Honoria took the verbal blow without flinching. She stood still, staring venomously at her brother. Then she sucked in one long, loud breath through her nose.

Marcus wished he had a handkerchief.

“Marcus,” she said. She turned to face him, although it really wasn’t so much that as it was turning her back on her brother. “Would you like to have a tea party with me?”

Daniel snickered.

“I will bring my best dolls,” she said with complete gravity.

Dear God, anything but this.

“And there will be cakes,” she added, in a prim little voice that scared him to death.

Marcus shot a panicked look at Daniel, but he was no help whatsoever.

“Well?” Honoria demanded.

“No,” Marcus blurted out.

“No?” She gave him an owlish stare.

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

Marcus cleared his throat. Twice. “Things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Things.” And then he felt terrible, because he hadn’t meant to be so adamant. “Daniel and I have plans.”

She looked stricken. Her lower lip began to tremble, and for once Marcus did not think she was faking.

“I’m sorry,” he added, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. But for heaven’s sake, it was a tea party! There wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy alive who wanted to attend a tea party.

With dolls.

Marcus shuddered.

Honoria’s face grew red with rage as she swung around to face her brother. “You made him say that.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Daniel replied.

“I hate you,” she said in a low voice. “I hate you both.” And then she yelled it. “I hate you! Especially you, Marcus! I really hate you!”

And then she ran to the house as fast as her skinny little legs could carry her, which wasn’t very fast at all. Marcus and Daniel just stood there, silently watching her go.

When she was nearly to the house, Daniel nodded and said, “She hates you. You are officially a member of the family.”

And he was. From that moment on, he was.

Until the spring of 1821, when Daniel went and ruined it all.

Chapter One

March 1824

Cambridge, England

Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith was desperate.

Desperate for a sunny day, desperate for a husband, desperate—she thought with an exhausted sigh as she looked down at her ruined blue slippers—for a new pair of shoes.

She sat down heavily on the stone bench outside Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Discerning Gentlemen and pressed herself up against the wall behind her, desperately (there was that awful word again) trying to wedge her entire body under the awning. It was pouring. Pouring. Not drizzling, not merely raining, but pouring proverbial cats, dogs, sheep, and horses.

At this rate, she wouldn’t have been surprised if an elephant tumbled down from the sky.

And it stank. Honoria had thought that cheroots produced her least favorite smell, but no, mold was worse, and Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Gentlemen who Did Not Mind if Their Teeth Turned Yellow had a suspicious black substance creeping along its outer wall that smelled like death.