London, 1816
Hugh Baxter, the twelfth Duke of Swynford, descended the stairs to the crowded Rutherford ballroom, intending only to perform the minimum social niceties before finding whichever room George Rutherford had set up for cards. He loved living in London, but he loathed these balls at the height of the Season. He attended for his mother's sake; the dowager duchess insisted it was important to the family legacy that he put in appearances at the major social events. Swynford was one of the oldest dukedoms in England, after all, and although the current duke descended from first duke, created by Charles II shortly after the Restoration, the Baxter family had been peers of the realm since the Hundred Years War and were related to the king via a cousin who had married into the royal family a few generations back. So his name came with some obligations.
Helena Baxter, Hugh's mother, was not about to let him forget these obligations.
If some trifle with her health had not kept her at home this evening, the dowager duchess likely would have been telling him which eligible debutantes he should dance with tonight in the hopes that one of them proved to be a suitable mother to the thirteenth Duke of Swynford.
Hugh loved beautiful women but did not love dancing and would have been content to let the title die with him on days his mother had not lectured him on the importance of the family legacy. On those days, he wanted to give his mother what she most wanted in the world, which was a grandchild. But he couldn't help but think that, though Helena Baxter was a spitfire, what she wanted for Hugh was a placid broodmare. He'd compromised with himself that he'd enjoy life to its fullest until forty, at which time he'd choose some willing young miss and make his mother happy. Aside from the current bout of sniffles, Helena was in the peak of health, so she'd surely be able to wait that long.
Thus he hoped to dodge the simpering young women and their calculating mamas while he made sure he was seen before he relieved his male social peers of a few coins in the card room.
As soon as his foot hit the floor, however, they descended on him.
"Your Grace, I don't believe I've yet introduced you to my daughter…"
"Your Grace, it is an honor to see you again. Do you know…"
"My daughter has a spot on her dance card reserved just for you…"
Hugh pressed his lips together and looked for an exit.
He chose three debutantes at random and took them around the dance floor before seeking out a friendly face and landing on Larkin Woodville.
Lark stood near the refreshments, seeming to be engaged in some sort of internal argument about how gauche he might appear if he drank more of Mrs. Rutherford's lemonade.
"Please tell me," Hugh said as he sidled up to Lark, "that George has a card table set up in a room full of whisky and cigars."
"Ah, the curse of being England's most eligible bachelor. It must be difficult to have so many lovely women willing to walk over their own mamas to win your affections."
"Far be it for me to complain about women clamoring over me, although the only difference between me and every other fool here is my name."
Lark seemed to make a decision and poured himself a ladleful of lemonade. "So if my name were Baxter, I'd be the beau of the ball?"
Hugh stopped himself from saying the first thing that popped into his head, which was that the only thing saving Lark from Hugh's fate was some ailment or accident overtaking Lark's father, the Marquess of Beaufort. But Hugh knew that was cruel and borne of his own sadness when he thought of his father's passing, so he pushed that aside. Instead, he said, "I believe if you let it be known that you would very much like to reform your profligate ways and settle down with a gently bred wife, there'd be a stampede of women yearning to be your future marchioness."
Lark frowned. "Dear god. All right, you've made your point. Let us adjourn to the card room."
Several hours later, Hugh told his driver to go ahead home, that he needed the walk to clear his head after indulging in a bit too much of George Rutherford's fine whisky.
Lark was pretty deep in his cups too, but his parents insisted he ride home in their carriage. Hugh bid him good night and began to walk the short distance to his home on Upper Brook Street. He considered cutting across Grosvenor Square but saw that the gate was shut. But that was all right; it was a crisp, cool night, and Hugh already felt all the better for being outside instead of in the crush of the Rutherfords' ballroom. He walked around the garden, lost in thought, contemplating what he would do the next day. He liked these quiet moments at night and often walked after dark, although his friends warned him against the practice, since one never knew who might be about in the shadows. Hugh wasn't particularly worried now, though; the only men he might run into in Mayfair were other drunk aristocrats.
Still, as he made the turn onto Upper Brook Street, he thought someone called his name, but dismissed it. No one else was around. He was nearly to his door when he heard a shuffle behind him. As he turned to see what it was, something hit the back of his head.
Then the world went dark.