The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

Handsome and kind and important. The tug of her imagination was an almost visceral thing, leading her along paths paved with moonlit fantasies.

“Sometimes,” Minnie said, “if you believe in the impossible…”

She had been so young, when her father had been liked well enough that he was invited everywhere. Vienna. Paris. Rome. He’d had little to his credit aside from an old family name, an easy style of conversation, and a talent for chess-playing that was almost unsurpassed. He’d dreamed of the impossible, and he’d infected her with his madness.

All you have to do is believe, he’d told her from the time she was five. We don’t need wealth. We don’t need riches. We Lanes just believe harder than everyone else, and good things come to us.

And so she’d believed. She’d believed him so hard that there had been nothing to her but hollow belief when all his schemes had broken apart.

“If you believe in the impossible,” Lydia said, jerking her back to the present, “it might come true.”

“If you believe in the impossible,” Minnie said tartly, “you let go of what you have.”

There were no moonlit paths that led to this man. There was only a gentleman who had spoken kindly to her. That was it. No dreams. No fantasies.

“And you have so much to lose.” Lydia’s voice was mocking.

“I have a great deal to lose. Nobody points at me and whispers when I go down the street. Enraged mobs do not follow me seeking vengeance. Nobody throws stones.”

And strange men were still kind to her. He was unfairly handsome—no doubt that explained the gleam in Lydia’s eye. From what Lydia had said about importation, he was involved in politics. A Member of Parliament, perhaps? He seemed too young for that.

“So serious,” Lydia said, pulling a face. “Yes, you’re right. You could be spit upon and hailed as a complete monster. And perhaps you might be eaten by dragons. Be reasonable. Nothing of that ilk is even remotely possible. Since you can’t envision it for yourself, I’ll do it for you. For the next minute, I’m going to imagine that he’ll turn around and take one look at you…”

There was no need to imagine. He, whoever he was, turned at that moment. He looked at Lydia, who was bristling with excitement. She sank into a deep curtsey. Then his eyes rested on Minnie.

There you are, his gaze seemed to say. Or something like. Because a spark of recognition traveled through her. It wasn’t something as simple as seeing his face and finding it familiar. It was the sense that they knew one another, that their acquaintance ran deeper than a few moments spent together behind a davenport.

The man’s eyes traveled right, lighting on Lydia’s father standing by them. He took a few steps forward, abandoning the people around him. “Mr. Charingford, isn’t it?” he asked.

As he came closer, he caught Minnie’s eye once more and he gave her a slightly pained smile—one that tugged at some long-hidden memory.

If Mr. Charingford’s agitation hadn’t given her a hint, that smile would have convinced her. This man was someone important. It took her a moment to place that curious expression on his face—that small smile, paired with eyes that crinkled in something close to chagrin.

She’d seen it eight years ago on Willy Jenkins’s face. Willy Jenkins had been bigger than all the other boys his age—alarmingly so. At just fifteen years of age, he’d been six feet tall and almost thirteen stone in weight. He had the strength to fit his size, too. She’d seen him lift his two younger brothers, once, one in each hand.

Willy Jenkins was big and strong, and the other boys would have been frightened of him were it not for his smile.

Mr. Charingford gave an obsequious bow, so low that he almost doubled over. He scarcely choked the words out. “Might I present…?”

Mr. Charingford didn’t even assume that this man would allow the introduction—seemed to think that it would be perfectly good manners if he said no.

“By all means,” the man said. He met Minnie’s gaze; she looked away swiftly. “My circle of acquaintance is never so large that it cannot include more young ladies.” That apologetic smile again—Willy’s smile. It was the one Willy gave when he won at arm wrestling—and he had always won at arm wrestling. It was one that said: I’m sorry that I am bigger than you and stronger than you. I’m always going to win, but I’ll try not to hurt you when I do. It was the smile of a man who knew he possessed considerable strength, and found it faintly embarrassing.

“So considerate,” Mr. Charingford said. “This is my daughter, Miss Lydia Charingford, and her friend, Miss Wilhelmina Pursling.”

The blond man bowed over Lydia’s hand—a faint inclination of his head—and reached to take Minnie’s fingers.