The Worst Woman in London

Copyright © 2023 Julie StanifordAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ASIN: B0BD58TLMVCover design by: Bailey McGinnPrinted in the United States of America To anyone whose Prince Charming turned out to be a venomous toad. You deserve better and I hope you get it. Contents CopyrightDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixEpilogueBooks By This AuthorAuthor's NoteAcknowledgementsPraise For Author Chapter OneLondon, 1872,The Thorne marriage was doomed from the start. Of course, James Standish didn’t know that yet, as he sat on a bench in the shade of a plane tree, waiting to meet the bride-to-be.Impulsive, headstrong, hideously romantic Thorne was getting married. Never mind that six and twenty was far too young an age for any man, even a less impetuous one, to sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony. Remarkable the things that went on when one’s back was turned.By the time James knew anything about it, the matter was entirely settled. The wedding would take place in August, before the grouse shooting started on the “Glorious Twelfth” and lured the fashionable set to the country.“Standish.” Thorne loped across the grass, golden hair flopping into his eyes as always, his mouth curved in a sheepish grin. "Not late, am I?"James rose and smoothed the lapels of his new black morning coat. "Not at all.""Hope you haven't waited long. Thank you for coming all this way to stand up with me."No need to let Thorne know how little he relished being here. "You know me,” he said, trying to sound jovial. “Any excuse to escape Shropshire. I spent the entire season dancing attendance on Aunt Miriam.""Poor you." Thorne clucked sympathetically as he led the way through the sunlit square toward the Palladian townhouse where his intended, Miss Francesca Heller, resided. The gracious white stucco towered over them, devoid of ornament, elegant in its simplicity.Thorne bounded to the door, rang the bell, and stood tapping his foot on the stone step.“Steady on.” James leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “If you don’t calm down, Miss Heller’s aunt will think you’re a collie and refuse to let you on the furniture.” Despite his words, he always found Thorne’s enthusiasm rather endearing. Whenever James sank into one of his sporadic bouts of ennui, his friend always somehow managed to encourage him out again.Thorne stopped tapping but smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his gloves instead. No more than ten seconds passed before he lifted his cane and rapped on the glossy black-painted panels.James smiled and shook his head. “They won’t thank you if you scratch the paint. I’ve never seen anyone so keen to put their head in the marital noose.”Just then, a footman opened the door on behalf of an elderly butler who stood ready to welcome them. “Hello, Walters,” Thorne said. “Mr. Standish and I are here to see the ladies.”“Of course, sir. They’re waiting in the parlor.”They relinquished their toppers to the footman and followed the butler across the checked tile of the entry hall. A wide, curving staircase led them up to the first floor and the principal receiving rooms.Thorne’s hand shook as he reached up to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. He approached the parlor with the air of a supplicant entering the Holy of Holies.James stifled the urge to tease. With Thorne in his current agitated state, it would be too cruel. Besides, new husbands often pruned their less respectable acquaintances after the wedding, and he didn’t want to end up among the deadwood. They were close friends now, but all that might change once Thorne had a wife and in-laws to consider.“Mr. Thorne and Mr. Standish, madam.” Walters bowed out of the room.The door closed, entombing James with an over-excited Thorne, two ladies he’d yet to meet, and nothing to console him but tasteless sandwiches and weak tea.A woman rose with a rustle of wheat-colored skirts and came forward with hands outstretched to Thorne. “My dear Edward, it’s always a joy.” Then she turned her dazzling smile on James. “You are very welcome here, sir.”James stood, utterly confused. Alluring she might be, but surely this woman was too old for Thorne.“Thank you, Mrs. Lytton,” Thorne said.Mrs. Lytton? This was Miss Heller’s aunt? How fortunate Thorne answered for both of them, because James couldn’t have uttered a word.All the aunts he knew, including his own, were old spinsters or matronly battle-axes. Mrs. Lytton didn’t look much past thirty. Generally, aunts didn’t have plump, kissable lips, or breasts that strained the confines of their tea gowns. If someone put a gun to his head and forced him to pick a wife, Mrs. Lytton was the sort he’d choose, a woman who looked like she knew a thing or two.He stood there, like a hungry lion sizing up an impala, until Thorne cleared his throat and gestured to a girl standing just beyond Mrs. Lytton. “Standish, this is Francesca—I mean Miss Heller.”Lord, he’d almost forgotten why they’d come.The girl stepped forward.Ah. This was more like it. If James had noticed her before, he’d have known immediately which lady was which. Miss Heller was perhaps ten years younger than her aunt and just the type of girl he’d been expecting.According to Thorne, she possessed fortune, breeding, and beauty excelling even Cleopatra’s. In the flesh, she was pretty enough, but too short for such high praise. The top of her thick, dark hair—fashionably if fussily curled—barely reached James’ chin. Her gown did little to flatter her small stature; rows of white ruffles covered her from neck to ankle, obscuring her figure. Altogether, with her sweet