire to run and play, she had kept still and quiet and, therefore, pristinely clean and well turned-out.
Some months later, the vicar’s wife had told her how grateful she should be to not have her sisters’ beauty, as a bit of plainness tended to keep young ladies from becoming overly pert. Surely a vicar’s wife would know the truth of such a thing.
She hadn’t bothered with the bows after that but had secretly hoped someone would tell her she’d grown into a lovely girl. No one ever had.
Now, at twelve, she’d learned to accept that she would not receive the attention she’d once longed for. She was too short, too plain, too shy, and too unnecessary.
Athena, though, was none of those things.
The Duke of Kielder’s town house overflowed with fine gowns and glittering jewels. Voices slipped out through the open french doors, filling the night air. The crowd wove in and out amongst itself. Not a soul kept still.
Watching Athena’s ball was the closest Daphne would come to being loved by Society. It wasn’t the ton’s notice she wished for, truly. Though she had never told a single soul, she dreamed and wished and hoped, deep in the most hidden bits of herself, for someone to fall utterly in love with her.
Do not be such a sentimental gudgeon, Daphne silently chided herself. She’d known all her life she would likely end up a spinster. You aren’t pretty, but you are practical. That is something.
But watching Athena dazzle the gathering, the “something” Daphne had to offer felt far too much like “nothing.”
She turned away, feeling her spirits drop with every passing moment. She leaned against the railing that ran the length of the terrace and lifted her face to the skies, sighing more dramatically than she ever allowed herself to.
“Now, what could possibly have inspired such a sorrowful sound?”
She stiffened. The voice was unfamiliar. Who was this man who had found her alone on the balcony? She turned warily toward him.
“Have you been banished to the nursery and thus find yourself longing to join the party?” he asked.
She had in fact been told to remain in her bedchamber. Her eyes settled on his face and seemed to stick there. He was very young, likely as young as Athena, who had only just turned nineteen. He had the most wonderfully brown eyes lit by a lantern very near where he stood. Daphne’s eyes were brown as well but a pitiful, muddy brown. This stranger’s glowed a shade closer to copper than dirt.
She stepped into the shadowed corner of the empty terrace, feeling overwhelmingly plain and conspicuous. No one had ventured out but this gentleman. If she slipped away, no one else would know she’d disobeyed Adam’s orders about staying in her room.
“Do not fear, Little Sparrow, I’ll not tattle.” He offered her an almost commiserating smile. “Sometimes one simply must have a peek at all that one is missing.” He motioned toward the window, just distant enough for the activity within to be unseen.
It seemed he understood her need to look, to see what she had only been able to vaguely hear and frustratingly imagine.
The young gentleman strode casually closer to where she stood, and Daphne slipped farther into her corner. She’d learned very young how to make herself appear smaller.
“I am assuming, Little Sparrow, that you are a relation of either the duke or the duchess, seeing as you appear to be a guest in this house.” The gentleman’s expression remained kind, though it grew a bit conspiratorial. Daphne felt her nervousness ease by degrees. “I have heard it whispered about that all the Lancaster family are named for Greek mythological characters. I assume, though, that you were not christened Medusa.”
Daphne shook her head, recognizing that he was teasing her. It was a very unfamiliar experience.
“You do smile after all.” His brilliant eyes softened as he spoke. “A pretty young lady such as yourself ought to smile.”
A pretty young lady. Had he truly called her pretty? No one ever had before—not her father nor any of her siblings. Even her dear Adam, who’d become closer to her than she imagined any brother-in-law ever had to his wife’s sister, had never said as much. Though none of them had ever spoken unkindly or unflatteringly of her appearance, Daphne couldn’t remember any of them calling her pretty.
“Now, in exchange for allowing me to see that smile, which I am beginning to suspect is a rare sight, I shall provide you with what I am certain will prove a crucial piece of information.”
Her e
yes had not left his face. She simply could not look away. Perhaps he would remain and talk with her for a while longer. If she smiled again, he might tell her once more that she was pretty. If she were really fortunate, he would call her Little Sparrow again. Though she could not say why, she very much liked the name he had fashioned for her.
“The Duke of Kielder is even now making his way toward the very window through which you have been spying on the ball,” the young gentleman told Daphne. “If it is his orders you are defying, you would be well advised to escape before His Dastardliness discovers your villainy. He does have a remarkably sinister reputation, as you are no doubt aware.”
Daphne nodded. She knew of Adam’s reputation and that he had earned every ounce of it. She further knew that he had a kind and caring heart beneath it all. He would not, however, be happy to find her on the terrace, at odds with his instructions. He was very accustomed to being obeyed in everything.
“Fly away, Little Sparrow,” the young gentleman instructed.
“Please do not tell the duke I am out here.” Her words did not reach above a whisper—they seldom did.
“You are not actually in danger, are you?” Genuine concern touched his words.
“No, but he will be very put out with me.”
“I give you my word not to reveal your secret. And I assure you, a promise from James Tilburn” —a tip of his head told her the name was his own—“is as good as gold.”
She sensed that about him—that he could be trusted. “Thank you, sir.”
“You are quite welcome.” He offered the very briefest of bows and one final smile before slowly making his way back toward the center of the terrace.
Daphne watched him for one drawn-out moment. James Tilburn. She committed the name to memory. James Tilburn, who thought her pretty and did not readily overlook her. James Tilburn, who called her Little Sparrow and spoke kindly to a young lady most dismissed on first glance.
He would not give her another thought. Indeed, he had probably already forgotten her. She, however, knew she would forever cherish the memory of him.
Daphne slipped into the empty book room and up the back staircase to her bedchamber, lost in her thoughts. She would likely find her mind wandering to him again and again over the days and weeks that stretched ahead of her. Perhaps she would see him again or hear of him in the passing comments of those around her.
“Someday,” she told herself, “I should very much like to marry a gentleman exactly like James Tilburn.”
* * *
James delayed his return to the ballroom as long as possible. At only eighteen years of age, he fit absolutely nowhere. He was too young to be a suitor, far too young to keep company with the matrons and seasoned gentlemen, and too old to be left at home, where he would much rather be.
His father, the Earl of Techney, had very strong opinions on the duties of his heir—attending Society’s most anticipated functions, studying at Oxford and not Cambridge, belonging to any gentlemen’s club that would accept an applicant from a family only two generations deep in the peerage, driving to an inch, being handy with his fives and deadly with a length of steel. Lord Techney permitted his son no say in his schedule nor his future.
Inside the Falstone House ballroom, the current set came to a close. James quickly glanced at the tiny, dark-haired girl he’d found spying on the balcony. She slipped nearly silently into an adjacent room, no doubt returning to the nursery. He hoped the poor child would escape the wrath of her host. How closely related was she to the Dangerous Duke? If she was forced into his company often, it was really no wonder she seemed so painfully shy. He felt certain very few people had been treated to the sight of her adorable dimpled smile.
He resignedly stepped back into the thick of the crowd. There were times when he wholeheartedly wished he could disappear as easily as that quiet little girl had, because he very much feared that eventually his father would find a way to control him completely.
Chapter Two
London
April, six years later
“You wished to see me, Father.” James stood in the doorway of his father’s library, no idea why he’d been summoned. Father never requested his presence unless he required James to do something inconvenient or unpleasant.
“Sit, Tilburn.” Father always addressed him by his courtesy title and never with any degree of paternal affection. The man twisted his signet ring around his smallest finger. James recognized that smug gesture. Something had Father feeling exceptionally satisfied with himself. That was not a good omen.
Father’s mouth turned up in a pleased smile. “The Duke of Kielder summoned me to his home this afternoon.”
James’s lungs seized. No man in the entire kingdom inspired the level of heart-stopping fear His Grace did. His presence at any event brought Society to an awe-inspired halt. The mere mention of his name left gentlemen, old and young alike, quaking in their shoes. A summons from the Dangerous Duke was not generally considered a fortunate turn of events.
Father continued spinning his signet ring, his face alight with eager anticipation. “His Grace finds our family quite impressive.”
James doubted that very much. No one with His Grace’s standing could possibly be in awe of the family of a lesser-known earl whose great-grandfather had been nothing more significant than a minor land owner in an insignificant corner of Lancashire.
“His Grace spoke highly of us—of you, as a matter of fact—though I am certain you have no comprehension of how significant that is.” Father leaned over his desk, capturing James in a look of budding excitement. “This is your opportunity, Tilburn. You’ve captured the notice of a man who holds all of Society in the palm of his hand. His approval can raise even the lowliest of the ton to places of influence and significance.”
James cared very little for the shallow and ever-changing opinions of Society’s crème de la crème. He came to London every Season and took part, to an extent, in the social whirl. But his focus had ever been on cultivating his place in political circles. One day when he assumed his father’s title, he wished to undertake his Parliamentary duties with some degree of competency. That he had found his footing, however comparatively humble, amongst some members of the ton and had received invitations to a few events was nice but not crucial to his happiness.
“His Grace made a suggestion,” Father added, blind to James’s lack of enthusiasm, “and I, of course, accepted on your behalf.”
A lump of apprehension began to form in James’s stomach. “What precisely did he suggest?”
“He spoke of his sister-in-law, the quiet one whose name no one can ever recall.”
James certainly couldn’t put a name to the young lady. Try as he might, he couldn’t even picture her.
“She possesses a dowry of £20,000 and is connected to the best families in the land,” Father said.
“How very fortunate for her.” James could think of nothing else to say. Why in heaven’s name was Father discussing the social cache of a lady so wholly unconnected with them?
“His Grace suggested you might show the girl a bit of attention.”
An odd request, to be sure. “I don’t understand.”
“You seldom do,” Father drawled. “The chit has made her bows and will be launched into Society shortly. Unlike the older sister, this sister has raised no anticipation nor eagerness. By all accounts, she is rather plain and ill at ease in the company of others. Her connections will prevent complete failure, but her shortcomings will certainly make marrying the girl off more difficult for His Grace than he would prefer. He is looking to ease her into her debut by asking you to call on her, court her.”
“He wants me to court her?” Surely the duke had meant no such thing.
Eagerness entered Father’s eyes. He had no doubt already begun calculating the good this would do for the standing of the Tilburn f
amily. His heir would be seen going about with the Duke of Kielder. Father would likely find a way to be included himself. Even the tiny climbing boys working for chimney sweeps throughout London couldn’t boast the upward aspirations of the Earl of Techney.
James couldn’t like the idea of this nameless, faceless young lady being a means to Father’s social ends any more than he liked the unfeeling way Father and the duke had apparently spoken of her. But how to wiggle out of it when he knew climbing the ladder of Society was so important to Father?
“You said this was a suggestion, not an edict?”
“His Grace does not make ‘suggestions.’” Father’s pointed look only confirmed what James had heard about the Dangerous Duke. “He wishes you to be part of her entry into this Season, and you will. Kielder”—Father assumed a great deal addressing the duke so informally. James doubted His Grace had given him leave to do so—“is likely growing quite determined to prevent disaster. His invitation has given you a rare opportunity, has given this family an opportunity, and you will take advantage of it.”
No. He shook his head at the absurdity of it. Father must have misunderstood. “The duke certainly might wish to guarantee she has dance partners at the next ball or that someone will drop into their box at the theater, but why would he risk even the appearance of a suitor who would inevitably not come up to scratch?”
Father leaned his elbows on the desk. “I do not believe he would risk that. If you are cognizant of the opportunity he has laid before you and mean to earnestly pursue the girl, His Grace, I am certain, expects you to ‘come up to scratch.’ However, if you do not intend to accept the entirety of his offer and mean only to ease her way in Society a little with your friendship and attentions, he will require you to be very circumspect and not raise any expectations.”
“That is a fine line to walk.” Too fine to suit him.
Father nodded firmly. “But walk it you will. This family has hovered long enough in the shadow of obscurity. The duke and I have served in Parliament together his entire adult life. We have both come to Town every Season. Yet he has never once done anything more than vaguely acknowledge my existence.”
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