England, 1817

In September, amidst a driving rain that swept across the northern Norfolk coast, my hired coach rolled up the drive to my ancestral home and deposited me at the house's front door.

My valet-in-training, Bartholomew, a lad used to working for the very rich, gazed at the edifice in doubt. "You lived here, sir?"

The house stood silently under lowering skies, the roof over one wing completely collapsed. The windows were dark-those that weren't broken. Bricks and rubble decorated what was left of the lawn, and the drive was pitted and covered with weeds.

"Indeed I did," I said.

My father had closed off rooms rather than spend money on repairs. Instead, he'd wagered away all he had or used it on gifts for his mistresses.

The house had at one time been a fine Palladian affair, with fanlights, columns, and a pleasing symmetry. Now the gray-white stone was chipped and fallen away, the Corinthian columns at the door dark with grime. Bits of brick and fallen slates littered the ground.

"And you intend to invite her ladyship here?" Bartholomew's doubt rose several notches.

My wife-to-be, the Dowager Viscountess Breckenridge, daughter of an earl, had grown up on an elegant estate in Oxfordshire and now dwelled in a modern, costly townhouse in South Audley Street in London. I had spent a month at the Oxfordshire estate this summer, and the comparison between the two houses was dire indeed.

"Her ladyship insists," I said.

"Well, you've got your work cut out, sir, I must say."

"That is why I'm pleased you've come along to help, Bartholomew."

Bartholomew's mouth popped open, his face taking on a look of dismay. "Yes, sir."

Bartholomew, former footman to the great and wealthy Lucius Grenville, held himself high above common laborers. I could not resist teasing him.