Prologue
December 1813
“You promised not to open Miss Perkins’s letters anymore,” Frederica said, peering over her little sister’s shoulder. “You gave your word as a Stringham.”
Helen stuck out her chin obstinately. She was blonde, pale, and willowy. Everything Frederica was not. Frederica was tall, voluptuous, and quite tan since returning from Italy. “And I did not break my word to our dear governess. Beccaopenedit; I am merelyreadingit. Besides, there is nothing the least bit romantic in it. The curate’s cousin was given the two livings he was promised, and he fears that they will not be able to marry any time soon.”
Frederica glanced at her youngest sister, Becca, who at least had the grace to appear chagrined. Becca, at sixteen, had her same buxom figure and coloring, but her eyes were bright blue. “I steamed it open this time. She will never know.”
Shaking her head, Frederica folded her arms across her chest. “Miss Perkins always knows. That is what makes her a good governess.”
Helen snorted, raising her eyebrows. “She does not know that you have kissed every groom from Hampford to London and at least one Italian count.”
Frederica pinched her sister’s arm. “Vicious lies! Only the handsome ones.”
“Oh, Poor Trevor.”
Goosebumps formed on Frederica’s arms, and it was not from the December chill. “Who in heaven’s name is Trevor?”
Becca heaved a sigh. “Miss Perkins’s betrothed. His name is Mr. Trevor Wallace, and she has not seen him since she went home to Cookham last Christmas. He laments the distance between them in every letter.”
A year was a long time. Frederica had not seen Samuel, the lord her parents wished her to marry, in five years. And she did not think her feelings had altered greatly. Nor his, for the silly boy had joined the army so that he did not have to propose to her.
“But Poor Trevor does nothing about it,” Helen said, frowning.
“What can the man do?” Becca countered, tugging her shawl that had slipped off one of her shoulders. “Church livings are hard to come by and so many clergymen hold more than one. Who knows when there will be an opening again for him. Everyone, it seems, wishes to be a rector.”
Frederica snorted. “No one in our family does.”
Becca stood up and took the letter back from Helen, before resuming her seat. “Well, we are practically heathens. At least, I think that is what Reverend Turpin said Sunday last. It was impossible to hear his sermon over Papa’s snoring.”
Helen clapped her hands, her eyes wide. “That is it! We can ask Papa to find Poor Trevor a living. I am sure that there are many in his gift. He is a duke, after all.”
Considering this, Frederica racked her brain to think if there were any openings coming up soon. “The problem is, for a living to become vacant, the incumbent must either die or retire. And by the time Mr. Robertson retires, I daresay his son Jason will take over the rectory. It is most likely the same as all the other livings in Papa’s gift. Rectors and vicars seem to bear many sons.”
As if on cue, both Becca and Helen leaned forward and rested their chins on their hands. Their foreheads wrinkled in unison and their lips downturned into frowns.
She sat down beside them on the sofa. “All of them except Reverend Turpin, who is at least seventy, but I do not think that he will ever retire. He has been the chaplain to the Duke of Hampford since our grandfather’s time.”
Becca huffed. “I wonder if his sermons have always been so dull.”
Helen nudged her with her elbow. “I am certain of it, and that is why we are going to get rid of the reverend once and for all. Poor Trevor’s sermons must be better.”
“Or at least shorter,” Becca quipped.
Laughing, Frederica touched her face. “Are you suggesting that we murder an old man?”
Becca’s face turned red and she sputtered, “Of-of course not.”
Shrugging a bony shoulder, Helen said, “I am not sure that it would be considered murder. In fact, everyone in the castle might believe it was a public service.”
Another chuckle escaped Frederica’s lips. Her little sister was incorrigible. “We are not murdering anybody.”
“Fine, we will convince the old turnip to retire,” Helen said, putting her boots onto the table in front of them. “Just think of it. This Christmas is the perfect time to make Miss Perkins’s dreams come true. You have already been presented. I am eighteen and never wish to participate in society. And Miss Perkins has made all the progress with Becca that she ever will.”
Poor Becca’s cheeks flushed pink again. Frederica’s youngest sister struggled with reading, although she had a marvelous memory. Their governess had certainly done her best, but Becca had not made much progress underneath her tutelage. If anything, Miss Perkins had learned a great deal about mice and marsupials—her youngest sister’s particular area of scientific studies.
“Who do you think you are, her fairy godmother?” she asked caustically.