CHAPTER ONE

September 1820

Cumberland

Lady Juliet Shelley had possessed the foresight during finishing school to plan an ideal life, and in ten months and two days, she would start living it. 

Then, the Duke of Sherwood would stand in his customary handsome manner as her father accompanied her down the flower-adorned aisle of St. George’s Church in Hanover Square, and everything would be perfect. 

Nothing was more important than working toward a spectacular future, and the first step was envisioning a future filled with promise. 

No man exceeded the Duke of Sherwood in magnificence. One need only glance at his symmetrical features, exquisitely tousled hair, and unstained teeth. Horatius might not ride upon a horse in a full set of shiny armor like his medieval ancestors, but everything about him still gleamed. 

And Juliet would be his duchess. 

Perhaps the wedding had been planned to be one month, twenty-eight days ago, but a slight date change, even if it required a brand-new calendar, was hardly troubling. 

Hardly very troubling. 

Not worth thinking about.

Similarly, it was not worth musing that the Duke of Sherwood was absent from this ball, even though he lived a mere ten miles away, and many of the guests had traveled farther distances, in less comfortable carriages, devoid of ducal crests, brightly painted wheels and an abundance of silk-and-velvet feather-filled pillows.

Juliet circled the ballroom for the fourteenth time, attempting to glide elegantly, even though her thoughts remained on her absent betrothed. Had the dashing Duke of Sherwood taken ill? Perhaps his horses had decided to gallop along one of the winding paths prevalent in this region, forcing the carriage on an unwelcome tour of lakes and mountains and away from the Westmoreland and Cumberland border. Her cousin Genevieve had spoken of unusual criminal activity in the area, but Juliet had laughed it off. People living in rural areas had a habit of becoming uneasy at the slightest provocation, where Londoners might scoff. But perhaps her darling duke had become waylaid by weapon-brandishing men. 

Poor Horatius. 

Juliet’s chest tightened, even though nervousness was not a frequent emotion she experienced at balls. Although some of Juliet’s dearest friends were wallflowers, Juliet had never encountered sudden instincts to tremble, and she did not share their wariness for the center of the ballroom. 

Guests, sporting freshly constructed chignons and carefully coiled locks, assessed her, their view aided by the candlelight which glittered in its dependable fashion, its beauty magnified by the abundance of gold-framed mirrors that lined the walls. Now she avoided people’s curious glances. Perhaps she needn’t have gazed at the main door with such frequency. 

Some couples waltzed. Other hosts refrained from having their musicians play the intimate dance, but no one could call her family old-fashioned.

A man rushed toward her, and his locks flopped against his forehead in his haste. 

“Lady Juliet. May I have this dance?” Mr. Bradley swept into a deep bow, threatening his tastefully tousled hair with an energy that would make his valet nervous.

Perhaps there was a reason valets and lady’s maids did not attend balls, gazing nervously at the abundance of vibrant cocktails, tripping opportunities, and propensity of people to ruffle their hairstyles irreversibly. The bland indifference of footmen was better suited to these occasions.  

“I never dance the waltz,” she said. “Perhaps we might dance a reel later.”

Disappointment darted across Mr. Bradley’s face, and he pursed his unfashionably thick lips in obvious dejection. 

Juliet sighed. She hadn’t meant for Mr. Bradley to become unhappy. She removed her dance card. “I have openings.”

“But no one else claimed the waltz.”

“Mr. Bradley, I am betrothed. I informed you of that fact at the last ball.” 

“You did.” Mr. Bradley pressed his lips together sullenly, then exhaled, as if the process of not speaking for a second had proved impossibly trying. He leaned his head toward her, an awkward feat given his lanky frame, and an icy glint appeared in his eyes. “I doubt Sherwood is refraining from the waltz.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Some things one does not discuss with a lady.” 

Juliet blinked. Was the man implying that her darling betrothed was cavorting with other women? 

“I’ve said too much.” Mr. Bradley turned nonchalantly and strolled toward the banquet table. 

Juliet hastened after Mr. Bradley, striding past impeccably attired women who were busy laughing and smiling as if this night could possibly be pleasant. Mr. Bradley’s legs might be long, but Juliet loved roaming the surrounding hills and was unfazed by physical exertion. Even the tightness of her stays could not hamper her. 

“Is there something you would like to share with me, Mr. Bradley?” Juliet asked.

“It would be ungentlemanly of me to do so.”

“Perhaps you will find it amusing.” 

A smile flickered upon Mr. Bradley’s face, the sort of distasteful one which men sometimes unfurled when insulting females. “I doubt your duke is alone.” 

Juliet’s heart halted its precise, unerring rhythm, and lurched. 

Mr. Bradley smirked, and his eyes gleamed. “Has he kissed you?” 

“I will not deign to answer that question.”

“Ah.” Mr. Bradley’s smirk remained in place as he gave a condescending nod. “Then you’ve found his lack of interest curious as well. You are an intelligent woman. I assure you I would kiss you.” 

Juliet hoped no one could hear him. 

 “Your lips are very kissable, my dear.”

Juliet ignored Mr. Bradley’s clumsy compliment and the revulsion that ground through her. He’d said something more significant, something she needed to know.  

“You think the duke is spending an intolerable amount of time with a lady?” Juliet asked, proud when her voice did not wobble. Voice lessons had indubitably served some purpose.

Mr. Bradley fixed a patient smile on his face. “I do.” 

The words were short. They were the same words  used when exchanging wedding vows, and Juliet hoped Mr. Bradley did not confer the same lifelong, absolute authority to the words. 

Her body shuddered. 

“You appear pale,” Mr. Bradley said. “Do you require assistance?” 

She straightened her shoulders. “My health is excellent.”

Juliet raised her chin and forced herself to saunter away. She glided elegantly, just as she’d been taught at finishing school. She refused to think about Mr. Bradley. After all, her rejection of his offer to dance was perhaps cumbersome to the maintenance of his masculine pride. He’d been hoping to wound her. The conversation meant nothing. Mr. Bradley was hardly a man to be depended upon for his trustworthiness. No doubt, he’d exasperated his tutors at Harrow with a similar disinterest in facts.

Still, his words gnawed on her, despite her habitual adherence to reason. Mr. Bradley might be uncouth, but that didn’t mean he concocted outright lies.

This wasn’t the first time someone had raised their eyebrows after learning of her engagement with the Duke of Sherwood. Juliet had assumed they’d been impressed at her speed at finding a duke, and in her less charitable moments, she’d wondered whether they’d pondered the reasonableness of his choice. 

Other people had expressed surprise that Juliet remained engaged to the duke, as if they’d expected the engagement to fall through. Had her dowry been her betrothed’s primary attraction to her? Due to the vast size of her late mother’s dowry, and her father’s success at managing it, her father had secured for her an even more magnificent dowry.

Juliet scrunched her forehead. She was pretty. Everyone said she was pretty. But perhaps something else was lacking, just as her father had found something lacking in her mother. 

Juliet’s features might be symmetrical, and her figure might be curved in a manner most people termed appealing, but her hair was red, her eyes green, and freckles had a terrible habit of speckling her face.

She marched through the throng of partygoers. She moved jerkily, stumbling once, as if she’d never walked in dance slippers before. The room heated, as if a flame from Hades had set fire to a portion of the marble and was working its way through the ballroom, while everyone socialized and danced. 

Juliet found her cousin Genevieve standing awkwardly by the curtains. 

Genevieve brightened when she saw Juliet, but her eyes soon widened. 

“Did something happen?” Genevieve asked tentatively.

Juliet hesitated. “Er—no.” 

She refused to spread rumors about her betrothed. Genevieve was her dearest friend, and Juliet hoped to have her visit often after she became the Duchess of Sherwood. Juliet didn’t want Genevieve to gaze suspiciously at Juliet’s husband while Horatius was proclaiming the wonders of coffee, the joys of an ever-expanding British Empire, or whatever else he spoke about. 

In truth, Juliet didn’t know the duke’s passions. 

She’d assumed him to be a better version of other men, with robust interests in cricket, broadsheet perusing, and polo-playing, though perhaps she didn’t know him.

She pushed the thought away. 

Not everyone had secrets. 

But Papa had. 

Juliet scanned the ballroom. The familiar people were here, clutching their favored drinks. The debutantes sipped ratafia, and the younger men indulged in brandy. Most guests clustered with their friends, giggling as they regaled themselves with the same stories. 

No, her fiancé was wise to remain absent. He simply favored the countryside. Indubitably, strolling from lake to lake in idyllic Cumberland brought him more joy than the most gilded ballroom could achieve. 

Despite herself, a faint trickle of doubt rolled through Juliet, as if she’d left her balcony door open, and the cold was sweeping through heavy curtains. 

She shook her head firmly. 

Horatius would be furious if he knew he was being subjected to such horrendous gossip. The man emanated perfection. Everyone had been astounded and jealous after he’d proposed. Clearly, everyone knew his inner qualities were as stupendous as his exterior ones.

 Naturally, her betrothed wished he were present. No doubt, he was beside himself with agony, poor man. Perhaps he lay in some ditch somewhere, his leg broken, his mind fixed on the ball. 

No, she needed to find out. 

She needed to help him.

Juliet hurried from the ballroom, ignoring the manner in which well-dressed women nudged their neighbors, and the sudden succumbing to gravity their lower lips and jaws seemed to experience.

She was conscious of Genevieve following her, but she didn’t halt. She needed to leave. Now.

She’d looked forward to this ball for months and had written Horatius about her eagerness to see him here extensively. 

Something must be keeping him. 

Something dreadful.

Juliet tore past Genevieve’s family’s avuncular butler. His brows remained in their place. Perhaps he was accustomed to her leaping around the house on visits in the summer as a child. 

Juliet dashed up the marble stairs, forgetting to hold the glossy black banister. The music quieted as she entered the hallway, and she remembered to slow her step, lest she collide with her uncle’s large oriental vases.

Finally, she stepped into her guest room. The door slammed behind her, and for a moment, she froze. No footsteps sounded outside. But then, her stepmother remained in the ball, dancing with Juliet’s father happily, unconcerned about everything. Similarly, Juliet’s lady’s maid did not appear. She must be dining with the other servants in the kitchen, and Juliet exhaled. 

Mr. Bradley’s words echoed in Juliet’s head. 

Juliet gritted her teeth and headed for her desk. She slid open the cover, removed her stationary, and dipped her quill in ink. She glided her fingers over the glossy vellum, then wrote:

My dearest darling, 

I missed you tonight. I hope you are not unwell. I long to hear from you soon.

Yours,

Juliet

Juliet set her quill down and reread her words.

The letter was ridiculous. Should Horatius not be injured, he would indubitably be penning his own letter of apology. Were he wounded, he could hardly respond.

The duke needed her now.

Juliet crumpled the paper and hurled it into her wastebasket. Then she frowned, picked the letter up, and tore it into tiny pieces. Finally, she flung the fragments into her fireplace grate. Thankfully, a maid had lit a fire, and the pieces of paper crumpled, blackened, and disappeared.

The lady’s maid Juliet shared with her stepmother could not gossip about Juliet’s apprehensions. No senior servant could reminisce about Juliet’s mother and the similarity Juliet shared with her.  

Juliet sat on her chair and reminded herself she was happy. She waited for tension to ease from her shoulders and vanish from her chest, so she might breathe with effortlessness. Unfortunately, her chest shook, and every limb remained stiff. 

She was engaged to the Duke of Sherwood and she’d escaped from dancing with the etiquette-challenged Mr. Bradley. Life was lovely. 

Juliet dried her quill until no traces of ink remained. Perhaps she could visit him. If she had a carriage… All she needed to do was see if he was home. 

Or see if I find his damaged carriage on the way. 

Her heartbeat quickened at the latter thought. She didn’t want anything horrible to befall Horatius. The man was an Adonis and her love. 

Perhaps she’d only met him a few times, but that was all it had taken for him to propose. Their love was so evident, so apparent, so true.

She needed to find him. 

Lady Juliet is happy. Very happy. After all, she's engaged, even if she rarely sees her betrothed. So what if her betrothed keeps postponing their wedding? Or that there are wicked rumors about him? Still, when the Duke of Sherwood doesn't appear at a ball as intended, there's only one thing she can do: discover the truth herself.

Lucas, the Duke of Ainsworth, is exceedingly dull.

At least, that's what he desires everyone to believe. He makes certain to enter into conversations with the ton about obscure plants and to quote Latin tomes while fiddling with his spectacles. By night, Lucas is involved in a different task: bringing down criminals.

No criminal is as elusive as the person spreading counterfeit coin through the Lake District, and Lucas is determined to discover the source. When he sees someone sneak onto the man's estate in the Lake District, he expects to discover one of the man's accomplices. Instead, he is shocked to discover Lady Juliet. Lucas vows to help her, no matter how distracting her alluring presence is.

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Bianca Blythe has written over twenty fun and frothy Regency-set historical romances, filled with wallflowers, spinsters, dukes, and rogues. On occasion, she also writes historical mysteries under the name Camilla Blythe.

Born in Texas, Bianca earned her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College and completed a graduate degree in her beloved Boston. She spent four years in England, working in a fifteenth-century castle. Sadly she never spotted dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

Bianca credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. She remains deeply grateful for blustery downpours. 

After meeting her husband in another library, she moved with him to sunny California. On occasion she still dreams of the English seaside, scones with clotted cream, and sheep-filled pastures. For now, she visits them in her books.