Chapter One

“Mercy! She came after all!” one of the young women gasped, a delicate white hand flying to her bow-shaped mouth.

Her companion snorted. “One must respect her determination, at least. It’s rather brave, don’t you think?”

“Foolish, rather. I should hide myself away forever if I looked like that.”

Cressida kept her head high, resolutely not looking in the direction of the two young women who were speaking. They were barely more than girls, neither of them older than seventeen. If her memory served her correctly—and it usually did—they were the nieces of her host, Lady Hartwell. The girls had entered Society this Season in hopes of making good matches. They were both pretty, and likely to do well. 

She could feel their eyes following her as she crossed the room. 

The feeling will fade, Cressida reminded herself. It always does. 

Lady Hartwell came hurrying towards them, a polite smile on her face. 

“Lord Merriweather! Lady Cressida! How pleasant to see you. I’m so glad you could attend my humble musicale. Do you plan to play, Lady Cressida?”

The thought of having the eyes of everybody upon her made Cressida’s skin crawl, but Lady Hartwell always asked her to play. Often, it seemed that Cressida’s playing secured their invitation, and Papa would be so disappointed if their social invitations began to dwindle. 

“Of course, if you wish it,” Cressida responded smoothly, and Lady Hartwell gave a brief, relieved smile. 

“Excellent! I had a harp put in place specially for you, my dear. Of course, Miss Burnell always wishes to play the harp, but—between ourselves—she is quite unequal to your skill.”

Cressida gave a polite smile at this compliment. Lady Hartwell was one of the few people who seemed able to hold Cressida’s gaze as they spoke, instead of letting her eyes slide to the left side of her face. 

Of course, that did not mean that Lady Hartwell wanted to stay and chat more than was strictly necessary. Clearing her throat and shifting from foot to foot, she murmured an excuse and scurried away to greet more guests. 

Papa patted Cressida’s hand where it lay in the crook of his elbow. 

“Well done, my dear. I’m always tremendously proud of you when you play.”

Cressida gave a faint smile. “Let’s find you a seat, Papa.”

“Nonsense, we’ll mingle a little.”

Her heart sank. Mingling was never a pleasant chore. It involved tedious small talk, finding acquaintances and friends who were willing to stay and chat for a moment or two, all the while fighting not to look too directly at Cressida’s face. 

“Papa, you ought to sit down. Your gout…”

“My health is doing well, my dear,” Papa answered firmly. “If you wish to sit, I can always walk around by myself.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. Papa was markedly unsteady on his feet these days, and his gout was in fact the least of his troubles. He had become a father late in life and was now nearing the age of seventy. Forty-four was not an advanced age to father a child, of course, but Cressida’s mother, at forty-one, had been considered beyond the age of childbearing. At the time, it was considered something of a miracle. 

Now, Cressida could not help but wonder if it was accounted a curse instead.

She kept these thoughts to herself, of course, gently steering Papa across the room. 

Lady Hartwell’s musicales were always conducted in her vast library, with velvet and gilt chairs set out before a low platform, boasting a huge pianoforte. There was a harp there too, as Lady Hartwell had promised, pushed in a little clumsily at the side, nearly touching the pianoforte. 

“Cressida! There you are!”

She turned at the familiar voice to find Daisy advancing upon her with determined step.

“Ah, Daisy,” Papa remarked, untangling his arm from his daughter’s. “How delightful to see you here. Am I to understand that Lady Black is in attendance?”

“Yes, indeed,” Daisy replied. “I have secured her a comfortable seat and now seek some refreshment. Oh—and my parents have promised they shall write to you very soon.”

“I am gratified to hear it,” Papa chuckled. “I receive tidings from my dear cousins so rarely these days. Cressida, I shall have a word with Mr Rolf yonder; pray remain with Daisy and keep her company.”

Cressida bit her lip and said nothing, letting Papa limp away. Daisy and her family were distant cousins—her mother being some manner of second or third cousin to Papa—and so the blood ties between them were thin. That hardly seemed to matter, however. When Daisy was near—brisk, practical Daisy—Cressida could almost forget about her own face.

“Lady Black’s health declines, I fear,” Daisy confided, stepping closer to her cousin. “I worry that I may soon be obliged to seek another situation.”

“Is her condition so grave?”

Daisy sighed. “She is far from well. Should she elect to remove to the seaside—for the air, you know—I could not possibly accompany her. I must remain near Mama and Papa. And you, of course.”

“Surely it will not be difficult to find another lady in need of a companion,” Cressida ventured. “You are much esteemed in Society, and Lady Black speaks in nothing but the warmest terms of you.”

Daisy said nothing for a moment, chewing her lip and reflexively smoothing the front of her demure grey gown. She was the daughter of a vicar, part of a large family, and while they were considered of properly respectable birth, Cressida knew full well that they did not have two pennies to rub together. There was no dowry for Daisy. She was pretty, with cool blonde hair and large, expressive brown eyes, but compared to the glittering, silk-clad beauties of the Season, there was no comparison. Marriage seemed unlikely. 

That makes two of us, Cressida thought grimly. Marriage had never much enticed her, as she’d seen too many miserable marriages in Society. At six-and-twenty—positively ancient, if society were to be believed—she was considered safely upon the shelf in any case.

“But enough of that,” Daisy said at last, recovering. “I don’t want to talk of maudlin things. I am a grown, intelligent woman of five-and-twenty, and I shall manage my life accordingly. Are you playing tonight, Cressida?”

“Yes, I am. I have a talent, as Papa says, so I might as well make use of it.”

Daisy smiled, nodding encouragingly. “Your dress is a pretty one. It suits you.”

Cressida bit back a smile. Daisy was a cheerful person by nature and loved to give compliments. One always felt that she meant it, too. 

“Thank you,” Cressida murmured, plucking at the purple, ruched fringes of her satin gown. “It’s from the Season before last. I didn’t see the sense in buying new gowns, even though Papa told me to. This one is old.”

“What does that matter? It suits your colouring.”

“You always know the right thing to say,” Cressida murmured, giving a low laugh. 

“Well, it does. You have the loveliest hazel eyes. I declare that they seem to change colour with your mood.”

“Yes, very pretty. It is a shame about…”

“Stop it,” Daisy interrupted, her voice turning hard. “I won’t hear you talk about yourself in that way, Cressida. I won’t.”

There was a moment of silence between them, broken by a gentleman passing by. Cressida recognised him as Mr James Thornton, the physician—a man of sufficient repute in London to warrant an invitation to such a gathering. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and with a mop of reddish hair. He wore round spectacles that tended to slip down his long nose, which Cressida had noticed when he came to attend to Papa. 

“Good evening to you, Lady Cressida,” he murmured, with a nod and a smile. His gaze never flickered to her scar. She supposed that as a physician, he had seen his fair share of scars. Maybe worse ones than hers. His eyes slid to Daisy. “Good evening, Miss Blythe. Is Lady Black somewhat recovered today?”

“Yes, thank you,” Daisy answered at once, a little breathlessly. “We are most obliged to you for calling at so late an hour last night. She places the utmost reliance upon your skill, sir.”

Mr Thornton bowed, smiling. “It is always a pleasure to be of service.”

With that, he moved on. Cressida cast Daisy a sidelong, mischievous glance.

“So, Mr Thornton is in frequent attendance upon Lady Black,” she observed lightly. “You must see a great deal of him.”

Daisy coloured and nudged her cousin with her elbow. “Enough of your teasing, you wretch. Come—let us fetch that lemonade for Lady Black. I am quite parched myself.”

***

“This entire expedition is a prodigious waste of time,” Alaric muttered darkly. “I cannot fathom why you insisted upon dragging me here.”

Beatrice pursed her lips, concentrating on adjusting her curls in the mirror. 

“Do not whine, brother. We are here now. You can nap during the musicale itself, if you like; I generally do. Who wishes to endure a parade of insipid young ladies plonking at the pianoforte or twanging at harps? Positively intolerable. Goodness, that maid has made a botch of my hair—I shall certainly have words with her.”

“You had best not,” Alaric returned sharply. “If you provoke Joan into leaving, we cannot possibly afford a replacement.”

Beatrice pouted. “For mercy’s sake, then—marry a rich woman, and swiftly. Once Papa’s debts are discharged, we may at last live as we ought.”

Alaric flinched. “I wish you would not make sport of our circumstances. They are no jest.”

Indeed, they were not. Six months into his viscountcy, Alaric already felt the weight of the title pressing heavily upon him. He had known, of course, that the estate was impoverished, but had not guessed at the extent of the debts. The labour of setting all to rights was proving far more arduous than he had ever conceived.

“You are ever too serious, Alaric,” Beatrice sighed. “Now—tell me, is my hair neat?”

Alaric glanced over, catching his sister’s eye through the mirror. 

Alaric cast her a glance, catching her reflection in the glass. The resemblance between them was plain: both possessed raven-dark hair, clear grey eyes, and finely cut features. The gossip sheets lauded Beatrice as a great beauty, and in truth, she was quite pretty. Alaric considered himself unremarkable, though taller than many present at the musicale.

With one notable exception. 

“There you two are,” James exclaimed, striding over. Towering above the crowd at more than six and a half feet, he carried his height with a certain awkwardness. “I have been searching the room for you all night.”

“Ah, the esteemed Mr Thornton,” Beatrice remarked, a trace of bite in her tone. “It is a marvel your adoring flock of ailing, elderly ladies could spare you for the evening.”

No love lost between my sister and my closest friend, then, Alaric thought to himself, suppressing a sigh. 

James only rolled his eyes and turned away from her barbs. Another gentleman detached himself from the crowd and advanced towards them.

“Uncle Darwin,” Alaric greeted him. “Pray tell Beatrice to desist from tormenting her hair. And for my part, I remain uncertain that our presence here is necessary.”

Darwin chuckled, clapping his nephew heartily on the shoulder. 

“Necessary it most assuredly is. Beatrice must secure herself a wealthy husband, and you, my boy, must find an heiress. Only thus may we discharge my poor brother’s debts. Regard this evening less as diversion, and more as commerce.”

“I have ample business awaiting me at home,” Alaric muttered. “The ledgers must be balanced, and the steward—”

“Hush, lad. Let us take stock of our prospects.”

Alaric bristled at his uncle’s tone. He had long been accustomed to deferring to the man, yet he was no longer a boy. At eight-and-twenty, with a peevish sister, a crumbling estate, and creditors circling, he felt the burden of manhood most keenly. 

Still, Uncle Darwin’s counsel had been of genuine service, and Alaric schooled himself to gratitude.

“There’s Lady Hartwell’s two nieces, newly come out,” Darwin remarked, pointing out two giggling girls huddled in a corner. “Lady Hartwell is remarkably rich, of course, but rumour has it she intends to settle little upon the girls, so I think we should look elsewhere. There’s Miss Featherstone—she approaches thirty, and might be secured without difficulty, but her fortune is not what it once was. Besides, she is something of a harpy.”

Alaric clenched his jaw. “I detest the notion of marrying for money, Uncle. It feels mercenary.”

James kept his counsel, though Alaric suspected he would drift away before long; he and Darwin had never been the best of friends.

“It is mercenary,” Darwin responded at once. “And you had best grow accustomed to it, if you mean to save your estate. Another possibility is the Merridale girl. Lord Merriweather’s daughter, of course. She is said to have a good dowry, but… well, take a look at her. The woman is hideous to look at.”

Alaric flinched, a little shocked to hear a lady described as hideous. Darwin pointed, and Alaric peered in that direction. 

A pair of women stood by the refreshment table, talking. One woman wore a plain grey gown, probably a ladies’ companion of some sort. The other woman caught his eye at once. 

She wore an old-fashioned purple gown, but one which suited her even so, the simple cut fitting well to her willowy frame. She was tall, with a headful of thick, glossy honey-blonde locks, swept up and back in a simple style. She turned, as if sensing his scrutiny, but did not seem to notice him. 

The gesture revealed the other side of her face.

A long, thick scar ran from just above her left eyebrow and down all the way to her jawline. The scar was almost as thick as Alaric’s little finger, the skin around it puckered. There were dots and dashes of much smaller scars on either side of the line, speckling her skin. 

What sort of dreadful accident gave her that scar? He found himself wondering. And how did she survive it? 

She had clear hazel eyes, shifting between brown and green. Several people shot her cautious, almost disdainful glances as they went by, their gazes sliding away from her scarred face. 

If these stares bothered her, she gave no indication of it, calmly returning to conversation with her friend. 

“She is remarkably composed, I grant her that,” Alaric murmured, before he realised what he was saying. 

Darwin gave a low chuckle. “She has had time to grow accustomed. From what I hear, those scars date back to her twelfth year—a carriage accident, they say. But that is immaterial. What matters is the fortune behind her, and whether it is sufficient to reconcile a man to the prospect of looking upon her face every day. Ha!”

Alaric winced. James turned upon Darwin a look of open disgust.

“I believe the musicale is about to commence,” he said coolly. “We had best find our seats.”

Chapter Two

Most of the seats were already occupied, and thus Alaric was left to sit apart from his sister and uncle. He and James took places together at one end, while Beatrice and Darwin settled at the other.

In truth, Alaric did not mind. His uncle’s counsel was often useful, yet he spoke of marrying for money with a bluntness that Alaric could scarcely approve. The marriage mart was rarely guided by sentiment, of course, but Society preferred at least the pretence of it.

“Ladies and gentlemen—without further ado—let us commence our evening of culture and refinement,” Lady Hartwell declared, bringing her hands together in a genteel clap. “We shall begin with a recital by my dear nieces: Miss Sweet, and her younger sister, Miss Annabella. Come along, my girls—pray take your places.”

There was polite applause, and the girls in question bounced to their feet, scurrying up to the platform in a flurry of ruched skirts and complacent smiles. They were the two girls that his uncle had decided against Alaric pursuing because their aunt was not going to settle as much money upon them as everybody thought. 

Miss Annabella, the younger girl, took her place at the pianoforte, and Miss Sweet stood in front of it, smirking down at the audience. 

She’s going to sing, Alaric realising with a sinking heart. 

He was, unfortunately, right. At some point in her life, Miss Sweet had been erroneously told that she had a good voice. 

She did not have a bad voice, exactly, but it was not suited to the song she had chosen, a ballad with high notes which she could not quite reach. Her reedy voice pitched into a wail now and then, telling some dull tale of a girl who died for virtue or something equally ridiculous. 

Miss Annabella, on the other hand, seemed relatively competent on the pianoforte, although she occasionally stumbled over the notes. Her discords, fortunately, were drowned out by her sister’s singing. Glancing around the audience, Alaric saw a few people smothering yawns or exchanging quick, hidden smiles with each other. 

“Does it bother you?”

Startled, Alaric cast a glance at James. His friend’s eyes were fixed upon the stage, and to any observer he might have seemed wholly engrossed in the performance. Yet the set of his jaw and the furrow between his brows betrayed him.

“What do you mean?” Alaric asked, keeping his voice low. The performance may be indifferent, but they couldn’t risk offending their host by openly chattering through it. 

“I mean your uncle’s plans to marry you off for money, and nothing more. Does it not chafe, to have your future disposed of so unceremoniously?”

Alaric sighed. “I am not a sentimental man. I never fancied my life a romance. To marry for money is as practical a course as any. I bear a title, and therefore cannot demean myself with trade or such pursuits. My choices are limited.”

James sniffed. “I do not approve of it. That much I shall tell you plainly.”

“Well, I do not need you to approve. It is easy for you, James—you are clever, agreeable, industrious. You have made your own name and your own fortune. You may afford to wed for love. I, however, have not that luxury. I must seek my fortune elsewhere.”

James made no reply. The Sweet sisters concluded their performance, beaming as though anticipating a storm of applause. There was, instead, the briefest pause before the audience recollected that the young ladies were Lady Hartwell’s nieces, and dutifully clapped their hands. The sisters retreated to their seats with expressions somewhat discomfited.

Lady Hartwell returned to the platform, her cheeks aglow with pleasure.

“Exquisite work, my dears! I am certain we were all delighted. And now, for our next performer—we have a familiar face… ahem—I mean, a lady well known to us all. No, I… ah. Lady Cressida will oblige us.”

There was a beat of silence after this hurried, stuttering introduction. Then Lady Cressida rose to her feet, cool and dignified. Alaric leaned forward, watching her. 

Does she know that the eyes of everybody in the room are boring into her? She must know it. Does it bother her that they are all staring at her face? 

There were whispers as the lady took her place, settling onto the low stool behind the harp. On the platform, with the candlelight playing over her face, her scar seemed even deeper than before. 

She took her time, glancing out at the audience, dragging out the silence. 

I wonder if she wants to stand up and cry out, ‘Look at me, won’t you?’

She did no such thing, of course. Instead, she turned her attention to the harp and began to play. 

From the very first notes, echoing and resounding through the silent room, it was clear that Lady Cressida had a rare and beautiful gift for music. 

The Sweet sisters had chosen a popular piece that Alaric had heard a number of times but couldn’t recall the name of. He didn’t know which piece Lady Cressida was playing, but it was sweet and haunting and seemed to hold the rest of the audience in a spell. 

Beside him, Alaric was faintly aware that James had leaned forward, entranced. An elderly lady sitting beside him lifted a gnarled, trembling hand to her mouth. 

Alaric found that his gaze was glued to the woman on the platform. Her fingers danced nimbly over the strings, seeming almost to move of their own accord. Her expression was cool, almost detached. 

And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the music ended. There was a beat of silence, but not the awkward silence after the Sweet sisters’ performance. It was a sort of general awakening from a dream. Then the applause began, loud and excited. Alaric found himself clapping. No—more than clapping. He was upon his feet, as were several others.

When was the last time I felt so truly swept away by a piece of music? Not since Mother died. 

“Bravo!” he cried. “Bravo!”

Lady Cressida seemed just as unmoved by the applause as she had by the sly, shifty stares of disapproval. She rose to her feet, made a shallow curtsey, and retreated to her seat before the clapping had finished. 

Alaric sat down with a sigh, shaking his head. 

“What talent,” he murmured. 

“She is the finest harpist in London,” James said quietly. “In all of England, I should not wonder. Lady Cressida may endure unkind whispers and suffer a thousand little slights on account of her scars—as though she were to blame for them!—but without exception, they all beg her to play for them.” 

***

“An excellent performance, as always, Lady Cressida,” Lady Hartwell gushed. “I know I can always count on you to elevate my humble musicales.”

Cressida gave a tight smile. “I appreciate the opportunity to play, Lady Hartwell.”

Papa was off somewhere else, talking to a gentleman that Cressida did not know, a friend of Mr Thornton’s. Daisy was attending to Lady Black, and that left Cressida without anybody to talk to. 

Of course, several people had come to congratulate her on her performance, as always. They never seemed to want to linger in conversation, however. 

She glanced over at Papa, wondering if she should approach him. Past experience had told her that, if Papa was talking to gentlemen, her approach would frighten them off with comical speed. 

At least, she tried to find it comical, and not hurtful. 

To her amazement, Lady Hartwell looped her arm through Cressida’s, an intimate gesture she had not expected from the older woman. 

“I have been thinking of you a good deal, Lady Cressida,” Lady Hartwell confided. “I should like very much to see you married. And your papa should like that, too.”

She gave a faint smile. “But I should not, Lady Hartwell.”

The woman stared at her, openly aghast. “Oh, my dear girl, have you abandoned all hope already? You must not—indeed, you must not. Many men marry without a thought for mere appearance, particularly when a lady possesses a dowry as handsome as yours.”

Cressida clenched her jaw until she heard her teeth squeak. 

“You mistake me, Lady Hartwell. I have not given up hope, nor would I thank a man who married me only for my fortune. Papa’s health is delicate, and I need to care for him. Besides, I am content with the life I have. I am not sure that marriage would make me happier than I am now.”

Lady Hartwell stared at her for a long moment, eyes bulging. Cressida saw the very instant when her hostess clearly decided that she could not possibly mean what she had said.  

“Oh, what a brave little creature you are,” Lady Hartwell sighed at last, her expression softening. “But your papa would never wish you to sacrifice yourself for his sake, I’ll be bound. Do not dare give up hope, you sweet girl. There is a gentleman out there perfectly suited to you—I am sure of it.”

“Are you? Then I can only hope I am spared the misfortune of meeting him,” Cressida returned, more sharply than was strictly proper.

She was spared from further conversation by Papa’s approach. Cressida turned to him, relieved, but was shocked to see the gentleman following him. At once, Lady Hartwell made herself scarce, and Cressida was left alone to face them both. 

“Cressida, my dear, I don’t believe you’ve met Lord Ashford, have you?” Papa said, flushed and beaming. “He is a brand-new viscount, following the death of his esteemed father. They are only recently out of mourning, you see. He came straight to me after the musicale and presented his compliments on your performance. I told him that if he thought that little piece was excellent, he ought to hear your others!”

“Lord Merriweather tells me that the piece was of your own composition,” the gentleman said, fixing Cressida with a cool, even stare. He had strange eyes, very clear and grey, and they contrasted with his black hair that had been coaxed—unsuccessfully—into something resembling the Brutus style. Too long and unruly, it tumbled forward over his brow. He was tall, more solidly built than many of the young men present, and bore a serious, almost austere expression.

She supposed that other women might find him handsome, but Cressida had long since learned not to think of gentlemen in such a way, to avoid humiliation and possibly heartache. 

“Yes, it was,” Papa answered eagerly, when Cressida took a beat too long to respond. “She’s a remarkably clever girl. Now, that particular piece is not my favourite—Cressida often plays to me of an evening, and I know all her works by heart—but you must come to us one day and hear what else she can do.”

Cressida’s heart sank. 

Papa, stop. You’re humiliating us both. 

It would not be the first time Papa had sought to secure a husband for Cressida, endeavouring to lure some gentleman to their house with the promise of good wine, a plentiful table, or an evening’s diversion. 

Some gentlemen went along with it, clearly hoping that the influential Lord Merriweather would help them to climb the social ladder. An earl was a valuable friend to have, after all. 

They drew the line, it seemed, at marrying the earl’s daughter. 

Isn’t it funny, Cressida thought, with a rush of bitterness. I have a good deal of money to offer a husband, a good name, good breeding, and an influential father, and yet none of that can tempt a man to make me an offer, even a reluctant one. 

“Papa, I am sure Lord Ashford is far too busy for such amusements,” Cressida heard herself saying. “A new viscount will have a great deal of work to do, and I’m certain he has no time to sit down and listen to harp-playing. Isn’t that so, Lord Ashford?”

When she glanced over at the gentleman in question, she found him looking at her with a very direct stare. That was a little disconcerting. Most eyes slid quickly over her face, reluctant to linger. His held no disgust, no vulgar curiosity—only… something she could not decipher. That, too, was disconcerting. Faces were usually easy enough for Cressida to read, yet with this gentleman, she could form no notion of what passed in his mind.

“I could not possibly contradict a lady, Lady Cressida,” Lord Ashford replied, bowing with placid precision.

Cressida’s jaw tightened. She turned away from him and addressed her father instead.

“I believe I have a headache, Papa. Might we return home?”

Papa’s shoulders sagged, and his face fell. Cressida felt a twinge of pity for him. 

There’ll be no marriage for me, Papa. I wish you would understand that. It would be simpler for us both if you did. 

“Of course, my dear,” he answered at last. “Whatever you wish.” 

Chapter Three

I cannot ignore it much longer.

Alaric Ashley, Viscount Ashford, stared down at the letter lying on his desk. It had lain there since before breakfast, and he had already spent several hours contriving to ignore it. It was the morning following Lady Hartwell’s musicale, the strains of music and the press of company still fresh in his mind.

Swallowing thickly, he picked up the letter. The paper was thick and creamy, of good quality. A lumpy blob of wax sealed it shut, making a loud snap when he cracked it. 

The letter inside was brief but sharp. He read through it quickly, then slowly replaced the letter on the desk. 

That’s it, then, he thought numbly. We are ruined. 

He had met the writer of the letter only once, at his father’s funeral: one of the late viscount’s principal creditors, a man whose claims were of a size plainly impossible to discharge.

Thus far, he and his uncle Darwin had contrived to stave off the most pressing of their creditors, who, albeit reluctantly, had extended their dates of repayment.

With one exception. 

No further lenience can be granted, Alaric read, underlined at the bottom of the letter. The debt is repayable in full by the date outlined, and not a day later. Do not test me, Lord Ashford. 

Alaric buried his face in his shaking hands. 

Well, Uncle Darwin cannot rescue me from this mess, he thought tremulously. This is it. It’s over for me. 

He would be ruined, of course. If a debt of that magnitude were called in now, it would leave him little more than a title and no means with which to maintain it. How was he to provide for Beatrice? She was scarcely economical; she would fall from the notice of Society like a stone, and her admirers would vanish with the same speed.

No one wished to marry a penniless girl, however fair.

It is not my future alone that perishes; it is Beatrice’s as well.

Suddenly, Alaric was overtaken by a powerful, almost childish impulse to sink to the floor and curl himself upon the rug, to surrender to a long, heartfelt fit of weeping.

Oh, Father—what have you done? What sort of world have you left us? 

His mind flew back to those last, fevered days, his father shaking beneath the force of his final illness. Too weak even to order his affairs, the old viscount had clutched at him again and again, imploring Alaric to care for Beatrice.

How am I to care for my sister, when I have neither money nor influence left with which to do it?

Abruptly, Alaric’s fist struck the table. The sound cracked through the silence.

It was all for nothing. I have denied Beatrice nearly every wish, sacrificed my own studies, endured privations beyond counting. I have sold half the heirlooms merely to keep food upon the table—and still it is all for nothing. We are ruined regardless. We shall be paupers.

A knock upon the door broke the hush that followed, and Alaric started, rising guiltily to his feet. Even now, half a year after his father’s death, it felt like a trespass to sit in the late viscount’s study. 

“Who is it?”

“It is I, your lordship,” came the muffled voice of the butler. “A gentleman is here to see you.”

“A gentleman? At this hour? Who is it?”

“The Earl of Merriweather, my lord.”

Alaric flinched. He recalled Lord Merriweather, of course—a frail, elderly man, eager beyond measure to present his daughter. The old fellow had almost swelled with pride when he told Alaric that she composed her own music.

Lady Cressida’s father. 

“Show him in at once,” Alaric found himself saying. 

“Yes, your lordship.”

The butler’s footsteps echoed, disappearing down the hall. Glancing around, Alaric realised with a jolt that his study was a mess. 

He flew around the room like a whirlwind, collecting papers into a neat pile, removing stacked books from the chairs, and using a handkerchief to dust the mantelpiece. Only a scant handful of servants remained in the household, all of them owed wages in arrears, and much of the work went undone. Alaric knew better than to reproach his staff; they were already overburdened. 

By the time he heard approaching footsteps, the study was a little more presentable. Red-faced and slightly out of breath, Alaric sank into the seat behind his desk. 

He had just settled himself when the door creaked open, and the butler ushered in Lord Merriweather. 

The older man leaned heavily on a cane and took slow, careful steps. 

At least his pace afforded me time enough to set the room to rights, Alaric thought. 

He rose to his feet once more, extending a hand. 

“Lord Merriweather, what an unexpected pleasure! Please, sit. Johnson, fetch tea, would you?”

The butler inclined his head. Both Alaric and the butler knew fine well that the tea served would be made from the leftover tea leaves from breakfast. They couldn’t afford new tea at the moment, and he could only wish that the earl wouldn’t want any sugar. 

Lord Merriweather lowered himself carefully into a seat with a sigh. The butler slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

“I thought I’d pay you a call. I know it’s early,” Lord Merriweather explained, “but I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

“Well, I am glad to see you, my lord,” Alaric answered smoothly. His heart was pounding under his darned waistcoat. He ought not to be wearing the old thing, but Beatrice had insisted upon at least one new gown for the Season, and thus there had been no funds left for his own attire. Provided he did not wear the waistcoat where anyone of consequence might see him—in the Park, for instance—he could contrive to make use of it still. 

“You seem an amiable young man,” Lord Merriweather continued. “There is, in my view, a sad want of amiable young men in Society at present. You have been well brought up, I think.”

Alaric inclined his head at the compliment, though his pulse quickened.

The old man appears to look kindly upon me… 

The thought came unbidden: perhaps Lord Merriweather might be prevailed upon to lend his support. Not a gift—but a gentleman’s loan, discreet and patient, to buy him a little time. The sum would not erase the debt itself, yet if the obligation were owed to a man of Lord Merriweather’s benevolence, rather than to his present, implacable creditor, the burden might prove far easier to bear—and his honour preserved in the meantime. 

Alaric looked at the older man with a new, almost reverent regard. Could this be my deliverance?

“I confess, I am surprised you have managed to keep the estate afloat this long,” Lord Merriweather remarked, not unkindly. “Your late father was a man of many qualities, though financial management was scarcely his talent.”

All hope disappeared in an instant. Alaric felt almost as though he’d been punched in the gut, the breath knocked out of his body. He slumped back in his chair. 

“How did you know of that?” he whispered. “We tried to keep it a secret.”

Lord Merriweather gave a weary sigh. “You may hide such matters from the gossips, my boy, but never from those accustomed to reckon estates and fortunes. It is not malice—only experience.”

Alaric passed a hand over his face. “You must not speak of it,” he managed at last, as if he had any real power to command what Lord Merriweather did or did not speak of. “If my sister can make a good match, then—”

“She is unlikely to make one within the fortnight, is she? By my reckoning, you will be at the end of your resources in a matter of weeks—perhaps sooner.” Then, seeing Alaric’s stricken look, he added quickly, “I do not mean to distress you. I only speak what I believe to be true.”

Alaric nodded mutely.

At that moment, Johnson returned with a tea-tray. He had set upon it a vast slab of lumpy old fruitcake, an unsubtle attempt to disguise how bare the tray truly was, stripped of the dainties that ought to have graced it. The sugar bowl was absent, and when Alaric poured the tea, it was a wan and watery colour. He knew without tasting it that it would be weak.

Johnson left without another word, and silence descended between the two gentlemen. 

“I have upset you,” Lord Merriweather murmured at last, visibly troubled. “I am sorry, Lord Ashford. You must believe I have no wish to cause you difficulty.”

Alaric attempted a smile. “I had been hoping to ask you for a loan. But I see now there is little chance of that.”

The older man’s lips curved faintly. “Not yet.”

Not yet? That wasn’t a no. Alaric felt the treacherous spark of hope spring to life inside him, and he leaned forward despite himself. 

“What do you mean?” 

Lord Merriweather leaned forward, making no effort to take the insipid-looking tea. 

“I mean that I am here to speak to you of a delicate matter—a business offer, if you will.”

A business offer? Alaric was intrigued in spite of himself. What sort of business could Lord Merriweather possibly propose with a nearly bankrupt viscount? And what investment could the earl expect him to make? He forced himself to nod with an air of comprehension. 

“I see. What sort of offer?”

Lord Merriweather hesitated, clearly weighing up his words. His slowness to speak started to grate on Alaric’s nerves. 

For goodness’ sake, man, do not keep me in suspense. I am nearly undone as it is.

At last, Lord Merriweather said quietly, “I imagine you have considered marrying an heiress to secure your estate.”

Alaric inclined his head. “Yes. My uncle has urged it.”

The earl drew a steadying breath. “Then I will be plain. My daughter has a substantial dowry.”

A long pause followed. Alaric was sure he had misheard.

“I beg your pardon,” he said cautiously. “Are you proposing a marriage of convenience between myself and your daughter—Lady Cressida?”

Lord Merriweather exhaled, nodding. “Yes. That is my proposal. I will speak frankly: I have been concerned for my daughter these many years. With her… with her affliction—”

“Her scar, you mean?”

The earl flinched but inclined his head. “Yes. People can be cruel. Since that accident at twelve years old, she has been treated as though she were something less than she is, and it has hardened her. She shows no eagerness to marry, and no suitable gentleman has ever presented himself. Some men have been interested in her money, but I cannot let my only child throw herself away upon a man who would not, at the very least, respect her. I am not much inclined to sentiment, nor is Cressida, yet I cannot but wish her happiness.”

“Perhaps she would be happier staying unmarried, then, than marrying a man she does not esteem,” Alaric found himself saying, cautiously.

What are you saying, fool? Her dowry could be your salvation. Be practical.  

Lord Merriweather shook his head. “My estate is entailed, bound by strict provisions. If I die while Cressida is still unwed, her dowry will revert to the estate. She will have a small income to live upon, but not much. She has friends, yes, but they are not powerful ones. I… I dread to think what sort of existence she will lead. My daughter is clever, practical, but she has been reared in a certain way of life. Once I am gone, all of that changes. I cannot bear the thought of her alone—and unhappy.”

A silence followed, and in Lord Merriweather’s eyes, Alaric saw it plainly: fear. Deep, paternal fear.

He is afraid, Alaric realised. He cares so deeply for her.

The earl cleared his throat, straightened, and met Alaric’s gaze squarely.

“I resolved some time ago to secure a husband for my daughter in this fashion,” he continued, his voice low. “Her dowry is considerable. I will provide details later, but suffice it to say: if you were to marry Cressida, you could discharge every debt, restore your estate, settle a portion upon your sister, and live without want. Some of her fortune I would reserve for her private use—should you suffer an untimely end—but the greater part would pass to you. All your difficulties could be resolved in one stroke, if you will agree to marry my daughter.”

For a moment, Alaric could not speak.

“Why me?” he managed at last. “Surely there are other gentlemen who would accept such terms.”

Lord Merriweather gave a thin smile. “Indeed. But I chose carefully. Let me be plain, Lord Ashford: I knew your circumstances before we even met last night, just as I knew those of many others. Yet, in watching you, I grew convinced that you are a man who would treat my daughter with respect—that you would see her as a person, and not as some… ruined thing. And you have a fondness for music, do you not? So has she. That, at least, is a beginning. My daughter must be cared for, Lord Ashford. I do not demand that you love her, but I must be certain she marries a proper gentleman. She must be comfortable. She must be safe. Those are my terms—if you agree.”

Alaric pressed a hand to his brow, raking his fingers through his hair.

All of my troubles, solved at a single stroke. The thought echoed through him, making his throat tighten.

“I—I do not know what to say,” he stammered.

The earl gave a small shrug. “Say yes.”

Alaric lifted his head, meeting the older man’s steady gaze. He swallowed hard.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes—I will marry your daughter.”