Page 1 of The Wayward Lady (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #1)

L ondon – March 1891

As moonlight filtered through Lady Lavender Cavendish’s bedroom window and illuminated her husband’s vacant pillow, dread pooled within her. Geoffrey hadn’t come home last night, and she feared something terrible had happened to him.

The witching hour had come and gone without any sign of him, which was unusual. He often went out with his friends in the evenings but almost always returned before midnight.

As the hours dragged on, she could not shake the hollowness in her chest. A terrible sense of dread had replaced her initial anger at his thoughtlessness. Where was he? Why hadn’t he returned home?

Every instinct urged her to go look for him, but what was she to do? She couldn’t roam London's dark streets by herself, and she had no idea where he spent his evenings. At his club, she assumed, but he had certainly never felt the need to inform her of his nighttime activities.

The sun had only been up for a quarter of an hour, and she was still trying to decide what to do next when someone pounded on her bedroom door loudly enough to shake the glass of water on her bedside table. Her trepidation intensified as she threw off the blankets and slipped on her dressing gown.

No one would wake her this early unless it were an emergency.

“Who is it?” she called in a shaking voice. Every instinct told her not to open the door. Until she did, she could still pretend that everything was all right. She could still be the person she had been when she’d gone to bed last night.

“It’s Brooks, my lady.”

Her husband’s usually unflappable valet sounded rattled, and her eyes filled with tears before she even reached for the door handle. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening. Geoffrey, where are you?

Black marks smudged Brooks’s face, and a strong odor of smoke surrounded him. His once tidy clothes were now disheveled, and he appeared to be in a state of shock. He avoided making eye contact with her, focusing instead on his hat, which he twisted in his hands. “I apologize for waking you, my lady, but there has been a terrible incident involving Lord Crestwood...”

Geoffrey is dead . The news hit her like a sledgehammer. The rest of what Brooks said blurred together, something about a fire at the social club where Geoffrey and his friends had been for the night. A tragedy, with several casualties, including some other well-known figures from high society. But the only thing that she really heard was that her husband was gone.

Overwhelmed by grief, she crumpled to the floor and wept uncontrollably. Her lady’s maid eventually helped her back to bed while Brooks stood helplessly by, still wringing his hat in distress.

T he next week passed in a blur. Lavender was fairly certain they’d given her something to make her sleep that first day, something that had sucked her into nightmares and spit her out the next morning with a terrible headache. The servants all tiptoed around her as though she had lost not just her husband but her mind as well. She had no one to turn to, no one to console her. Her mother had died when she was a child. Her father had passed shortly after she had married, and her stepmother and young half-brother had cut her out of their lives the moment he had.

Geoffrey had been her everything.

She should have had a close friend to lean on in the face of such a tragic loss, at least one person who cared about her well-being. But when a knock finally came on her door, it was only Geoffrey’s distant cousin, who would now inherit his title as Viscount of Crestwood. The butler informed her that he had arrived, but apparently, he had no desire to speak with her just yet.

She spent the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what this meant for her and fearing the worst. Could she count on this stranger to provide for her?

The next morning, Geoffrey’s cousin called her into the study. His name was... Peter, perhaps? Peter Cavendish. But now he was Lord Crestwood, of course. He sat at Geoffrey’s desk, staring at her with the same awful pity as everyone else she had interacted with in the last few days. His eyes were pale blue, like Geoffrey’s, yet lacking her husband’s warmth.

“Geoffrey made no provisions for you in the event of his death.” He seemed to take a measure of glee in informing her that she was penniless. “You’ll have to vacate the house by the end of the week, as I intend to bring my family here.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you’re currently expecting?” But something in his tone told her that he knew how unlikely that was.

Lavender and Geoffrey had been married for twelve years, but they had never been able to conceive a child. This meant she had no claim to her husband’s assets, including the London townhouse that had been their home for all these years. She could only stay there if she were pregnant with Geoffrey’s child, but she knew that was impossible after so much time had passed without managing it, even though doing so had been her entire focus for the last decade. Besides, she did not think Geoffrey had touched her for at least a month.

She stared at him blankly, trying to absorb this new blow, when he gave her yet another.

“You’ll probably want to leave the city for a while, stay with a friend or relative out in the country, until the scandal dies down.”

“What scandal?” she asked warily, trying to focus on what he had said and not give into the sobs that seemed to be constantly clawing at the back of her throat. It seemed pointless to tell him she had no friends or family in the country.

Those pale eyes grew even colder. “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

“Told me what?” she asked tremulously, wondering just how much more she could take before she broke irrevocably.

“Crestwood was at a brothel when he died. A brothel that catered to very... particular tastes. The Duke of Ashbourne, the Earl of Wyndham, and the younger son of the Duke of Radcliffe died as well. Everyone is talking about it.”

“Excuse me,” she managed, bile rising at the back of her throat. She surged to her feet and fled back to the bedroom she had just been informed would only be hers for a few more days. Perhaps it was rude, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t intend to help her, so why should she stay and be treated in such a manner?

She curled up in a chair in front of the fire, staring blankly into the flames, surprisingly dry-eyed. Perhaps she’d simply cried all the tears she’d been allotted for her lifetime. It certainly felt that way. Her eyes burned, and her head throbbed, but all she could think of was the fact that the entire city knew that her husband had been unfaithful to her.

A brothel? Why would Geoffrey have gone to a brothel?

She had always enjoyed the physical side of their marriage, and she’d assumed he did, too. In the early years, he had come to her bed nearly every night, but as month after month had passed without her conceiving, he’d made love to her less and less. She had come to understand that he thought her a failure and believed he had made a bad bargain when he’d married her.

It all made sense now. Why he had gone out several times a week and always refused to talk about where he went or what he did. He had said he loved her and continued to hold her close at night, but he had obviously been getting his needs met elsewhere.

“A brothel that catered to very... particular tastes.”

Peter’s words echoed repeatedly in her mind, and she struggled to make sense of them. What sort of perversions had her husband been engaged in on the night of his death? Something so horrible that Peter couldn’t tell her, but she was certain that nearly everyone else in London knew. She feared many people were laughing at her this evening, or worse... pitying her.

A fancy cream-colored envelope on the nearby table caught her attention, and she reached for it with a trembling hand, desperately needing to take her mind off what she had just learned. Had someone finally reached out to offer their condolences?

To her great surprise, the missive was from the Duchess of Ashbourne, inviting her to tea tomorrow afternoon. She stared at the elegant script for a few minutes, trying to place the name, wondering why someone so grand would invite someone like her to anything, especially during her mourning period. And then she suddenly remembered...

The Duke of Ashbourne had also died in the fire.

The very strict rules of mourning said that she should decline the invitation. For the next year, she was not allowed to socialize with anyone other than her immediate family. However, since her only family was a stepmother she hated and a younger half-brother she was certain had been turned against her, who did she have left to shock and disappoint?

The duchess was one of the only people alive who could possibly understand what she was going through. And she was desperate for someone to talk to, someone who might understand how devastating it had been to lose Geoffrey in such a way.

She stared at the invitation for several minutes longer, her mind racing, then quickly penned her acceptance. She sent a footman to deliver it, and then, for the first time in a week, she fell asleep without the aid of a sleeping draught.

T he next day, she dressed in a morning gown of black bombazine, then hired a hack to take her to the duchess’s Mayfair townhome. When she arrived in front of the palatial residence, the duchess’s butler showed her to a spacious sitting room adorned with cream and gold furnishings. The walls were lined with breathtaking paintings in ornate frames, catching the light that filtered through the tall windows. A grand crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and she was surprised to realize it was electrified, shedding light even in the middle of the day, an extravagance Lavender could hardly fathom. Near the window, a marble table held a delicate porcelain tea set, surrounded by plush furniture upholstered in rich, velvety cream fabric.

Lady Eden Pemberley, a statuesque redhead she had met a time or two, and whom she suddenly remembered had been married to the Duke of Radcliff’s younger son, already sat on one of the sofas. Lavender paused at the door, panic skittering across her frayed nerves. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected when the duchess invited her to tea, but it hadn’t been this—not a meeting of the women whose husbands had perished in the fire.

However, the butler announced her before she could turn around and flee.

“Lady Crestwood,” the duchess exclaimed, rising to greet her. “Come in.”

The duchess was lovely, far younger than Lavender had expected. Though her auburn hair was streaked with strands of gray, her face was unlined. She probably hadn’t yet reached fifty. She drew Lavender into a hug, and this little bit of physical contact, after all the cold, lonely days since Geoffrey’s death, brought tears to her eyes. She clung to the duchess for far longer than she probably should have, soaking in the unexpected gesture of comfort.

“Thank you for having me,” she murmured as the duchess finally pulled away, her gaze falling on Lady Eden, who looked just as uncomfortable and miserable as she did.

“We’re just waiting on one more,” the duchess told them, motioning for Lavender to take the seat next to Lady Eden.

It had to be the Countess of Wyndham because, really, who else could it be? The four of them only had one thing in common.

As expected, Daphne Fitzroy, the Countess of Wyndham, entered the duchess’s drawing room moments later. Unlike Lavender and Eden, however, the gorgeous brunette was extremely confident, as though an audience with a duchess was an everyday occurrence—as though her husband hadn’t died a week ago and utterly humiliated her.

Once they were all seated and the tea had been served, the duchess looked around the room, making eye contact with each of them. “I’m certain you’re all wondering why I invited you here today.”

The countess scoffed. “I think that’s rather obvious. We are all part of a rather exclusive club.”

The duchess’s green eyes sparked, but it seemed amusement rather than anger. “We are,” she conceded. “And I, for one, am feeling rather lonely.”

“I am feeling free,” the countess replied, an edge to her voice. “For the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.”

Lavender gasped, shocked to hear her admit she did not mourn her husband’s passing. But as she looked around the room, she realized she was probably the only one here who’d been surprised that her husband had met his end in a brothel. None of the others looked as though they were truly grieving. Were they actually relieved to have been widowed?

“One does not necessarily preclude the other,” the duchess stated. “Since we have all been forced into mourning, we have a long stretch ahead of us with no social interaction whatsoever. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe any of you have a lot of people in your lives who you can turn to for comfort.”

Lavender burst into tears, the magnitude of her situation overwhelming her. “I don’t have anyone,” she managed, so grateful to finally be able to voice her fears aloud. “I will be allowed to stay in my home until it is determined that I am not with child... which I am not... and then I have no idea where I will go.”

Lady Eden scooted over inelegantly and pulled Lavender into a tight embrace, patting her comfortingly on the back, murmuring soothing words as Lavender sobbed inconsolably. It embarrassed her, but she could not control the emotional storm washing over her.

To her vast surprise, the countess reached out and squeezed Lavender’s hand, her earlier bravado gone. “Charles didn’t leave me and my sons penniless, but I had no idea of the extent of his gambling debts until the creditors came calling. My oldest son had to leave Cambridge to deal with the mess, and when all is said and done, he won’t have much left to provide for me. I will end up having to depend on him for everything.”

“My father made sure that I would be provided for no matter what happened to Richard,” Lady Eden said hollowly. “So, I will be alright financially, but I’m alone too. You can stay with me if you like, Lady Lavender. I have plenty of room.”

“That is very kind, but you don’t even know me!” Lavender exclaimed tearfully, absolutely shocked that this woman, this stranger , was being so kind. All three of them had been so kind.

“We wayward widows have to stick together,” Lady Eden said with a laugh, disentangling herself from Lavender’s damp embrace. “Her Grace is right. The next year is going to be miserably lonely. Why shouldn’t we spend it together?”

“Why don’t all three of you come and stay with me instead?” the duchess interjected. “My son will be very generous with me, and I have already claimed Willoughby Hall in Kent for myself. It is a beautiful place overlooking the sea. I hate the city and cannot bear the thought of weathering all the gossip our husbands’ disgusting actions will bring down on us. So, if you would like to live a more rustic, relaxed life out of the public eye, you’re free to join me. After everything that has happened, I would really love the company of others who know what I’m going through.”

A weight Lavender hadn’t realized she’d been carrying lifted from her shoulders. She would be a fool to reject the lifeline she’d been thrown.

It wasn’t as if she’d stay there forever. Eventually, she would have to find a way to survive on her own, but it might be nice to make a few female friends and rusticate at the seaside until the scandal of their husbands’ deaths died down.

“I’d love to,” Lavender breathed.

“I would as well,” Lady Eden seconded.

“It sounds wonderful to me,” the countess agreed.

“Then the Wayward Widows of Weatherby Hall we shall be,” the duchess declared.