The Eight Hearts Of Ashbourne

The first rule of London society was simple. A lady could survive a broken heart, a ruined dress, and even a rejected proposal. But a scandal? A scandal could destroy an entire family before breakfast. And on the morning of the first day of the London Season, the Ashbournes were about to learn just how dangerous society could be. The Ashbourne estate stood proudly on the outskirts of London, its pale stone walls glowing beneath the early morning sun. White roses climbed the garden trellises, servants hurried through the open doors, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the grand corridors. It was the sort of house people slowed their carriages to admire. The sort of house young ladies dreamed of visiting. And the sort of house where, on this particular morning, eight siblings were doing their very best to drive their mother to madness. “Alexander!” The sharp voice of Lady Eleanor Ashbourne rang through the breakfast room. “Would you kindly explain why your brother is standing on the table?” At the head of the long mahogany table, Alexander Ashbourne, the eldest of the eight siblings, slowly lowered his newspaper. He was twenty-nine, handsome, composed, and possessed of the unfortunate belief that being the eldest meant he was responsible for everyone else’s foolishness. Unfortunately, even he had limits. His gaze travelled to the table. There stood his twenty-two-year-old brother, Julian, holding a piece of buttered toast in one hand and a silver candlestick in the other. Julian smiled. “Good morning, Mother.” Lady Eleanor closed her eyes. “Get down.” “Of course.” Julian stepped down with the exaggerated dignity of a king descending his throne. Across the table, their younger brother Nicholas burst into laughter so violently that he nearly choked on his tea. “Honestly, Julian,” said Beatrice, the second eldest daughter, without looking up from her book. “If you are determined to embarrass us, could you at least wait until we are in public? There is a certain pleasure in watching you disgrace yourself before strangers.” “Your affection warms my heart, dearest sister.” “It was not affection.” “I shall treasure it regardless.” Alexander folded his newspaper. “Can we have one breakfast without a quarrel?” “No,” replied three siblings at once. He sighed. Eight children. One mother. And somehow, not a single peaceful morning. At the far end of the table, twenty-year-old Arabella Ashbourne leaned towards her youngest sister, Charlotte, and whispered, “I give it another ten minutes before Mother announces that she intends to send us all to a convent.” Charlotte, who was eighteen and possessed of an imagination far more dangerous than her innocent face suggested, considered this. “Would the convent have balls?” “Charlotte!” “What? I am merely asking a practical question.” Arabella laughed into her teacup. Beside them sat their sister Genevieve, twenty-four, who had spent the last several minutes pretending not to listen to any of them. Her attention remained fixed on the letter resting beside her plate. A letter bearing the seal of the Duke of Wexford. She had read it three times already. And every time, the same sentence made her stomach tighten. I shall be in London for the Season. I trust we shall have the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance. Renewing their acquaintance. How very polite. How very meaningless. How very dangerous. “Genevieve.” She looked up so quickly that her spoon struck the side of her cup. Her mother was watching her. “Is something the matter, darling?” “Nothing at all.” “Then why have you been staring at that letter as though it contains news of your impending execution?” Nicholas leaned forward. “Perhaps it does. Perhaps the duke has challenged her to a duel.” “Or proposed marriage,” Julian added. Genevieve’s cheeks warmed. Beatrice finally lowered her book. “Oh?” “Not a word,” Genevieve warned. Naturally, every sibling at the table immediately began speaking at once. “A proposal?” “From whom?” “Have you accepted?” “Is he handsome?” “Does he own a castle?” “Does he have a younger brother?” “Charlotte!” Lady Eleanor exclaimed. “What? I am thinking of the family’s future.” Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. Genevieve snatched the letter from the table. “It is nothing. A mere acquaintance. And if any of you mention the Duke of Wexford again, I shall personally ensure that your next birthday celebration consists entirely of boiled vegetables.” Silence fell. Then Julian nodded solemnly. “She is serious. The duke must be a very dangerous man.” Genevieve threw a napkin at him. Laughter erupted around the table. For a brief moment, Lady Eleanor allowed herself to smile. This was her family. Loud, impossible, affectionate, and utterly incapable of behaving as eight respectable young aristocrats ought to behave. But beneath her amusement lay a worry she had carried for months. The Ashbournes had wealth, a noble title, a magnificent estate, and a family name respected throughout London. What they did not have was time. Not anymore. The Season was beginning. And with it came expectations that could no longer be postponed. Lady Eleanor placed her teacup upon its saucer. “My children, I have something to tell you.” The laughter faded. Alexander straightened. Beatrice closed her book. Even Julian looked mildly concerned. Their mother rarely used that tone unless she intended to say something that would change their lives. Lady Eleanor folded her hands. “As you know, the London Season begins this evening with Lady Pembroke’s annual ball.” “We know, Mother,” Arabella said. “You have reminded us every morning for the past fortnight.” “And every morning, you have found some new excuse to complain about it.” “Because every morning, the ball has become more inevitable.” “Arabella.” “Yes, Mother.” Lady Eleanor took a breath. “This year will be different.” The words settled over the table. Alexander studied her carefully. “Different how?” “Your father left this family with a considerable fortune, a respected title, and an estate that has been in our family for generations. He also left me with eight children whom I love more than anything in this world.” For the first time that morning, no one interrupted her. “But love alone cannot protect a family from the expectations of society. You are all of an age where your futures must be considered seriously. Some of you have delayed your introductions into society. Others have rejected perfectly respectable suitors. And a few of you appear to believe that marriage is a form of punishment.” Nicholas coughed into his napkin. Julian examined his toast with sudden interest. Lady Eleanor continued. “I will not force any of you into a loveless marriage. I will never ask you to sacrifice your happiness simply to please society. But I do expect you to take this Season seriously.” Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean, precisely?” “It means you will attend the balls, accept introductions, and allow yourselves the opportunity to meet suitable gentlemen and ladies.” “And if we meet unsuitable ones?” Arabella asked. “Then you will have the good sense to avoid them.” “And if the unsuitable ones are more interesting?” Beatrice murmured. Lady Eleanor gave her a look. Beatrice smiled sweetly. Alexander leaned back in his chair. “Is there something more, Mother?” For a moment, Lady Eleanor hesitated. Then she said the words none of her children expected. “Before the end of this Season, I would like to see at least three of you engaged.” The room went utterly silent. A clock ticked somewhere in the hallway. Then Nicholas slowly put down his teacup. “Three?” “Yes.” “Engaged?” “That is generally what the word means, Nicholas.” “To be married?” Lady Eleanor stared at him. “What other purpose do you imagine an engagement serves?” “Excellent question,” Julian muttered. Alexander gave him a warning look. Genevieve’s fingers tightened around the Duke of Wexford’s letter. Three engagements. Before the end of the Season. It was not a demand. Not precisely. But it was a declaration that the Ashbourne household would never be the same again. Arabella looked towards Beatrice. Beatrice looked towards Genevieve. Charlotte’s eyes widened with delighted horror. Nicholas appeared to be calculating how quickly he could escape to the countryside. And Alexander, who had spent years believing that his greatest responsibility was protecting his siblings from the world, suddenly realised that the world was about to enter their home wearing silk gloves and smiling politely. “Mother,” he began carefully, “you do understand that finding a suitable spouse is not quite as simple as selecting a horse at auction?” “Of course I understand.” “Because I would hate for there to be any confusion.” “Alexander, I raised eight children. I have survived fevers, broken bones, a kitchen fire, two runaway ponies, and the unfortunate incident involving a peacock in the drawing room. I assure you, I am capable of surviving a marriage season.” Julian lifted a finger. “In my defence, the peacock was already inside.” “Julian!” “Yes, Mother.” Lady Eleanor rose. “This evening, we shall attend Lady Pembroke’s ball as a family. You will be courteous, you will behave with dignity, and you will remember that every action you take reflects upon the Ashbourne name.” Her gaze moved from one child to another. “And for heaven’s sake, please do not give Lady Whistledown anything to write about.” At the mention of that name, every sibling looked up. Lady Whistledown. The anonymous writer whose scandal sheets had become the most eagerly awaited reading material in London. No one knew her identity. No one knew how she acquired her information. But everyone knew that when Lady Whistledown wrote about you, all of London listened. Beatrice’s expression became thoughtful. “Perhaps she is not as terrible as everyone claims.” Alexander stared at her. “She ruined Lord Ashford’s engagement in a single paragraph.” “Perhaps Lord Ashford deserved it.” “She exposed Lady Harrington’s secret correspondence.” “Perhaps Lady Harrington should have been more careful.” “She revealed that Lord Pembroke has been secretly gambling away his wife’s fortune.” Beatrice considered this. “That one was rather useful.” “Beatrice!” “What? Someone had to tell her.” Arabella leaned forward, her eyes bright with mischief. “Imagine what she would write about our family.” “Nothing,” Alexander said firmly. Julian grinned. “Eight unmarried siblings, one increasingly desperate mother, and a mysterious duke writing to Genevieve. I should say she would have enough material for an entire issue.” Genevieve kicked him beneath the table. He yelped. Lady Eleanor looked towards the ceiling as though silently requesting divine intervention. “May God grant me patience.” “And good husbands,” Charlotte added. “Charlotte!” The room erupted into laughter once more. But none of them noticed the footman who had appeared silently in the doorway. Nor did they notice the cream-coloured envelope resting upon his silver tray. An envelope addressed to Alexander Ashbourne. With no sender’s name. And a seal bearing the crest of a family that had not spoken to the Ashbournes in fifteen years. Later That Morning Alexander stood alone in his study, turning the mysterious envelope between his fingers. The seal was unmistakable. A silver falcon beneath a crown. The crest of the Blackwoods. He had not seen that symbol since he was fourteen years old. Since the summer his father had returned from London looking older than when he had left. Since the argument that had shattered a friendship between two of the most powerful families in England. Since his father had made Alexander promise never to trust a Blackwood. He broke the seal. Inside lay a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and entirely unfamiliar. Lord Ashbourne, There are matters concerning our families that can no longer remain buried. I shall be attending Lady Pembroke’s ball this evening, where I hope we may speak privately. Until then, I strongly advise you to keep your siblings away from the Blackwood family. Alexander read the letter again. Then a third time. At the bottom of the page was a name. Lord Theodore Blackwood. Alexander’s expression hardened. He had no intention of allowing a fifteen-year-old feud to threaten his family. Whatever the Blackwoods wanted, they would not get it. He crossed to the fireplace and held the letter above the flames. For one brief moment, he hesitated. Then he released it. The paper caught fire, the ink curling into blackened fragments. Alexander watched until the final piece disappeared. “Whatever game you are playing,” he murmured to the empty room, “you will not use my family to play it.” Outside, a carriage rolled past the estate gates. Inside, the Ashbourne siblings were preparing for the most important evening of their young lives. They expected music. Dancing. Perhaps a few handsome strangers. They expected the ordinary troubles of a London Season. They had no idea that before midnight, one of them would receive an unexpected proposal, another would encounter the one man she had sworn never to love, and a third would discover a secret that could change the Ashbourne family forever. And somewhere in London, behind a closed door, a woman dipped her pen into a pot of black ink. She smiled as she began to write. My dear readers, It appears the Ashbournes have finally decided to enter the marriage market. How very unfortunate for them. For if there is one thing I have learnt about London’s most respectable families, it is this: the greatest scandals are never born in the ballroom. They begin at home. Yours in anticipation, Lady Whistledown