Published this Wednesday
The death of Lady Frogmore’s neglectful and disloyal husband should have been a relief. But then her nasty brother-in-law seizes her three children and turns her out, telling the whole of Society that she is a crude, vulgar, loose woman. Without allies or friends, Serafina, Lady Frogmore, turns to Mrs. Dove Lyon, also known as the Black Widow of Whitehall for help, paying her with a promise to grant whatever favor Mrs Dove Lyon asks.
Lord Lancelot Versey has always tried to be a perfect gentleman, and a gentleman honors his debts, even when an unwise wager obliges him to escort a notorious widow into Society. But Lady Frogmore is not what he expects, and helping her becomes a quest worthy of the knight for whom he was named.
Except Mrs. Dove Lyon calls in Seraphina’s promise. The favor she asks might destroy all they have found together.
Excerpt
Lance was early. He hoped it would give him an advantage of some kind to be here when the notorious baroness arrived. It was only when the solemn little schoolroom party had passed him that he noticed the dark shadow in the bushes.
For a moment, his mind had teamed with thoughts of kidnappers and thieves, but then a woman in widow’s weeds had stepped from the bushes to stare longingly after the retreating children and their servants.
Surely it was no coincidence that the two little girls were also in black? Then he saw the splash of white on the woman’s chest. He knew who she must be. She did not look coarse or vulgar, although all he could really see was her face, a sweet oval of a face with large brown eyes and a delicately molded nose, mouth, and chin.
He had not expected to have any sympathy for her after the rumors he had heard, but the longing on her face as she watched the girls march meekly away spoke to something within him. Perhaps Frogmore was correct to refuse to allow the woman to raise her children, but this scene went beyond that.
Surely, nothing she had done was bad enough to justify forcing her to hide in a bush so she could watch the two daughters she loved walk by? Having seen her face, he could not doubt that she loved them, and the unseen baby in the baby carriage. A little boy, or so he understood. The current Lord Frogmore, born a month after the death of his father.
If for no other reason than the comfort of the children, the mother should be allowed at least supervised meetings.
He walked toward her. His first impression of her delicacy was confirmed when he towered over her by nearly a foot. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with a shallow bow. “I am Lancelot Versey.”
She blinked away the tears that were standing in her eyes, composing her expression into a blank, and curtseyed in return. “Lord Versey, I am Seraphina Frogmore.”
“Lord Lancelot,” he corrected. Had she never heard of him? “I am the second son of the Duke of Dellborough.”
“I beg your pardon,” she responded, without any of the admiring looks he was accustomed to receiving. “I did not realize. Lord Lancelot, then. Thank you for coming to meet me.”
He bowed again, considering that it might be ungracious to say he had not been given a choice.
He supposed he should ask what she wanted of him. “Were those your daughters?” he blurted.
She glanced along the path where the girls had recently walked. “My two little darlings,” she confirmed, a smile transforming her face. “Hannah and Helena. Hannah is the eldest, and very responsible.” The smile faded and her eyes clouded with worry. “Helena is a good girl, but full of life. I fear for her, Lord Lancelot. For them both, and for their little brother, who is in the baby carriage. That governess…” She shuddered.
Lance raised his brows. “Is she so awful? Governesses must sometimes be stern to teach the children in their charge.”
“Perhaps.” Her one word dripped with doubt. “But it is not her stern countenance that concerns me. It is the fact that she allows no play time, insists on lady-like behavior every minute of the day, hits the children’s hands with a ruler if they disobey or fidget or fail in any particular, and is doing her best to crush any joy out of them.” She was marching back and forth by the time she had finished this diatribe, her hands clenched into fists.
Lance was feeling an unwelcome surge of sympathy for the little girls, and for their mother. Who was, he had to remind himself, a disgraced woman and a merchant’s daughter.
“I do not see how this concerns me,” he said.
Lady Frogmore examined his face, searching for something she clearly did not find. “Thank you for coming, Lord Lancelot. I shall let Mrs. Dove Lyon know you are unsuitable.” She turned to walk away.
“What?” No one had ever called Lance unsuitable in his life. “But…” The woman was walking away. “Wait!”