CHAPTER 1
Ambrose, Lord Talbot, had woken later than normal with an aching head, which was likely due to reading too late last night by lamplight. It was a dull throb behind his eyes and not what he needed to start the day.
After washing, then dressing, he left his room for the dining parlor.
Ambrose loved his family, but he didn’t enjoy living with them. He’d moved out some time ago and had not regretted it a single day since.
He had three sisters who felt it was their right to voice their opinions, even when he hadn’t asked for them, and a mother who liked to involve herself in every facet of her children’s business. His father had learned that hiding in his office with the door locked worked for him. Ambrose had needed more distance.
His home was only ten minutes from his parents’ town house and close enough to everyone and everything he needed. The last inhabitants had decorated it with little fanfare, which suited his tastes.
Wood paneling ran along the lower half of the walls, andthe upper was a subdued beige. Nothing was overstated and all blended seamlessly. His youngest sister, Violet, had called it dull. Ambrose called it calming.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Bertram,” he said to one of his only two staff members. “Tea and plenty of it, plus something substantial to eat that will help me get through a call I must make on an incredibly self-important bore of a man, if you please. And have my carriage brought round.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Another headache, my lord?”
“Yes.”Another headache? How many had he had lately?
“I shall have Mrs. Rose make you a powder, my lord.”
“I’d be grateful. Thank you, Bertram.”
“I’ll see to it at once,” his valet said, bowing deeply before leaving the room with a very straight back, as was his usual posture. The man put him to shame. Ambrose liked to slouch when no one was looking.
The door closed silently.
Bertram wasn’t the staff member his mother had wanted him to have, but someone Ambrose had chosen after approaching an agency. The agency his mother didn’t use, so none of his staff, all of whom he’d selected from there, could report to her about what he got up to.
Lady Angeline Chippington was a gently bred woman with a backbone of steel. She had strong views on everything, including how her children should conduct themselves—granted, Ambrose got a lot more leniency than his sisters, which was the way of the world, and there was little he could do about that. His sisters, however, had other ideas.
He unfolded his newspaper and began to read it from front to back, even if his head ached, as it did most days. Ambrose was a creature of habit. So much so that he triedeach day to do something he normally wouldn’t, as he loathed being predictable.
After Bertram lowered a laden plate before him, Ambrose set about eating everything on it. Replete, and the headache now a mere niggle after the vile-tasting powder, he left the room and took the stairs down to his front entrance, where his valet was now waiting with his outer things.
After shrugging into his overcoat, he then tugged on his gloves, and, taking his hat, headed out the front door into a drizzly, chilly London day.
“I hope your future includes tea and cake, Bertram.”
“I believe Mrs. Rose has recently baked a plum cake, my lord.”
“Excellent. Enjoy and ensure to save me a wedge.”
Ambrose jogged to his carriage.
“Sorry to have you out here in this foul weather, Patrick,” he said to his driver.
“I have a warm coat, my lord.”
His front door opened, and out sprinted Bertram.
“A note has arrived, my lord.” His valet handed it to him.
“Thank you. Now get back inside, Bertram. I shall read it on the way to my appointment.” Ambrose waved him away as the rain continued to drizzle.
Opening the missive, he bit back a sigh as he noted his mother’s writing. It tended to be more flicky and pointy when she was agitated. The first glance told him she was exactly that.