The Wrong Gentleman

CHAPTER ONE

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London, 1839

Jane tightened her grip around the edges of the book in her hands, the words blurring before her dazed vision as she fought to ignore the heated argument that went on in the room beneath her feet.

Her parents were arguing again. Well, mostly her father; his voice tearing through the silence of the late evening. She imagined he was drunk, having caught him severally that evening at the ball, gulping more than a few glasses of wine when he thought Mother wasn't looking. He could never drink when Mother was present; he feared her too much to do so.

Still, liquor seemed to help him cope with their marriage, and with his ability to handle his liquor very well, Mother never seemed to notice how much of an alcoholic he really was. Or perhaps she simply feigned ignorance, for she was perfect, too perfect. It explained her decision to redecorate their parlor every season—and when Father finally voiced his complaint, every year. It explained the number of unnecessary servants in their family's employ. It explained her decision to ship Jane off to the most expensive Finishing School in all of England, and her displeasure when even the finest manners failed to secure a proper—wealthy and especially titled—husband for Jane.

Irritated by Jane's inability to gain herself a worthy partner, her mother had blamed her looks—she was too plain, and despicably so; her skin too pale and littered with unsightly freckles, her hair too dark and frizzy. If only Amelia was of a suitable age to be married, perhaps then Mother could gain the respect she truly deserved before all of society. For there was no doubt in Mother's mind that Amelia, who was easily the belle of the two sisters, could gain the attention of any man, even a duke! And what better honor could Mother ask for than to be the mother of a duchess? Her own husband was without a title, and while money afforded them some semblance of acceptance by the ton, it was respect Mother craved, and she made it very clear.

Jane shook her head, failing to get rid of the thought as she fought to be immersed in the book in her hands. But she could barely concentrate, neither could she fall asleep amidst the noise.

She hated nights like these, she thought, rising to her feet from the settee before the fireplace. She hated going to those silly balls and pretending to be interested in anything those puffed up lords had to say. She hated the ache in her cheeks from having to keep a smile on her face through the evening. She hated the sour taste that was left in her mouth at the very thought of sitting alone in the carriage with Mother and having to listen to her bicker about Jane's inability to evoke a proposal from a titled gentleman, while Father stayed behind at the ball until late in the evening, only to return home drunk.

Mother's absence afforded Father the opportunity to indulge in liquor. Jane knew her mother hated it when he drank, but she never objected when he requested to stay behind after every ball while she returned home with Jane. At first, her mother's nonchalance to her father's behavior confused Jane, but she quickly learned the reason for it; cards. While they returned to the safety of their home, Father stayed behind to gamble, and he was good at it. It was an excellent source of income for their family, and perhaps, next to her desperation to find a husband for Jane, it was the reason she was so enthusiastic about attending every social gathering.

But there were nights father wasn't so lucky playing cards; nights like tonight. Nights when the two argued into the morning. Father, frustrated by his insatiable wife, and Mother, irritated by her inept husband.

Jane reached her bed as a small sound drifted to her from the halls outside her door. She paused, turning to face the door.

What was that?