London, 1816
The year arrived in London with a damp, persistent chill that seemed determined to seep into the very marrow of anyone brave enough to venture onto Mayfair's cobbled streets. Inside the study of Ashbourne House, however, the temperature was controlled with the same meticulous precision that governed every other aspect of Nicholas Hale's life.
At twenty-nine, Nicholas, the Baron of Ashbourne, was no longer the boy who had once wept into the boxwood hedges of his family estate. He was a man carved from the same flinty limestone as his ancestral home, possessed of a wealth that had tripled under his stewardship and a reputation for being as handsome as he was impenetrable. He sat behind his mahogany desk, the morning sunlight catching the silver threads that had prematurely touched his temples—a physical receipt for a decade of sleepless nights spent balancing ledgers and securing the futures of his siblings.
On the corner of his desk sat a small, leather-bound tray containing the morning's correspondence. Perched atop the stack, printed on a scandalous shade of lavender paper, was the latest edition of Lady Ravenscroft's Sheet.
Nicholas reached for it, his movements fluid and economical. He did not read the gossip for pleasure; he read it for intelligence, much as a general might study a map of enemy terrain.
"The ton is all a-flutter," the passage began, "at the rumored emergence of the 'Great Northern Oak.' After a decade of mourning and meticulous management of his brood, it appears Lord N. is finally descending from his mountain to join the hunt. One wonders which lucky debutante will be the one to finally thaw the ice that has encased the Hale heart since that fateful storm in '05. Our sources suggest the Baron is not looking for a soulmate, but a consort. Ladies, sharpen your fans—the season's most elusive prize has entered the ring."
Nicholas tossed the paper back onto the tray with a dry snort. "A 'consort.' At least she's accurate for once," he murmured to the empty room.
A sharp knock at the door preceded the entrance of his brothers, Nathaniel and Noah. Now young men themselves, they were the living proof of Nicholas's success. Nathaniel, tall and thin with a penchant for poetry, and Noah, broader and more prone to the physical pursuits of the field, stood as the first of the siblings Nicholas had vowed to protect.
"Tell me it isn't true, Nick," Nathaniel said, gesturing toward the lavender sheet. "Tell me you didn't actually give that woman permission to announce your intentions to the world."
"I didn't have to give her permission, Nat. I simply stopped declining every invitation to Almack's," Nicholas replied, not looking up from his ledger. "The woman has the nose of a bloodhound for desperation, and she knows I need an heir."
Noah pulled out a chair, spinning it around to sit astride it. "So, the rumors are true? You're finally taking the plunge? I thought you'd rather face another Napoleonic blockade than a ballroom full of mothers."
"The blockade would be more predictable," Nicholas admitted, finally closing the book. He leaned back, his eyes—once warm like his father's—now cool and assessing. "But I am twenty-nine. The estate is secure, our mother is comfortably settled, and Nora is nearly of age. My duty to the line requires a wife. Specifically, a Baroness who can manage a household and produce an heir without the messiness of a... sentimental attachment."
Nathaniel frowned, leaning against the mantelpiece. "Sentimental attachment? You make it sound like you're hiring a new head groom, Nick. This is a marriage. You're talking about the woman you'll spend the rest of your life with."
"Exactly," Nicholas said, his voice flat. "Which is why I have established a very specific set of criteria. And I expect you both to help me filter out the chaff."
Noah grinned, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Criteria? Alright, let's hear it. What is the recipe for the future Lady Ashbourne?"
Nicholas ticked the points off on his long, elegant fingers. "First, she must be healthy. I will not have a repeat of last winter's anxieties. Second, she must be attractive—a man must have some aesthetic appreciation for his partner, after all. Third, she must be sensible. I have no patience for vapors, hysterics, or women who read too many Gothic novels."
"That describes half the debutantes in London," Nathaniel pointed out.
"And fourth," Nicholas added, his voice dropping an octave, "she must be someone I cannot, under any circumstances, fall in love with."
The room went silent. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle—the very same pocket watch that had been in Nicholas's hand the day his father died. Its glass had been replaced, but its internal gears remained a permanent reminder of the fragility of time.
"You're serious," Noah said softly.
"I am perfectly serious," Nicholas replied. "Love is a variable I cannot control, Noah. It is a weakness that leaves a man's flank exposed to the whims of fate. I saw what it did to Mother when Father died. She didn't just lose a husband; she lost her entire world because she had built it on the foundation of another person. I will not be that foundation, and I will not let a woman be mine."
Nathaniel paced the length of the study. "It's a cold way to live, Nicholas. You're building a fortress, not a marriage. You want a woman who is attractive and healthy, yet you want to remain a stranger to her?"
"Not a stranger," Nicholas corrected, his voice as sharp as a razor. "A partner. A co-administrator of the Hale legacy. I will be a provider, a protector, and a faithful husband. But I will not be a devotee." He stood and walked to the window. "I have twenty-four years left to ensure this family is unbreakable. I cannot waste a single day of that time being distracted by the fluttering of a heart that I already left in that grove eleven years ago."
"And how do you propose to find this 'sensible' creature who won't tempt you into feeling something?" Noah asked. "Usually, the beauties of the season are designed for the very purpose of making men lose their heads."
Nicholas turned back, a ghost of a predatory smile touching his lips. "That is precisely why I have decided on my target. I shall pursue the woman who is named the 'Diamond' of the season."
Nathaniel let out a sharp laugh. "The Diamond? Nick, the Diamond is the most sought-after girl in London. She'll be surrounded by a swarm of poets and fortune hunters. Why choose the one woman guaranteed to cause a spectacle?"
"Because," Nicholas explained calmly, "the Diamond is a title of social consensus, not personal connection. By choosing the woman everyone else deems perfect, I am choosing a known quantity. She will have been vetted by every matron in the city. She will be polished, well-bred, and—most importantly—she will be so occupied with her own status that she will not require my soul in exchange for her hand."
He picked up a heavy silver letter opener. "I want a woman who understands that marriage is an apex of social achievement, not a romantic tryst. If she is the Diamond, she already knows her value is in her title. We will understand each other perfectly without ever needing to say a word of substance."
"You're looking for a trophy," Noah muttered.
"I am looking for a Baroness," Nicholas countered. "One who can stand at the head of a table and command respect. I am doing her a favor, really. I will give her the most coveted title in the peerage, and in return, I only ask for her cooperation and her indifference."
Nathaniel shook his head, looking at the portrait of their father. "Father would have hated this plan, Nick."
Nicholas's jaw tightened. "Father is gone because he was out 'enjoying the sunshine' when he should have been wary of the clouds. I am the Baron now, and I will not leave the 'N' siblings to the mercy of a random whim of nature." He sat back down, the gold pocket watch glinting in the light. "The decree is made. Tonight is the Duchess of Devonshire's ball. We shall see what the market has to offer."
The atmosphere in Ashbourne House shifted as the afternoon shadows lengthened. For Nicholas, the evening was a tactical briefing. He stood in his dressing room, a space as spare and functional as a barracks, while his valet, Pendergast, moved with ghostly silence behind him.
"The charcoal superfine, Pendergast," Nicholas commanded. "No flamboyant waistcoats. I am not a peacock looking for a mate; I am a buyer inspecting the ledger."
He looked at his reflection, noting the hard set of his shoulders. As he adjusted his cravat—starched to a stiffness that mirrored his own resolve—the door creaked open. A small whirlwind of white muslin burst into the room. Nora, the youngest of the siblings, threw herself at Nicholas's waist.
"You look very grand, Nicholas," she chirped. "Are you going to bring back a Princess?"
Nicholas smoothed her hair, his touch gentle but his expression guarded. "I am going to find a Baroness, Nora. Someone to help Mama and ensure you have the finest dowry in England."
"But will she be kind?" Nora asked, tilting her head. "Will she play the pianoforte with me?"
"She will be sensible, Nora," Nicholas replied, his gaze flickering to his brothers in the doorway. "Sensibility is far more reliable than kindness, which can be fickle."
Noah snorted. "God, Nick, you make it sound like a cabinet meeting. Can't we at least hope the Diamond has a sense of humor?"
"A sense of humor leads to laughter, and laughter leads to comfort," Nicholas said, turning back to the mirror. "I have no room for comfort. I have twenty-four years to do the work of a century."
He reached into his pocket and felt the gold watch, its cracked glass a web of permanent fractures. He didn't need to check the time; he knew exactly what the frozen hands represented—the moment he had ceased to be a boy and became a guardian.
"The carriage is brought round, My Lord," Pendergast announced.
Nicholas turned to his brothers, his eyes cold and hard. The transition was complete. The grieving youth was gone, replaced by the Baron of Ashbourne, a man who had looked into the abyss and made it his home.
"Remember the plan," Nicholas said as they descended the grand staircase. "We observe. We filter. We do not engage in the poetry of the heart. We are looking for the Diamond—the one who will shine the brightest and feel the least."
As the heavy oak doors of Ashbourne House opened to the London night, the sound of their closing echoed with a final, rhythmic thud. It was a sound Nicholas knew well—the sound of a branch snapping, and a world changing forever.