Episode 1

The birth of Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset, Earl Clyvedon, was met with great

celebration. Church bells rang for hours, champagne flowed freely through the gargantuan castle

that the newborn would call home, and the entire village of Clyvedon quit work to partake of the

feast and holiday ordered by the young earl's father.

"This," the baker said to the blacksmith, "is no ordinary baby."

For Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset would not spend his life as Earl Clyvedon. That

was a mere courtesy title. Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset— the baby who possessed

more names than any baby could possibly need—was the heir to one of England's oldest and

richest dukedoms. And his father, the ninth Duke of Hastings, had waited years for this moment.

As he stood in the hall outside his wife's confinement room, cradling the squalling infant, the

duke's heart near burst with pride. Already several years past forty, he had watched his cronies—

dukes and earls, all—beget heir after heir. Some had had to suffer through a few daughters

before siring a precious son, but in the end, they'd all been assured that their lines would

continue, that their blood would pass forward into the next generation of England's elite.

But not the Duke of Hastings. Though his wife had managed to conceive five times in the fifteen

years of their marriage, only twice had she carried to full term, and both of those infants had

been stillborn. After the fifth pregnancy, which had ended with a bloody miscarriage in the fifth

month, surgeons and physicians alike had warned their graces that they absolutely must not make

another attempt to have a child. The duchess's very life was in danger. She was too frail, too

weak, and perhaps, they said gently, too old. The duke was simply going to have to reconcile

himself to the fact that the dukedom would pass out of the Basset family.

But the duchess, God bless her, knew her role in life, and after a six-month recuperative period,

she opened the connecting door between their bedrooms, and the duke once again commenced

his quest for a son.

Five months later, the duchess informed the duke that she had conceived. The duke's immediate

elation was tempered by his grim determination that nothing—absolutely nothing—would cause

this pregnancy to go awry. The duchess was confined to her bed the minute it was realized that

she'd missed her monthly courses. A physician was brought in to visit her every day, and

halfway through the pregnancy, the duke located the most respected doctor in London and paid

him a king's ransom to abandon his practice and take up residence at Clyvedon Castle

temporarily.

The duke was taking no chances this time. He would have a son, and the dukedom would remain

in Basset hands.

The duchess experienced pains a month early, and pillows were tucked under her hips. Gravity

might keep the babe inside, Dr. Stubbs explained. The duke thought that a sound argument, and,

once the doctor had retired for the evening, placed yet another pillow under his wife, raising her

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