Page 1 of A Lady’s Mishap (The Lockwood Family #5)

1

London, 1813

L ady Elodie Lockwood stared at her reflection, wondering how many ostriches had been harmed in the making of her headpiece. She counted seven large, white feathers that extended from the diamond-encrusted bandeau atop her head. The feathers swayed slightly, mocking her with every tiny movement she made. It was absurd, outlandish, and—worst of all—balanced precariously on her head as if daring her to make a wrong move.

She turned her attention towards her Court dress. It was white satin, opulent and stiff, with an exaggerated hooped skirt that made her look like a walking bell. The long, narrow train behind her was impractical, and yet, somehow, it seemed the least ridiculous element of her entire costume. The dress is too much . The headpiece is too much . But she had no say in the matter. Court dress was rigid and dictated by the queen.

And today was her presentation to Court.

She was supposed to make a good first impression, so her mother repeatedly reminded her. But no matter how hard she tried, there was a gnawing fear in the pit of her stomach that she would fall short.

Her lady’s maid, Molly, was busy tidying her bedchamber when a knock came at the door. It was opened, revealing her mother, Lady Dallington, her eyes wide with approval as she took in Elodie’s appearance.

“Elodie, darling,” her mother breathed, eyes sparkling with pride. “You look magnificent.”

Elodie pressed her palms against the rigid fabric of her hooped skirt. “I look awful in this dress.”

“Nonsense,” her mother replied, stepping forward. “It is perfect. I am sure you will make quite the impression on the queen today.”

There was no point in arguing. Any attempt to resist would be met with the same determined resolve. Do what is expected, smile, and do not trip over the train . That was what had been going through her head all morning. She hoped she would not find a way to mess it all up.

With resignation, Elodie turned towards her dressing table, spotting a piece of buttered bread on a silver tray. She reached for it, only for her mother’s sharp voice to cut through the air.

“No bread for you!” her mother exclaimed.

Elodie froze, fingers brushing the golden crust. “Whyever not?”

Her mother hurried over to her and picked up the bread. “I will not risk butter stains on that gown after all the effort we have put into your appearance.”

Elodie frowned. “I am not a child anymore, Mother. I am eighteen years old.”

“That may be true,” her mother replied, inspecting the bread as if it were a dangerous object. “But too much is riding on today to be careless. Molly, take this away, please.”

With a wistful glance at the perfect piece of buttered bread, Elodie watched Molly carry off her would-be breakfast. What was she going to eat now? Apparently, her mother wanted her to die from starvation.

“May I at least have a glass of water?” Elodie asked.

Her mother conceded. “You may.”

Elodie reached for her glass and took a long, satisfying sip.

“Good gracious, Child,” her mother admonished. “Not so much. We must leave soon, and there won’t be time for unnecessary stops on the way to Court.”

Placing the glass down, Elodie said, “I am hoping the water will keep me from dying of hunger.”

Her mother didn’t appear the least bit sympathetic to her plight. “You had all morning to eat.”

“That is not the least bit true,” Elodie replied, waving her hand at her elaborate dress. “I have spent the entire morning being stuffed into this contraption. I have not had a moment to think of food, let alone eat it.”

Her mother merely smiled. “It is the curse of being a lady, my dear.”

“I would rather be judged on my wit or intellect. Why must my appearance be all that matters?” Elodie asked. “I feel like a performing monkey, paraded around for the eligible bachelors and their overbearing mothers.”

“I wish you would stop referring to yourself as a ‘performing monkey.’”

Elodie’s lips twitched. “I could be a performing hippopotamus. However, that does not have the same ring to it, especially since they are rather vicious animals. Monkeys are at least adorable.”

Before her mother could respond, the clock on the mantel chimed, marking the passage of time and bringing Elodie one step closer to the moment she dreaded most.

Her mother had no such reservations. “Shall we depart for Court?” she asked, her voice taking on a far too cheery tone.

“I suppose so,” Elodie said.

Ignoring her lackluster response, her mother approached the door and opened it. “You have been preparing for this your entire life. You will make us all proud.”

Elodie didn’t respond, though doubt gnawed at her. She wanted to make her family proud, but the truth was that she had no idea how she would manage it. Her heart ached for her twin sister, Melody, who had married Lord Emberly and was now traveling on her wedding tour. They had always planned to face Society together, but now Elodie was alone in the dreaded marriage mart.

Elodie's steps faltered slightly as they passed by Melody’s bedchamber door. She was happy for Melody, but her sister was her best friend. They had always been a team for as long as she could remember.

Her mother’s eyes held compassion. “I know you miss Melody, but you can do this on your own. I know you can.”

“We were supposed to do this together,” Elodie responded with a sad smile. “Melody would have been the diamond of the first water, and I would be the bluestocking, picking up stray bits of rubbish.”

Her mother’s brows knitted in confusion. “Good heavens, why would you pick up rubbish?”

Elodie shrugged. “I would not want anyone to trip on it.”

“Do not pick up rubbish.”

“Fine,” Elodie huffed. “I won’t. Not even at the palace.”

“Especially at the palace.”

Elodie held up her hands in mock surrender. “You have made your point. I won’t pick up rubbish for any reason, ever, ever again. In fact, I will kick the rubbish on the ground to prove a point.”

As they descended the stairs, Elodie saw her dark-haired brothers, Bennett and Winston, waiting at the bottom of the entry hall. Both stared up at her, their eyes widening as they took in the entire spectacle of her attire.

“Not a word from either of you,” Elodie stated firmly.

Bennett smiled. “You look lovely.”

Elodie placed a hand over her stomach, feeling the absurd layers of fabric beneath her fingers. “I do not need false flattery, Brother. I have ostrich feathers on my head and I am not afraid of using them.”

“You will do no such thing,” her mother asserted. “Ostrich feathers are not weapons, especially ones dipped in gold.”

Winston stepped forward, his expression softening as he met her gaze. “You will certainly make quite a statement at Court.”

“I would rather be judged for my intellectual prowess than my appearance,” Elodie shared. “Perhaps I could engage the queen in conversation about the struggles of the people?—”

“You will do no such thing,” her mother interrupted swiftly. “You do not speak unless spoken to. Even then, you will answer only what is asked. No more, no less.”

Elodie sighed deeply. “I know, Mother. You have reminded me at least a hundred times this morning. I am not a simpleton.”

Her mother placed a hand on Elodie’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I want everything to go perfectly for you. This is your moment to shine.”

“I daresay that it is your moment to shine. I do not care about being presented to Court,” Elodie responded.

From the corridor, her father’s voice carried towards them. “It is your duty. Every young woman worth her salt is presented to the queen.”

Duty .

How that word grated on Elodie’s nerves. It seemed every time she voiced her wishes, her father would remind her of her obligations—to marry well and produce heirs. The very thought of it made her stomach twist. Yet despite her resistance, she had seen the possibility of happiness through her siblings’ marriages. They had all found love. And now, she couldn’t imagine settling for anything less.

As he came to stand before her, her father’s eyes held a tenderness she rarely saw when he looked at her. “You look lovely, my dear.”

Elodie should have taken the compliment and moved on, but she had to voice her thoughts. She did this quite often, much to the chagrin of her parents. “I think this is a silly tradition. Hundreds of debutantes are lined up to be presented to the queen, and she barely glances atus.”

Her father slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “It is a long-standing tradition that I have no intention of breaking. It signals the start of the Season and your entrance into Society.”

Bennett moved to stand next to Elodie. “I do hope you have left your bent nail behind.”

“I did, only because this gown has no pockets to hide it in,” Elodie confirmed.

“Good. You will have no need for it at the palace,” Bennett said. “Besides, Winston and I will be there to protect you should anything go awry.”

Elodie smiled, but her heart was sad. The bent nail reminded her of Melody and how she had learned the truth about her sister’s covert activities. How she missed her sister, especially at a time like this.

“Did I say something wrong?” Bennett asked, growing concerned.

Elodie shook her head. “No, I was just thinking about Melody. We were supposed to debut together.”

Bennett placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I know, but you are strong enough to do this on your own.”

“Am I?” Elodie asked, voicing her fears.

Bennett grew solemn, but the familiar warmth in his eyes remained. “You will never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice. And I think, dear sister, you are one of the strongest people I know.”

Elodie offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Brother.”

But Bennett wasn’t done. He leaned closer and said, “And you are most proficient at buttering your bread. Do not discount that skill.”

She laughed softly, the tension easing from her shoulders. “It all comes down to the perfect ratio between bread and butter.”

Their mother clasped her hands together. “Come now, let us not dawdle. We must adjourn to the coaches. We cannot afford to be late.”

Elodie glanced back at the grand staircase. “What of Delphine and Mattie?”

“They had an appointment with the modiste and will meet us at the palace,” Winston informed her.

Bennett offered his arm. “Allow me the honor of escorting you to the coach.”

“Thank you,” Elodie said, slipping her hand on his arm.

As they reached the door, their lanky butler, White, stepped forward and pulled it open with a bow. He smiled—something rare for him—and said, “I wish you the best of luck, my lady.”

Elodie tipped her head in acknowledgment as Bennett led her out the door and into one of the awaiting coaches. Maneuvering into the coach was no small feat. Her voluminous gown took up half the space, but eventually, she managed to settle in. Her brothers followed, sitting across from her as the coach jolted forward, merging into the busy London streets.

She saw Winston eyeing her headpiece and felt the need to defend herself. “I know it is audacious, but Mother insists I wear it. Ostrich feathers have been worn at Court for hundreds of years.”

“You look beautiful, Sister,” Winston said.

Elodie huffed. “Do not lie to me.”

Winston shifted in his seat. “Today is an important step towards your future. Do try to enjoy it.”

Elodie forced a smile, knowing full well thatenjoyment was the last thing she felt. How she despised being on display. She would much rather slip into the background and observe from the shadows, but she knew her family would never allow that. So she braced herself for the charade to come.

For a fleeting moment, as the coach rattled down the road, she entertained the wild idea of jumping out and running away from it all. But she wouldn’t make it very far. Not in the slippers she was wearing.

Anthony Sackville, Viscount Belview, sat at his polished mahogany desk in the study of his townhouse. His irritation was steadily growing as he studied the accounts. His younger brother, Stephen, had once again exceeded his generous allowance by a shocking margin. Lavish spending on gambling, fine clothes, and other frivolous pursuits seemed to have become Stephen’s trademark. How had Father allowed this to go on for so long?

Leaning back in his chair, Anthony closed his eyes for a moment. His father, the Earl of Kinwick, was gravely illandwas confined to their country estate on strict orders from his doctors. Despite his weakened state, the earl had insisted Anthony attend the Season. He had resisted the idea, preferring to remain by his father’s side. But his father’s stubbornness had won out, as it always did. Now, here he was, in London, wrestling with his brother’s irresponsibility and feeling the weight of familial duty pressing heavily on his shoulders.

Frustration coursing through him, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Something must be done about Stephen. His reckless spending could not continue. If only Father had curbed this years ago.

His brooding was interrupted by a knock at the door. Anthony sat up straight as Percy, his narrow-shouldered butler, entered the room with a solemn expression.

“My lord,” Percy began, “a Mrs. Talbot has requested a moment of your time.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed. The name did not sound familiar. “Mrs. Talbot?” he asked, leaning forward. “Am I acquainted with her?”

Percy’s face remained impassive. “I do not believe so.”

He sighed, placing the ledger aside. Perhaps it was another tenant, but he couldn’t be sure. “Very well. Send her in.”

Moments later, a petite woman stepped into the room. She was older, her silver hair neatly pinned beneath a simple bonnet. Though clean and well-maintained, her modest blue gownmarked her as a woman of humble means. Her chin was raised in a manner that suggested quiet defiance, and there was an unmistakable resolve in how she carried herself.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, my lord,” Mrs. Talbot said. “I shall only require a moment of your time.”

There was something about the woman that set Anthony on edge. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk. “Please, have a seat. How may I help you, Mrs. Talbot?”

She glanced at the chair but remained standing, her posture rigid. “I am here because my correspondence to your brother, Mr. Stephen Sackville, has gone unanswered. I had little choice but to seek you out.”

Anthony’s stomach twisted. What did Stephen do now ? “If this is about money?—”

Mrs. Talbot cut him off, raising her hand. “This is not solely about money. It concerns his daughter—Miss Emma Sackville.”

Anthony blinked, momentarily stunned. “I assure you that my brother does not have a daughter.”

“You would be mistaken,” Mrs. Talbot said. “My niece, Jane, married your brother five years ago. They had a daughter, Emma. Since then, your brother has not lived up to his responsibilities, leaving Jane and the child practically destitute.”

Anthony’s pulse quickened. Married ? A child ? His disbelief was palpable. “My brother is not married,” he asserted, though his voice lacked the certainty he wanted it to have.

Mrs. Talbot reached into her reticule and pulled out a worn piece of paper, holding it out to him. “This is proof,” she said. “They eloped to Scotland and were married by an anvil priest. I believe you will find it all in order.”

Anthony took the paper and unfolded it carefully. His eyes reviewed the document, and his heart sank. It was a marriage license, just as Mrs. Talbot claimed. This document changed everything. “I had no idea,” he admitted, looking up from the paper.

“I thought as much,” Mrs. Talbot said, her voice softening. “Jane has passed away and I can no longer care for Emma. I have come to deliver the child to her father.”

Before Anthony could respond, Mrs. Talbot turned to the door and waved her hand. A small girl appeared in the doorway. She had soft brown braids and wide, nervous eyes that darted around the room. She clutched a cloth doll tightly to her chest, her worn frock neat but clearly old.

Anthony stared at the girl. The resemblance was undeniable. The girl’s features were a mirror of Stephen’s at that age. The same dark eyes and the same untamable curls framed her face. Any protest died on his lips as reality crashed down upon him.

“This is Miss Emma Sackville,” Mrs. Talbot announced, placing a hand on the child’s shoulders. “She is four years old.”

Anthony couldn’t take his eyes off the little girl, feeling entirely out of sorts. He prided himself on being a man who was always in control, yet he had no idea how to handle this sudden revelation. “I need time to sort this out,” he managed. “Perhaps I could pay you to continue caring for her, at least until I?—”

“No,” Mrs. Talbot interrupted firmly. “I am moving in with my sister and we have no room for a child. Besides, is it not time Emma knew her father and lived the life she deserves?”

“I know nothing about children,” Anthony admitted, his voice strained.

Mrs. Talbot gave him a pointed look. “Then it is time that you learned, my lord. She is your niece, after all. Her father may be irresponsible, but you can do right by her.”

She pointed to the marriage license still in Anthony’s hand. “Keep that safe for Emma’s sake. She will need it when she grows older.”

Anthony placed the paper down on his desk. “I do not doubt Emma’s parentage,” he said slowly, his mind racing. “But I am… taken aback. My brother said nothing of a marriage or a child.”

Mrs. Talbot scoffed. “Your brother is a scoundrel. He promised Jane the world and abandoned her when it suited him. He should be ashamed.”

“If what you are saying is true, I would wholeheartedly agree,” Anthony said. “However, this home is not prepared for a child. Could you not take Emma for a few more days?—”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Talbot declared. “You have plenty of servants who could tend to a child. It is time you took responsibility for your family. I made a promise to Jane on her deathbed that I would bring Emma here.”

Anthony had so many questions, but he didn’t quite know where to start. But before he could ask anything more, Mrs. Talbot knelt beside Emma, offering her a tight embrace. “This is Lord Belview. He is your uncle, and he will take good care of you. Be sure to mind your manners here.”

Emma nodded, her eyes still wide with uncertainty.

Mrs. Talbot smiled warmly at the child. “Your mother loved you very much and she wanted this life for you. You will do well here, far better than what I could have given you.”

Rising, Mrs. Talbot brushed invisible dust from her skirts. “Emma will need new clothes at once. Her minimal belongings are with your butler.”

Anthony remained rooted to his spot, utterly unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t prepared for this—none of it.

“I shall leave you to it, my lord,” Mrs. Talbot said.

“Wait,” Anthony called out, scrambling for some sense of control. “How can I contact you?”

Mrs. Talbot reached into her reticule and pulled out a slip of paper. “Here is my address in Cornwall. You may send letters there.”

Anthony accepted the paper and glanced down at the address. “Can you not delay your trip? I will pay you handsomely to stay and care for the girl."

A frown came to Mrs. Talbot’s lips. “This girl is your niece. I expect you to do the honorable thing by her, considering she is the granddaughter of an earl.”

Anthony was at a loss for words. He simply nodded, knowing there was little he could do. He would ensure Emma was cared for, but he still needed answers—answers only his brother could provide. With a final glance at the little girl, Mrs. Talbot left the room, leaving Anthony alone with the four-year-old.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Anthony was uncertain how to interact with a child, so he crouched down to her level. “Good morning, Emma,” he greeted. “Are you hungry?”

The girl just stared at him.

Anthony decided to try again, hoping the child was not mute. Surely, Mrs. Talbot would have said something if she had been. “Do you like chocolate?”

Emma shrugged, clutching her doll tighter. “I have never had chocolate,” she murmured.

He felt immense relief at hearing her speak. “Well, we will need to rectify that at once,” he said, rising. “Percy!”

The butler appeared promptly in the doorway. “Yes, my lord?”

“Please ensure Miss Emma is given breakfast, including some chocolate,” Anthony instructed, touching Emma’s small shoulder gently. The thinness of her frame alarmed him. How could Stephen have allowed this?

Percy tipped his head. “Yes, my lord. And Mrs. Clarke?”

“Yes,” Anthony replied. “I will need to speak with the housekeeper at once to arrange for new clothing and care for Miss Emma.”

Turning back to the child, Anthony smiled faintly. “Go with Percy. He will make sure you have something nice to eat.”

Emma obediently followed Percy from the room. Anthony watched her go, feeling a mixture of helplessness and determination. What in the blazes was he supposed to do with a child? But there was no time to dwell on that thought. He needed answers. And those answers could only come from one person.

Anthony strode out of his study and made his way up to the second level, heading straight for Stephen’s bedchamber. He didn’t bother knocking, simply pushed the door open with force. “Stephen!” he shouted.

His brother, sprawled across the bed in disarray, groaned and pulled the covers over his head. “Must you shout, Brother? I had a late night.”

Standing beside the bed, Anthony glared at his brother. “I had a most enlightening conversation with a Mrs. Talbot,” he began.

Stephen peeked out from under the covers, squinting up at him. “Who is that?” he asked, clearly disinterested.

“She is the aunt of your wife ,” Anthony responded.

Stephen slowly sat up, rubbing his temples. “What nonsense are you spouting? I have no wife.”

“According to your marriage license, you do.”

“I have no time for your games.”

“This is no game,” Anthony shot back. “Did you or did you not elope to Gretna Green with a woman named Jane?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Stephen’s lips. “Ah, Jane Gardner,” he mused. “Yes, I remember her. She was quite the comely lass. But we weren’t truly wed. I paid the anvil priest to pretend to marry us.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “Pretend or not, your signature is on the marriage license.”

Stephen waved his hand. “It was all part of the ruse. A fake signature.”

“Do you remember anything about that day?” Anthony asked, his patience wearing thin.

Stephen lowered his hand to his lap. “I remember Jane wouldn’t… entertain me until we were married. She was quite the prude, so I staged the whole thing.”

“You fooled yourself, Brother,” Anthony declared. “That marriage was valid, and you had a wife.”

“ Had ?” Stephen asked, a look of confusion passing over his face.

“Yes, Jane has passed away,” Anthony shared, wondering what kind of reaction he would get from his brother. Would Stephen show any remorse for his actions?

Stephen sighed deeply, but there was no sign of sorrow. “Is that what this is about?” he asked, rubbing his face. “I haven’t seen Jane since we spent those two weeks in Scotland.”

“No, this is about your daughter , whom you had with Jane.”

His brother’s mouth dropped. “What in the blazes are you talking about? I have no daughter.”

“You do, and she is currently eating breakfast.”

Stephen threw off the blankets, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. “That is impossible! I would have known if I had a child.”

“From what I understand, Jane tried to tell you, as did Mrs. Talbot,” Anthony said, folding his arms.

Stephen walked over to the table and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He downed it in one gulp. “That child is not mine. Send it away.”

“You can’t deny her, considering she looks just like you did at her age.”

Shaking his head, Stephen refilled his glass. “We were careful… I was careful. This is ridiculous. Send her to a workhouse for all I care.”

Anthony pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, struggling to control his anger. “I do not know what delusions you have been entertaining, but you left Scotland with a wife. And now, you have a legitimate daughter. You cannot toss her aside.”

Stephen sank into a chair, looking defeated but defiant. “Jane is lying. She probably concocted this whole story to trap me.”

“There is nothing to fight, Brother!” Anthony exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. “You were legally married, and Emma is your daughter. You have a responsibility to her.”

“I don’t want it.”

“She has a name. Emma. And she is four years old.” Anthony stepped forward and snatched the brandy glass from Stephen’s hand. “You are coming to meet her.”

“I won’t do it,” Stephen declared. “I want nothing to do with this child.”

“You will, or I will cut your allowance,” Anthony said.

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Anthony stood his ground. “I would. I control the family funds now, and I won’t support you unless you take responsibility.”

Standing abruptly, Stephen’s nostrils flared. “What would Father say about you lording over me?”

“Father isn’t here,” Anthony replied, “and frankly, I do not care what he would think. You have made your choices, and now it is time to face the consequences.”

Stephen stared daggers at him. “We will see about that. I will write to him. I have no doubt he will side with me.”

“Write him if you wish,” Anthony said, walking to the door. “But it won’t change anything. You have a daughter, Stephen, and it is time for you to do the honorable thing.”

Anthony left the room without waiting for a response, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. He couldn’t help but feel like he was dealing with not one but two children. One was four-years-old and the other was a grown man incapable of taking responsibility for his actions.