Chapter One

Chapter One

Aria Whitney curled shaky fingers around the cold metal key she’d nabbed from the desk drawer. Voices filtered in from beneath the door for the tenth time in a score of minutes, and the knots in her stomach tightened. She turned to survey the dimly lit room.

Searching a man’s study was proving far more risky than she had anticipated.

In retrospect, she should have conceived a less foolhardy plan. Chosen a time when the man was not throwing a party. Or at least not a party with a guest list the size of a small village.

As Aria’s father often lamented, forethought was not one of her strengths.

“Dear God, please let me find something.” Her skills at asking for divine intervention were rusty, but she would settle for even a dribble of help.

She had searched almost everything. The windowless, wood-paneled room contained simple furnishings: couch, chaise, an armoire and desk, all impeccably maintained and neatly organized. It hadn’t taken long.

All what she might expect of a duke, with one exception: a chest that edged the wall—a piece so ostentatious it all but grew talons, snatched you and forced you to gaze upon its shiny gold embellishments. It seemed foolish to bother. Who would put something worth finding in such an obvious place?

But Papa wouldn’t have overlooked the chest.

Worry billowed in her gut like the heavy edges of a burlap tent.

“Miss Whitney is a title hunter.” The prickly words, snapped out by an even pricklier feminine voice, slid under the doorway.

“Are you sure you saw her walk this way?” The high-pitched voice was close. Too close.

Aria twisted around to watch the door.

The door she had left unlocked.

“I am certain she’s doing something scandalous.” Glee punctuated every syllable.

“And we’ll be certain the good people of London are well aware,” came the snide reply.

Since she had thrust herself into this impossible world, she had made few friends. And if someone caught her snooping around in the study, the tentative progress she’d made would be destroyed.

She would lose all ability to saunter through this world freely.

Her only opportunity to find her father.

The beat of her blood hammered in her head. She took silent steps across the hardwood and stopped at the door, flattening her hands against the painted surface.

“Did you see her dance with my George? Twice! And the way she boldly introduces herself to her betters. I shall not let George fall prey to her manipulations.”

“Don’t be silly. George adores you. She’s nothing…”

Their words turned unintelligible, and Aria bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from yelling a few insults after them. Her father’s men had taught her to swear like a sailor—in five languages, no less, so she had plenty to choose from.

Instead, with a quick flick of her wrist, she locked the door, dropped her head to rest against the solid wood.

A stupid mistake, one she couldn’t afford.

With that kind of carelessness, her reputation would be in tatters by the end of the week. That fact was as indisputable as the distance between England and her father’s encampment in Egypt. But she’d be damned if she’d let those prattling ninnies be the cause of her disgrace.