"It is a truth, universally acknowledged that a man of great fortune must be in search of a wife" — Jane Austen.

James Clarkhurst had always been good with women, men and particularly wine. But his greatest true love however was the human body. 1818 He'd expected as of now as of graduating Oxford a man of his position, a second son, a drunkard who spent his company around musicians and whores would spend his days in his estate.

Out of society. In the city, no noble wife. a free buffet of women and unlimited wine. Except life often turns into a different direction as if spitting on your whims and will for freedom. James woke up one morning hungover, and a letter of a dead brother in battle.

Bollocks.

The Count of Albaray. For all its pomp and bust, it was nowhere near glamorous. Tithes, taxes, estates, paperwork, titles. Governance all tedious tasks by a man who was constantly surrounded by indulgence. Though to his utmost displeasure, his kind dutiful brother George. Now dead had failed to mention Papa, the former Count had gambled their money away.

Loans, payments, services all left in a Barretto of rage, underpayment into his shoulders. Now James Clarkhurst must search of a wife who is the eldest daughter of a man with no fortune and no son and especially no grimy cousin putting his hands on the fortune to pay off his own debt. And a handsome dowry would do. And some good wine. although there was no money for wine.

Helena Beaumont. All the ladies in society had one thought in mind, babies out of society, freedom and blood thirsty mama's pouncing on eligible bachelor's. Meanwhile, Helena Beaumont's mama or papa had no interest in wedding her.

A clubfoot with great fortune yet no cousin and no prospect for a husband. Bingo.