FOLLOW MY LEAD.

by Kate Noble.

To Harrison, for Super Adventure Time.

Prologue.

A Letter from a Sister to Her Brother:.

April 25, 1821.

Dear Jason-.

I am afraid I have to disappoint you yet again, and break my promise. I cannot come to London this year. And as you are likely able to guess, the reason is much the same as last year when I could not travel south and join you in town: I find myself expecting again. You have probably thrown your hands in the air at this juncture and exclaimed, "Again?!? Little Anna is not even a year old!" My reaction was similar. Byrne, of course, accepts his culpability in this unfortunate state of affairs-however, without any sign of remorse I could decipher.

If you decide to postpone until I can join you next year, no one will think the worse of you. Men are given far more leeway in this area than we of the fairer sex. Consider, Father did not marry Mother until he was nearly forty! Surely you are too young. Besides, I would feel much better knowing you were not to face the hordes of marriageable women without some guidance. They can be vultures, and you-baby-faced, not yet thirty, titled-are prime meat. I know, because I was once one of them. Perhaps you should come up to the lake this summer. I'm certain Anna would love a visit from her favorite uncle (being as you are the uncle who introduced her to marzipan, you absolute rotter). And Byrne says Mr. Johnston at the Oddsfellow Arms keeps a bar stool open for you . . . and a spot in the mud out front for when you decide to fall flat on your face.

Yours, etc.

Jane.

A Letter in Response from a Brother to His Sister:.

May 1, 1821.

Dear Jane-.

I object to a number of items in your last letter, in the following order:.

1. Twenty-nine is an excellent age for a man to marry.

2. I am not baby-faced. Red hair simply doesn't grow as visibly on the chin as dark. (As you should know-didn't you have a slight mustache in your formative years?) I promise you, my valet grumbles every morning when he takes a blade to my jaw.

3. I am not a piece of meat, meant to be weighed, measured, and purchased. I believe in the horrific, cutthroat world of metropolitan marriage machinations that you have concocted in your head, the young ladies in question would be the meat for choosing, not I.

4. I believe I will be able to handle what is bound to be a fairly easy decision. I'll be fine without you.

5. So I bribed your daughter with sweets to like me. It was not difficult; she was far too innocent and susceptible. I merely succeeded as an uncle, whereas you have failed as a parent. I win.

As for Mr. Johnston and his bar stool-FOR GOD'S SAKE, THAT WAS FIVE YEARS AGO.

Yours, etc.

Jason.

A Letter in Response to the Response to the Letter from a Sister to Her Brother:.

May 17, 1821.

Dear Jason-.

You may think that I am callous and cruel, and that I do not know that you are very much your own man, allergic to coddling. I know you well enough to realize that since you have set your mind on this path, you will not alter. And of course I admire your determination to do this on your own (something you attempt all too rarely). But since you have long avoided the Season and its high-minded trappings, you must be forewarned: You are not seeking these women. You are the prey. Hunted. Stalked. Soft flesh to be pulled from the bone in easy strips, marinated, roasted, and served up in golden foils. (You must forgive me the imagery in the preceding sentence. Byrne remarks that my condition makes me terribly carnivorous.) That said, the invitation to the lake is always open, should you change your mind. I will even refrain from saying "I told you so," should occasion call for it.

Yours, etc.

Jane.

P.S. I did not and do not have a mustache. But if you can compare your beard to a clean-faced woman, I doubt your valet grumbles about the hard work-more, its lack of necessity.

A Letter from a Brother to His Sister, in Angry, Protesting Tones: May 24, 1821.

Jane-.

I am purposely ignoring your jab at my rare attempts at responsibility (and my beard, which I may grow out just to spite you) if only because I have to meet with the estate stewards, who wish me to sign off on many ducal things, which you would simply not understand. But only after this morning's session of the House of Lords. My secretaries tell me it is a terribly important vote. (Although how corn can constitute legislation, I have no idea.) So, as you see, if I am able to manage the rigors of a dukedom, surely I can manage to pluck a bride from the petticoated masses.

Yours, etc.

Jason.

A Piece of News Taken from the Pages of a Particularly Well-Read and Influential Scandal Sheet:.

May 25, 1821.

An uproarious fracas occurred last night at the home of Mr. and Mrs. R-as they presented their youngest daughter to society in a tragically average fete . . . average, that is, except for the Locking of the Duke.

Lord C-, Duke of an ancient estate and impeccable lineage, and undisputedly the most sought-after potential husband in England, was found locked in a storage room in the cellar of Mr. R-'s house in St. James, with not one, not two, but three young debutantes!

Upon their rescue, the Duke's countenance vacillated between blanched horror and utter relief as each of the three girls claimed the Duke had been caught in a compromising situation with her, and therefore they must marry. Luckily, logic was provided by one of the assembled bystanders: a young Miss F-, whose debutante status belies a sound and reasoning mind. She deftly pointed out that Lord C-had compromised none of them, as they each had provided chaperonage for the others, and unless two of the girls were willing to testify that something inappropriate had occurred with the remaining miss, no impropriety could be claimed beyond the discovery of sadly rusted and sticky doorknobs. As the grasping girls squabbled over which of them would claim compromise, and claim the Duke (and his enormous fortune) in turn, their story fell apart, and the lucky man was afforded the narrowest of all possible social escapes.

Unsurprisingly, the Duke's carriage was spied on the north road out of town early this morning. The author cannot blame him. Three shrill debutantes are enough to drive your average man insane-let us be thankful that our Duke merely drives to the country.

A Letter from a Brother to His Sister:.

May 26, 1821.

Dear Jane-.

I feel I may have acted rashly in refusing your invitation to visit, and as such, have decided to remedy my mistake. Immediately . . .

And don't you dare say, "I told you so."

A Letter from a Sister to Her Brother: Jase-.

Never fear. I shan't say, "I told you so." I'll let Byrne do it.

Jane.

One.

Wherein our hero must confront his truest fear.

May 1822.

THIRTY is an excellent age for a man to marry. It is a nice round number. A number that, when read in the papers in a wedding announcement, seems neither too old nor too young, and yet at the same time, a declaration of adulthood and intelligence. Thus, Lord Jason Cummings, Marquis of Vessey, and more recently, the Duke of Rayne, was determined to do it. Marry, that is. At the round, sensible age of thirty.

Granted, he had determined something similar last year, at the not round, but prime and robust, nine and twenty. A mature age-an age at which men slough off the last of their youth and embrace their futures. And marriage is a strong way to declare that intention. After all, most of his friends had already gotten married. His best friend from school, Nevill Quincy-Frosham, was the last person he ever expected to fall into the parson's trap, being as Nevill was without a doubt the most irresponsible human being in all of Britain, second only perhaps to his brother Charles. But, somehow, Nevill had been hitched to a smart little heiress since the previous winter. She controlled the purse strings and allotted the brandy, and Nevill, confoundingly, couldn't be happier. Charles, too, had managed to find a young lady willing to look past his puppyish demeanor and marry him. So, last year, Jason had determined to find a bride in that annual exercise in buying, selling, and trading known as the Season.

Oh, that wasn't fair. Jason was not that cynical. At least, he hadn't been until last Season, when at the still far-too-young-to-be-married age of nine and twenty he had been hunted, stalked, giggled at, and swooned over by the far too eager baby-faced debutantes with claws like steel and mothers with the beady eyes of vultures.

Jason was aware enough of his own attributes, good and bad, to know he was not the type that women swooned over.

Then again, he was a Duke. A young Duke, and perhaps, a manageably good-looking one-despite the curse of his red hair. And as a Duke, he knew the lack of marriageable Dukes in England made him a rare breed, red hair and lack of swoonable attributes or no. He'd fully expected his entrance on the marriage mart to be met with a certain amount of interest.

Interest. That was an understatement.

Jason had spent years avoiding the tepid affairs of Almack's, coming-out balls, tea and cards, and droning musicales that made up "good" society. He'd expected to be bored. And he was. But he had not expected to be bored and, simultaneously, scared out of his wits.

The plan to marry at twenty-nine died a quick death when he found himself locked in a cellar with three of the most frightening creatures he had ever encountered: Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway.

And now, he found himself seriously questioning the wisdom to marry at the age of thirty, seeing as he was cornered by the same Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway at Phillippa Worth's garden party.

"Ladies, please!" he exclaimed, stopping their overlapping dialogue-that seemed to be aimed at him, but damned if he could tell what they were talking about. "It's so . . . interesting to see you all again."

All three smiled at that, blushing and waving their fans in what he supposed was meant to be alluring fashion, but Miss Rollins employed hers a little too vigorously, smacking Miss Quigley's rather too languid fan into a nearby shrub. While a horrified Miss Quigley gave up her position to root around the shrubbery for the missing fan, Misses Rollins and Halloway closed ranks.

"And we were so pleasantly surprised to see you again, Your Grace!" Miss Rollins said, while Miss Halloway nodded brightly. Miss Rollins eyed her friend and competition, and took a predatory half step nearer to Jason. "It must be fate, Your Grace. Destiny. To think, my father did not even think I should have a season this year, and yet we run into you at our first garden party!"

Just breathe, Jason thought to himself. He was, at least, in a better position than the last time Miss Rollins and her friends had cornered him. First of all, they were outside. In daylight. In full view of dozens of other garden party attendees. They couldn't possibly lock him in anywhere.

But on the other hand, Phillippa Worth's garden did boast a number of scenic alcoves and trees with low-hanging branches. And an even larger number of zoologically trimmed topiary that could shield one from the eyes of other partygoers. In fact, if Jason wasn't mistaken, Miss Rollins was angling him toward an oversized rabbit-shaped shrub now. Each inching step of hers, causing an inching back of his. By now, Miss Quigley had rejoined the group, flanking Miss Halloway, the three of them looking for all the world like a brigade of troops rounding up the last resister.

"Ladies," Jason said, thinking quickly, "have any of you partaken of the refreshments yet?" He eyed the refreshments table, surrounded by other people, sane people, shrinking into the distance with every minced step backward. "I would be more than happy to fetch a cup of tea or punch . . ."

"Oh!" Miss Halloway fluttered. "I would love a-" But she was cut off by Miss Rollins's elbow to her solar plexus. "But Sissy-a Duke was going to fetch me punch!"

One sharp look from Miss Rollins told Miss Halloway to hold her tongue. Then she turned her intense stare back to Jason, the feigned sweetness doing nothing to mask that young lady's intensity. "Now, now, Clarissa-we wouldn't want the Duke to overly exert himself. After all, he's so very popular, if he wandered away, he'd likely be held up, dare I say assaulted, by any number of other people."

Well there goes that idea, Jason thought ruefully.

"Never fear, Your Grace," Miss Rollins ventured, being so forward as to put her hand on his arm and pat it reassuringly. "We will keep you safe."

So. This is hell, Jason thought. A garden party, being backed into a corner by three of the most baldly opportunistic furies to have been formed in the British system of wealth and aristocracy. Who knew?

Just as Jason was panicking his way to an escape plan, and judging that his best bet would be jumping the low hedge by the south wall, he was rescued.

By someone who would never let him live this down.

"Miss Rollins, Miss Halloway, Miss Quigley," Jane, Jason's sister, cried brightly as she swept to his side, practically knocking him over as she attached herself to his arm-and gracefully removing said arm from the claws of Miss Rollins at the same time.

"Lady Jane," the three misses mumbled as they dipped into curtsies.

"So . . . interesting to see you here!" Jane smiled through her teeth. Jason thought that perhaps Jane was in some danger of amputating his arm, she squeezed it so hard as she forced herself to maintain a pleasant expression. "Jason, I've been searching all over for you!" Then, to the girls, "I'm so sorry, but my brother is required elsewhere."

"Where is this elsewhere?" Miss Rollins boldly asked, making one last attempt to hold on to her quarry.

But Jane just lifted an eyebrow. "Anywhere else."

And with that, Jason was steered away from the three misses, their disappointment as palatable as his relief.

"Well?" Jason asked, once he and Jane had gained enough distance.

"Well what?" Jane replied, her gait remaining fast and her attention focused on their destination.

"Aren't you going to say 'I told you so'?" Jason asked, quickening his pace to keep up with her. "Or, 'you'd be lost without me,' or perhaps, 'you can thank me later'?"

"I did, you would be, and you can," she countered, "but right now I'm far too angry to say any of those things." Jane shot a look over her shoulder. Jason followed suit and saw the three misses lamenting his departure-or more specifically, Miss Rollins roundly abusing the other two with her fan, her frustration breaking through anything that might be considered polite behavior.

"How on earth did those three manage to get into this garden party?" Jane hissed.