A Gentleman Ought to Know


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Jane LeCompte
 Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
 Cover art by Aleta Rafton/Lott Reps
 Internal design by Holli Roach/Sourcebooks
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 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
 The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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 Contents
 Front Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 One
 Two
 Three
 Four
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Ten
 Eleven
 Twelve
 Thirteen
 Fourteen
 Fifteen
 Sixteen
 Seventeen
 Eighteen
 Nineteen
 Twenty
 Excerpt from The Duke's Best Friend
 About the Author
 Back Cover
 
 
 One
 Charlotte Deeping walked along a country footpath, partly shielded from the brisk October wind by a thorny hedge. The month was almost over, and she was glad of her warm cloak and thick gloves. Yellow leaves rustled at her side, under scudding clouds, and wizened berries hung on the branches. The air brought the scents of the waning year and thoughts of endings. She told herself she was not lonely, but she couldn’t help wishing for her three best friends. Ada, Harriet, and Sarah had been her constant companions since they had met at school at thirteen. They’d been the sisters she’d never had, and she missed them with a wistful melancholy that was unlike her. She was the acerbic one. Nothing depressed her spirits.
 A clutching briar snagged her cloak. Charlotte pulled it free. Her friends were all far away and married now. She had turned twenty. It was time to think of the future—a topic as thorny as the hedgerow.
 With only a flurry of hoofbeats as a warning, a rider hurtled into sight above the shrubs on her left, jumping bushes, path, and all. More than a thousand pounds of horse surged past a few feet from her nose, so close that it seemed gigantic.
 Charlotte threw up her arms and jerked backward. Her bootheel caught in the hem of her cloak. She staggered, lurched, and fell flat on her back with a thud that drove the breath from her lungs. Her bonnet tipped forward and covered her face.
 “Oh my God!” exclaimed an appalled male voice. There were subdued hoofbeats as the rider turned his mount. “Are you all right?” he called.
 Charlotte concentrated on catching her breath. She knew she would, eventually, but the struggle was frightening. Her chest wouldn’t work, which goaded her toward panic. That and the fact that one more step and the horse would have hit her, breaking bones at the very least.
 Feet hit the ground nearby. Then two knees in riding breeches thumped down at her side, just visible from under the skewed brim of her bonnet. “Miss? Are you all right? Oh lord. Can I…? What shall I…?”
 At last, Charlotte’s lungs started functioning again. She drew in a welcome deep breath, and then another. She pushed back her hat and glared up at a figure silhouetted by the sun. “What the deuce did you think you were doing?” she asked.
 The man drew back. He was holding the reins of a dancing, snorting hunter, who clearly objected to Charlotte’s incursion into their ride. “I didn’t realize there was a path along here,” he said. “I was just hacking cross-country, you know.”
 She knew all too well. The area around the Deepings’ Leicestershire home filled up with hordes of hey-go-mad young gentlemen as the foxhunting season approached each year.
 “My friend Stanley Deeping told me the country was good in this direction.”
 “Oh, Stanley.” The second of Charlotte’s four brothers had the brains of a huge friendly dog. In her opinion.
 “You know Stanley?” He seemed pleased by this fact.
 “He’s my brother.”
 “Oh.” The sun-dazzled figure cocked his head. “You must be Charlotte then. Miss Deeping, that is.”
 His tone had altered. Charlotte didn’t know what her brothers had told their cronies about her, but she doubted it was completely flattering. She sat up and adjusted her bonnet, insofar as that was possible. She suspected the back was irreparably crushed.
 “Let me help you.” He offered a hand.
 “Is your hand shaking?” she asked him.
 “What? No.”
 It definitely was. She decided to take it. He rose and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion with an excess of casual strength.
 Charlotte looked up and up. She was thought tall for a girl, but this man overtopped her by six inches. He…loomed. Though she didn’t think he was doing it on purpose. He was bent forward, his forehead creased with worry.
 Height was the only thing they had in common. He was well muscled, while she was often judged too slender. His hair was light brown, while hers was black. He had guileless blue eyes, and she an acute dark gaze. Handsome, yes, he was—very. A bit too much to be comfortable. And possibly well aware of it. She couldn’t quite tell. He was probably around Stanley’s age of twenty-six. She realized she was still holding his hand. She dropped it.
 More than likely, he had the brains of a flea, Charlotte thought. Stanley didn’t cultivate intellectual friends, while she was known for her sharp mind. It went with her sharp tongue and angular frame.
 “I really am sorry,” he said. “Are you all right? Shall I take you home?”
 “Throwing me over your saddle like young Lochinvar?”
 His eyes widened. “Who?”
 “It’s a poem. Never mind.” It was foolish to quote poetry to Stanley’s friends. Even Walter Scott.
 “Oh, a poem.” He