Chapter One
December 12, 1815
London, England
Lady Amelia Pembroke glanced up from the well-worn almanac in her lap as her brother, the Duke of Ravenwood, strode into the yellow parlor with a distracted frown.
The yellow parlor, despite being part and parcel of the winter ducal mansion, was strictly Amelia’s domain. The bookcases were lined with rows of leather-bound journals containing page after page written in Amelia’s small, precise hand. The cherrywood table nearest the bay windows contained the day’s correspondence, stacked according to priority. The oversized basket beside her wingback chair brimmed with a week’s worth of periodicals, the ink worn gray from having been handled many times.
Amelia marked her place with a crisp green ribbon and set the almanac aside. Her brother’s presence could only mean he needed her wisdom on some matter. There was nothing she cherished more than the opportunity to put her mind to practical use.
Although she knew a kiss was not required of her—being an unproductive use of one’s time—she rose from her chair to buss her brother’s cheek. Ravenwood had always been a very solemn, duty-oriented young man, but both his smiles and his presence had been far scarcer these past few months, ever since his childhood friends finally came home from war.
Some of them, that was. A black armband never failed to encircle Ravenwood’s upper left arm. She fought the urge to hug him close. Were it not for having already inherited a dukedom, he would undoubtedly have followed his friends off to war.
Less certain was whether he would have made it home.
She walked to the fire to mask her shiver.
“Good morning, brother. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” When he didn’t join her before the fire, she turned to face him. “Is anything amiss?”
Ravenwood ran a hand through his wavy chestnut hair, upsetting the careful work of his valet.
Or not. Given the popularity of the “frightened owl” hairstyle today, Amelia couldn’t fathom much effort being involved at all.
He glanced at the clock upon the mantel. “I hate to bother you with last minute changes—”
“Whatever the issue, have no fear. My plans are meticulous enough to withstand disruptions of any sort.”
“Yes, well, even you could not have foreseen this disaster, and nothing will fix it. This afternoon’s luncheon—”
Before he could complete this thought, a knock sounded upon the parlor door.
With an apologetic smile, Amelia held up a brief finger to indicate the conversation would continue shortly. “One moment, I’ve been awaiting a messenger. Enter!”
One of the lead footmen slipped into the room, his face concerned. “I was unable to fetch Miss Azzara, my lady.”
She raised a brow. “She was not at home?”
“Oh no, my lady. Were that the case, I would surely have awaited her return. I’m afraid Miss Azzara has contracted the mumps, and will not be able to perform today after all.”
Ravenwood’s mouth parted in surprise. “Miss Azzara of Drury Lane? You’d mentioned we would provide musical entertainment as part of today’s luncheon, but I never dreamt you meant the second-most celebrated opera singer in all of London.”
“A good thing, too, since it seems it shan’t happen.”
“Let this be a lesson, Amelia. No plan is too meticulous for unforeseen circumstances to derail.”
She inclined her head to her brother and turned to address the footman. “Thank you. That will be all.”
He bowed. But before he could quit the parlor, a second footman arrived. This one, in grand contrast, was all smiles.
“Package delivered, my lady. Butler put her in the rose parlor, with the pianoforte.”
“Put . . . ‘her’?” Ravenwood echoed faintly.
“Miss Catalini,” the footman explained. “She’s to sing this afternoon. Her man is already practicing scales with her.”
“Miss Angelica Catalini?” Ravenwood swung his head back toward Amelia. “The first -most
December 12, 1815
London, England
Lady Amelia Pembroke glanced up from the well-worn almanac in her lap as her brother, the Duke of Ravenwood, strode into the yellow parlor with a distracted frown.
The yellow parlor, despite being part and parcel of the winter ducal mansion, was strictly Amelia’s domain. The bookcases were lined with rows of leather-bound journals containing page after page written in Amelia’s small, precise hand. The cherrywood table nearest the bay windows contained the day’s correspondence, stacked according to priority. The oversized basket beside her wingback chair brimmed with a week’s worth of periodicals, the ink worn gray from having been handled many times.
Amelia marked her place with a crisp green ribbon and set the almanac aside. Her brother’s presence could only mean he needed her wisdom on some matter. There was nothing she cherished more than the opportunity to put her mind to practical use.
Although she knew a kiss was not required of her—being an unproductive use of one’s time—she rose from her chair to buss her brother’s cheek. Ravenwood had always been a very solemn, duty-oriented young man, but both his smiles and his presence had been far scarcer these past few months, ever since his childhood friends finally came home from war.
Some of them, that was. A black armband never failed to encircle Ravenwood’s upper left arm. She fought the urge to hug him close. Were it not for having already inherited a dukedom, he would undoubtedly have followed his friends off to war.
Less certain was whether he would have made it home.
She walked to the fire to mask her shiver.
“Good morning, brother. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” When he didn’t join her before the fire, she turned to face him. “Is anything amiss?”
Ravenwood ran a hand through his wavy chestnut hair, upsetting the careful work of his valet.
Or not. Given the popularity of the “frightened owl” hairstyle today, Amelia couldn’t fathom much effort being involved at all.
He glanced at the clock upon the mantel. “I hate to bother you with last minute changes—”
“Whatever the issue, have no fear. My plans are meticulous enough to withstand disruptions of any sort.”
“Yes, well, even you could not have foreseen this disaster, and nothing will fix it. This afternoon’s luncheon—”
Before he could complete this thought, a knock sounded upon the parlor door.
With an apologetic smile, Amelia held up a brief finger to indicate the conversation would continue shortly. “One moment, I’ve been awaiting a messenger. Enter!”
One of the lead footmen slipped into the room, his face concerned. “I was unable to fetch Miss Azzara, my lady.”
She raised a brow. “She was not at home?”
“Oh no, my lady. Were that the case, I would surely have awaited her return. I’m afraid Miss Azzara has contracted the mumps, and will not be able to perform today after all.”
Ravenwood’s mouth parted in surprise. “Miss Azzara of Drury Lane? You’d mentioned we would provide musical entertainment as part of today’s luncheon, but I never dreamt you meant the second-most celebrated opera singer in all of London.”
“A good thing, too, since it seems it shan’t happen.”
“Let this be a lesson, Amelia. No plan is too meticulous for unforeseen circumstances to derail.”
She inclined her head to her brother and turned to address the footman. “Thank you. That will be all.”
He bowed. But before he could quit the parlor, a second footman arrived. This one, in grand contrast, was all smiles.
“Package delivered, my lady. Butler put her in the rose parlor, with the pianoforte.”
“Put . . . ‘her’?” Ravenwood echoed faintly.
“Miss Catalini,” the footman explained. “She’s to sing this afternoon. Her man is already practicing scales with her.”
“Miss Angelica Catalini?” Ravenwood swung his head back toward Amelia. “The first -most
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