Lady of Shame

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Duke of Rothermere

Castonbury Park

Claire,

Sister, you are normally so sensible and the one I have come to rely on. But I must be honest with you. With the family shrouded in disgrace and scandal, and the news of Jamie still uncertain, any more unwanted attention may prove to be harmful. I had hoped better of you, but I will put what has happened down to an unfortunate phase. I trust you will use your time wisely in the future, to build up the respect you once had and at all costs avoid any more gossip. It is only because I love you that I feel the need to be so candid.

Your brother

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming Britain with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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PRINCESS CHARLOTTE’S CHOICE

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I would like to dedicate this book to my critique group, Mary, Maureen, Molly and Sinead. We had so much fun brainstorming ideas around this book and I really think they deserve a great deal of credit. I also want to thank the Beau Monde chapter of RWA for providing such a fabulous course on cooking and kitchens in the Regency, in particular Delilah Marvelle, our wonderful and saucy — in both senses of the words —teacher, as well as all the fabulous people at Mills & Boon who allowed this project to come to fruition.

When at Castonbury Park had seemed as cold as the stones in its walls. Today, as she paused halfway down the combed gravel drive, the stairs sweeping around each side of the columned portico welcomed her like open arms. The facade, with its swagged decorations and artistically placed statues, gleamed pale yellow in the weak January sunlight and promised sanctuary within its solemn splendour.

Home.

It looked so solid. So impregnable. So safe. Shivering against the north wind gusting down from the Peaks, Claire allowed herself to believe she had made the right choice. If not, she didn’t know what she would do. Where she would go next.

At her side, gripping her hand, her daughter, Jane, stared at the house. Seven years old and already her grey eyes were wise and world-weary. ‘This is where you grew up? It is huge.’

‘Yes,’ Claire said, resuming the long trudge to the front door. ‘This is where I lived when I was your age. Do not wander off, while you are here. It is a large place and it is easy to get lost.’

‘I won’t, Mama.’

Gravel crunched under their feet and the clean sharp smell of incipient snow filled Claire’s nostrils. She trod firmly. Confidently. Or at least she hoped her inner fears did not show.

It would have been so much better if they could have driven up to the door in a post chaise. More appropriate to her station. But they had no coin for such luxuries and, as Claire had learned these past eight years, what could not be cured must be endured. Instead they had taken the stage from London to Buxton and then accepted a ride in a farmer’s cart to Castonbury village. They had walked the rest of the way. To her surprise, the gatekeeper had let them pass on foot without question.

Were they always so lax about visitors? Did they let just anyone pass? She glanced over her shoulder. No one following. Nor would there be. Ernie Pratt knew only the assumed name George had invented after his brush with the law. She hoped.