The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

balances like no other. You read French with ease, which makes you ideal for translating documents and reading correspondence. You write it well, too, in a pinch which is the least of my worries. But you can’t speak it worth a damn, not any more. The time was, you were fluent as hell.’

      There was the rub. He had been fluent before the accident, before his brother Thomas had disappeared. Between those two incidents, his brain had been wrecked somehow. Jonathon rose from his chair and strode to the long windows overlooking the Thames. This was no dark office buried in the bowels of Whitehall. This was the office of a man who controlled great power in England and beyond. He could imagine the secrets Owen Danvers knew, the secrets the man kept.

      Today, Jonathon only cared about one thing: Owen Danvers had the ability to break him, old chum from school or not. His appointment to Vienna hung on Danvers’s recommendation. Jonathon helped himself to the brandy in a crystal decanter on a sideboard placed along the window. ‘You know what that post means to me, Owen,’ Jonathon said quietly, calling on their old friendship as he looked out the windows. He idly sipped his drink. The post meant everything: He could avenge the loss of his brother with peace, he could make his brother’s sacrifice at Waterloo worth something. He could prove to the world that he was more than a viscount’s heir, that he was more than a man who was worth something only because he’d had the good fortune to be born first to another man of wealth and title.

      ‘Dammit, I know, Jonathon. I would have sent you on your way long before now if I didn’t know how hard you’ve worked for this and how much you want it.’ Owen Danvers relented with a sigh. Owen had been two years ahead of him, but back then, Jonathon was on top as a peer’s son and Owen merely the scrapping son of a baronet eager to make his way. Owen had done just that and now he was the one on top, the one who had what Jonathon wanted.

      Wanting seemed such an inadequate word. He wanted this so much he was willing to bend his whole life to it, even marry for it. Cecilia Northam’s father, Lord Belvoir, was a powerful man in Parliament. Belvoir had made it clear he’d champion him for the post in exchange for marriage to his daughter. He’d also made it clear the opposite was true. If Jonathon failed to marry Cecilia, that support would be withdrawn. What Cecilia wanted, Cecilia got. She’d set her sights on becoming the future Lady Oakdale last Season. She’d sunk her teeth in since then and hadn’t let go. He had to marry someone some time. It might as well be her, yet he wondered if there should be something more between them than a trading of skills that, while not symmetrical skills, were certainly complements.

      Owen put a hand on his shoulder, his voice quiet. ‘We all miss him. Thomas was a brave man. He died in the service of his country, nobly and honestly. It’s been a long time, but sometimes I still think I can hear him laughing. I’ll turn around at the club and expect to see him, but he isn’t there.’

      ‘I know. Me, too.’ Jonathon paused to gather himself. ‘Do you really think he’s dead?’ he said quietly. It was a thought he only voiced aloud to a few select people. After all this time, too many people felt he was ridiculous to hold on to what was becoming a ludicrous hope. There’d been no body. Thomas was just simply gone.

      Owen didn’t laugh, didn’t try to argue with him. ‘It’s been a long time, Jonathon.’

      A long time indeed. He’d had seven years to get used to Thomas being gone and yet somehow he hadn’t mastered it any more than he’d mastered the return of his French. Maybe he never would. ‘He was just so damn young.’ Jonathon breathed, unable to hold back the emotion that flooded his voice. ‘He was barely past his twentieth birthday. He’d hardly had time to grow up.’

      ‘He honoured us with his life.’ Owen cleared his throat. ‘We can honour him with ours. Jonathon, I need you in Vienna. What will it take?’ Owen paused, taking a moment to cleanse the intensity from his tone. ‘Has there been any progress?’ he asked carefully, kindly.

      ‘I need time.’ Never mind that seven years hadn’t been time enough. He tried not to think about last night’s debacle. ‘I need to find another tutor and continue my lessons.’ Jonathon said it as confidently as he could, as if he truly believed more study would fix what plagued him. It had been unfortunate his last tutor had a family emergency in Paris and been called away at a most critical juncture, but perhaps it didn’t matter. A pair of sharp brown eyes swam to the fore of his memory, accompanied by a polite voice: The French don’t pronounce the final ‘r’ in bonjour. Perhaps his problem wasn’t something that could be fixed by study. Still, he had to try. For Thomas.

      ‘We need the post settled before the Season ends, Jonathon. Elliot Wisefield is champing at the bit should you fail and we need a replacement for Lord Wareborne in Vienna by the New Year. I have good men there—Viscount St Just, Matheson and Truesdale—but Central Europe is on the brink of exploding.’

      Or imploding, depending on how one looked at it, but sending Wisefield? The name made Jonathon cringe. They’d been rivals since school as much as he and Owen had been friends. How fitting that they’d now be vying for the same diplomatic post. How could Danvers, how could any of them, be considering Wisefield? He might be smart, might have an encyclopaedic head of knowledge when it came to history, but he hadn’t an ounce of finesse to his name.

      Jonathon couldn’t protest, though, it would be bad form to malign a competitor. Instead, he had to be confident. He didn’t want Owen Danvers to think he was begging. Weakness persuaded no one, not even friends.

      Jonathon turned from the window, a strong smile pasted on his face, the one he used to charm overprotective mothers. ‘The end of the Season will be fine. Thank you, Owen.’

      Owen Danvers rose from behind his desk. His face was etched in concern and for the first time, Jonathon saw the worry his friend carried as the man clasped his hand in a firm handshake. ‘Let me tell you again, I want you there, Jonathon. The Phanariots are rising, the Greeks are making their bid for an independent state. These next few years will be volatile times. The Treaty of Vienna will be tested. Whether or not the treaty holds will depend on the men who stand behind it.’

      ‘The treaty must hold. It has to.’ Jonathon’s mind was already racing with moves and countermoves. The Phanariots thought Russia would be their saviour from the Ottomans, but Russia dared not move without France and Britain, Metternich’s concert of Europe demanded it. The Ottoman Empire was weak, but was now the time to crush it? A hundred questions surged. None of them would matter if he couldn’t overcome this last hurdle.

      ‘Do you have someone in mind for tutoring?’ Danvers asked.

      ‘Yes, I do.’ Jonathon answered with a confidence he didn’t feel. He thought once more of amber eyes and a pretty blue dress showing a nice bosom. It was madness. He hardly knew her beyond his association with May’s brother and suddenly he was pinning his future on her, Miss Welton, Viscount Stanhope’s daughter, May Worth’s friend from Sussex—what was her name? Clarice, Clara, Clarinda, Catherine? None of those seemed quite right. Claire. That was it. Would she even do it? Could she do it? Was her French as good as her very brief demonstration at the table and May’s endorsement indicated? He was in no position to accept mediocrity. He needed excellence and he needed it fast.

      A hasty plan began to form and it started with flowers. Jonathon hurried out of Whitehall, headed towards the nearest florist. There was a spring his step even as he reminded himself this whole gambit smacked of desperation. He was hoping for quite a lot from a woman whose first name he barely recalled.

      * * *

      ‘Mr Jonathon Lashley to see you, Miss Welton.’

      The butler’s announcement sent a thrill of excitement down Claire’s spine. How many times had she imagined hearing those words? How many times had she dreamed of this moment—Jonathon Lashley calling on her? Then she forced herself to remember why he was calling. Not once in those imaginings had he called on her for French lessons. It seemed May’s plan had worked thus far. She should be ecstatic, so why did she feel a bit fraudulent, dangling her French out there like so much cheese in a mousetrap?

      ‘Send him in, Marsden,’ her mother shot, her eyebrow raised as she spoke a single crisp