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ISBN: 9-7815244-1405-4
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 For Grandma Rachel,
who lived life to the fullest
and was always true to herself
 Chapter 1

January 1819
ARTHUR BREMERTON, LORD MATHER, RAPPED his walking stick on the roof of the
carriage. Punctuality was extremely important to him—almost more so than
patience. Almost. The discrepancy between the two was the reason he’d left
his home on Green Street seven minutes behind schedule in the first place.
His valet, Tayson, was becoming increasingly forgetful in his advancing
age, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to retire the man. Tayson had been a
member of the household longer than Arthur himself, and replacing him
would sever yet another link to the father Arthur struggled to remember.
He glanced at the time, then closed his pocket watch, catching a glimpse
of his reflection in the polished surface. The white wig he wore to
ceremonial occasions was crooked on his head—a problem quickly
remedied. But his cravat knot was a disgrace. He set the walking stick on
the velvet bench, and using the small timepiece as a mirror, he attempted to
manipulate the knot into some semblance of symmetry. He gave up after
just a moment, deciding his efforts were just making things worse. At least
his robes would hide the cravat.
The carriage drew to a stop much too soon, and though no more than a
few moments had passed, Arthur checked the time again and rapped once
more on the roof. “What’s the delay, Greaves?”
The divider on the small window at the front of the carriage slid to one
side, and the driver’s face appeared in the opening. “Road’s closed ahead,
m’lord. Street’s clogged with people.”
Arthur moved aside a curtain and looked through the carriage window.
The street was indeed clogged with crowds flooding into St. James’s Park.
“What in blazes . . . ?” he muttered.
“Sorry, m’lord,” Greaves said. “We could backtrack, go west on Picadilly
and around the park on the other side. That is, if I can find somewhere to
turn the carriage around.”
“I’ll have to walk from here.” Arthur was already putting on his robes.
Much easier than carrying the heavy things. Of course it would be the day
of the State Opening of Parliament that he’d find himself in such a
circumstance, but there was nothing else for it. Above all, he couldn’t be
late for the Prince Regent’s speech. He fastened the ermine collar at his
neck.
 “M’lord.” Greaves’s brows rose so high they disappeared from view
beyond the small opening as he peered through. “Are you certain? Crowd
looks a bit rowdy.”
Arthur shoved open the carriage door and stepped out. A cold wind and
the noise of shouting accosted him at the same instant.
Greaves jumped down from his perch, arriving too late to let down the
step. He fastened the carriage door behind Arthur and studied the crowd,
chewing his lip. “You shouldn’t walk alone, m’lord. I’ll accompany you
m’self once I find a lad to watch the carriage—”
“No time for that,” Arthur said, holding down his wig against a burst of
wind. “I’ll send for you after the session ends.” He started through the park,
noticing with no small relief the redcoats of the yeomanry sent from the
army to act as constables for the gathering.
The officers noticed him right away. It would be difficult not to, with his
scarlet robes billowing around him. He nodded, and the constables followed
him down the path.
People surrounded him on all sides, some talking in groups, others
moving farther into the park. They streamed around him like a river.
What exactly was going on? Arthur strode at a quick pace, one hand
holding his wig tightly against his head. He wasn’t pleased at the attention
his ceremonial robes garnered, but they did still command respect. At his
approach, people moved out of his way.
He began to see banners and signs among the crowd. Some were
handmade from a board and a sheet of newsprint and bore words of protest.
Others looked professionally produced and must have been printed on a
press. One image in particular was repeated frequently: a portrait of Henry
Hunt.
The radical speaker must be holding a public meeting. Hunt’s speeches
were supposedly peaceful, and while those who attended his rallies were
typically displeased with the government, so far, there had been no
incidents of violence. But the orations were drawing larger and larger
crowds as Hunt became more popular. And the feel of this crowd was
angry.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder, making certain the officers still
followed.
Turning back, he nearly crashed into a cluster of men chanting about the
unsafe conditions in the mines. He let out a frustrated breath. Yet another
group protesting. From reports he’d read, they were becoming more and
more common all over the country. Just another thing to add to his list of
worries. The parliamentary session hadn’t officially begun, but politics did
not rest. Arthur was constantly at odds with the Whigs, with their talk of
free trade and their hopes to end the Corn Laws. Just the thought of it made
him grip his walking stick tighter. Any reasonable person could see the laws
were in place to help local producers by keeping prices high, and—
His thoughts cut off as a group in front of him shouted something about
parliamentary reform. Factory workers, they looked like. As he moved
along the park’s gravel path, he began to see distinct groupings of people—
dock workers, former soldiers, farmers, merchants—each with their own set
of grievances, as displayed by their signs and the words the people chanted.
Arthur gave an irritated click of his tongue at a group of students
shouting about expansion of the franchise. Could one even imagine the
chaos if voting rights were extended to the common man? He shuddered.
There was even talk among some of the malcontents of giving voting
rights to women. Arthur snorted at this. He couldn’t imagine anything more
preposterous. He thought of Margaret, the woman who had been his wife—
although it was difficult to consider her as such since they had been married
for only a short time before she’d died. Margaret would have been no more
capable of voting than of driving a team of horses and a plow, nor would
she have cared to—in either case. Politics or current events of any kind
hadn’t interested her in the slightest, and he couldn’t imagine any scenario
in which they would have unless they had affected the price of lace or the
availability of French gowns, as they had during the war.
He moved past another group. Ah, just as he’d predicted. There they
were, the bluestocking suffragists, carrying signs demanding equality and
voters’ rights extended to women.
Absurd.
The women marched and chanted, wearing white dresses and carrying
laurel wreaths. He wondered at the symbolism of the color and the greenery.
Death? Victory? Purity? No matter the meaning, the attire as well as its
accouterments were ridiculously dramatic.
He skirted the edge of the group but froze when one of the women turned
her face toward him.
Joanna? It couldn’t be her. His stomach tightened. The woman in
question was indeed Joanna Presley—his cousin.
 He marched straight through the mass of discontented housewives and
angry spinsters. “Joanna!”
Joanna jumped and spun around. “Oh, Arthur. It is you.”
“What are you doing here? Can you imagine what your mother would
say?” He stuck the walking stick beneath his arm and took her elbow,
intending to lead her away from the group. “What if you were seen among
these”—he motioned toward the women—“these . . . people?”
A slender woman stepped directly into his path, hands on her hips.
“That’s rather the point, my lord.”
Arthur stopped, surprised at being addressed directly—and in such an
impertinent tone. The woman before him was young—probably no more
than twenty-one, which made her almost ten years his junior. She had
messy honey-colored curls that poked out from beneath her bonnet, and
dark brown eyes. Right now, those eyes were boring directly into him with
the force of her glare.
“I beg your pardon, miss?” he said.
“Being seen—being heard—that is the point of a gathering such as this.”
She tipped her head to the side as if she were bothered at having to explain
something so obvious. “Henry Hunt speaks for those who have no voice,
unlike you, my lord: the common people, the poor, women—”
“Young lady,” Arthur sputtered the words in his disbelief that anyone
would speak so disrespectfully to a high lord. “I’ll have you know, the
representatives of the Crown speak for all, from the poorest pauper to the
monarch himself. We—”
“You represent the interest of wealthy men and make laws that hurt
common people. And you do it in secret behind closed doors.”
Feeling another rush of wind, Arthur released Joanna’s arm and clamped
down his hand on his wig before it could blow off. “It is hardly your place
to speak of law.” From the corner of his eye, he saw people gathering to
watch the argument.
The woman scoffed, and his cousin did the same, the action making him
clench his jaw in anger. “Oh, that’s right. It is your place, my lord. Your
place alone. And why is that? Because you were lucky as a consequence of
your birth.” She motioned to one of the signs depicting Henry Hunt’s
portrait. “Look at him. He campaigns for us. He cares for the common
people, not just for lining his pocketbook with the fruits of our labors.”
 Arthur’s vision was edged with red at her accusations. He forced his
voice to remain calm and spoke slowly, lest she hear just how furious he
was. Not only was she impertinent, but she was also making him late. “We
are not uncharitable, miss. The work we do, the laws we make are for king
and country and for the benefit of all.”
Her hands formed fists, and she leaned toward him. “You do not serve
our best interests. Not when you do not believe any man or woman here to
be your equal.”
Of course they were not his equals—not really. But he did not consider
himself better than they were in the eyes of God. Simply higher ranked and
in a position to lead those who needed him. “In matters of . . .” He pursed
his lips, not certain how to respond. The woman was clearly in the wrong,
but she had the support of the crowd, and if he were to say the wrong
thing . . . He did not want to incite an already discontented rabble. “Miss,
that is quite enough.”
One of the red-coated officers stepped closer. “Shall we take her away,
sir?”
The woman’s eyes flashed, if possible, even angrier.
“No,” Arthur said. He inclined his head to the woman in dismissal and
turned to his cousin. “Joanna, go home at once. This is not the place for a
young lady.”
Joanna shook her head, folding her arms stubbornly.
“And why is that, my lord?” The young woman spoke again. “Women do
not belong where important things happen? They have nothing to contribute
that might benefit ‘king and country’?”
“Of course,” Arthur said, turning back to her. “Women have endless
contributions to make to the world. In their realm.”
Another flash. If this young woman’s eyes had been weapons, they would
have defeated Napoleon and his armies without the need for a costly war.
“And who determines what their realm is, my lord?” She held his gaze,
challenging him. “Is that for you to do?”
Arthur did not look away. This young woman and her baseless
accusations had angered him far more than they should have. He needed to
remember he was a gentleman of breeding and, as such, not disposed to a
confrontation with a lady. He knew when to walk away from an argument.
“If you please, miss, I must be going.”
 “Ah yes. The opening of the session. Do not allow me to keep you from
the Prince Regent’s speech, my lord.” Without breaking eye contact, she
linked her arm through his cousin’s. “And we have a speech of our own to
listen to, don’t we, Miss Presley?”
“We do indeed.” Joanna gave a small curtsy, smiling at the other woman
until her dimples showed. “Good day, cousin.”
Out of habit, Arthur moved to tug on his hat brim but remembered he
wore only the wig. He whirled and stormed away toward the Palace of
Westminster. He would speak to Joanna later in a more appropriate setting.
And as far as the impudent young woman with her, Arthur would be
entirely content to never see her again.
 Chapter 2

Six months later

EMMELINE NEWTON LEFT BEHIND THE noisy traffic and climbed the alley stairs to
the rented rooms on Briset Street. She stepped inside and glanced at the
heavy velvet curtain that separated the parlor from the kitchen and dining
area. Seeing it drawn, she closed the door quietly behind her, not wanting to
disturb her mother and her clients.
She set the stack of handbills on the table beside the front door, along
with a bag of sweets and two new books from the lending library, one for
herself and one for the Thomas girls. She hoped they would be pleased with
her choice. She removed her bonnet and gloves. The late summer morning
had grown almost unbearably warm as she’d walked through the city
distributing the pamphlets, and sweat made her gown stick to her back now.
If her residence were not above a commercial stable, she would open a
window and hope for a breeze, but as it was, the smell of horses was worse
than the heat.
From the parlor came a thumping sound, followed by a rattling. Her
mother’s voice was muffled, but Emmeline could still hear the strange tone
she adopted in her sessions.
She started for her bedchamber, wanting to change into a fresh dress
before the girls arrived, but she stopped and returned for the handbills, not
certain whether seeing them would upset the clients as they left or not. Best
to be safe in this case. The work her mother did paid substantially more
than Emmeline’s tutoring students. The money enabled them to live here, in
the center of London, as opposed to a less desirable place nearer the river or
the slums, and it paid for Mrs. Thomas, their part-time housekeeper and
cook, a luxury neither Emmeline nor her mother felt they could do without.
In the past few years, they had found it difficult enough to learn basic
household chores, such as boiling water and changing bed linens. Mrs.
Thomas would bring her daughters today as well.
When Emmeline had discovered that Mrs. Thomas’s two young girls no
longer attended school, she’d insisted on tutoring them free of charge. She
believed wholeheartedly in Sarah Grimké’s teachings about women’s
education. Learning to read would open doors for the Thomas girls. Perhaps
they could one day be ladies’ maids or even housekeepers instead of
scrubbing pots belowstairs or sewing in a factory.
 She straightened the handbills as she placed them on her bureau. The
image of Henry Hunt’s face looked up at her from the top page, along with
an explanation of the deficiencies in the British electoral system. She was
pleased with the printer’s work. If only more people had been receptive to
the message. But change took time, she reminded herself.
An hour later, the clients were gone and her mother was resting.
Emmeline, wearing a fresh gown, wetted a towel and sprinkled it with
lavender water, then laid it over her mother’s forehead. The treatment
seemed to help with postsession headaches. And it would definitely make
the heat more bearable.
“Are you hungry?” Emmeline asked. “Mrs. Thomas will be by soon to
prepare supper, but if you’d like bread and cheese now? Or shall I slice an
apple?”
“Not just yet, dear,” her mother said in a tired voice. “Perhaps after I rest.
The day certainly is warm, isn’t it?”
“Very.” Emmeline sat on the chair at her mother’s bedside. “And the rain
last night has made the air muggy.”
“Where did you go this morning?” her mother asked, adjusting the towel
to cover her eyes. “To help that dear boy in Belgravia with his French?”
“Not today,” Emmeline said. “With the Season at an end, families are
leaving for their country estates. I fear I shall have quite a few less students
in the coming months.”
“More time for other pursuits.” Her mother smiled beneath the towel.
Emmeline didn’t miss the tightness of the expression. The reminder of
the lovely country home they’d left behind still stung. “I do have an entire
government to reform,” she said in a teasing tone. “So I am glad for the
extra time to do it.”
Her mother’s smile softened. “Your father predicted his daughter would
change the world. Perhaps he was the one with the Sight.”
Emmeline was glad her mother couldn’t see her skeptical expression. She
did not believe for one moment in psychic abilities or mystical spiritualism,
but it did pay the bills, and voicing her doubt would only cause hurt
feelings, so she kept her opinions to herself.
Her mother relaxed, and her breathing grew heavier as she fell asleep.
Emmeline sat back in the chair, reading the Times’s report of the general
election and fanning her mother and herself in turn.
 She was pleased to see the Whigs had gained a few seats. But
unfortunately, the party still suffered from disorganization. The Tories under
the Earl of Liverpool retained the majority, which annoyed her greatly. The
memory of her encounter with Lord Mather on the day of Henry Hunt’s
speech came into her mind, and she scowled, even though no one could see.
That sort of closeminded man, with his titles, money, and old-fashioned
ideas, was exactly the reason more representation was needed. He couldn’t
possibly understand the life of the common man. Or woman.
She turned the page, hoping for more, but only a brief mention was made
of the debates over the Corn Laws and the growing social unrest. Emmeline
folded the broadsheet and set it aside. Perhaps the Evening Post would
contain more substantial information and less Society gossip.
A knock sounded, and she left the room on tiptoe to let in the
housekeeper. She’d requested shepherd’s pie for supper and hoped Mrs.
Thomas had remembered.
Emmeline opened the door, and she froze.
Instead of Mrs. Turner and her daughters, two gentlewomen stood on the
outside landing in the alley above the mews.
Joanna Presley, from their weekly meetings of the London Women’s
Society, stood next to her companion, whom Emmeline didn’t recognize.
Both women were elegantly attired, and they looked excessively
uncomfortable. Emmeline knew the heat of the day and the smell of the
stables beneath accounted for only part of their unease. Obviously, neither
of the fine ladies was accustomed to paying visits in this area of London.
What were they doing here?
Emmeline realized she was staring and remembered her manners. “Miss
Presley, what a delightful surprise.” She opened the door wide and curtsied.
“Please, do come in.”
Miss Presley smiled as she entered. “Miss Newton, I’m so very glad to
see you.” The young lady’s smile was genuine, and it had the immediate
effect of brightening the room. She was short, with blonde hair and dimples,
and Emmeline had found over the past months that she could not help but
be happy in her company. Miss Presley motioned to her companion. “Allow
me to introduce my dear friend Mrs. Harriet Griffin.”
“A pleasure.” Emmeline curtsied again, deeper this time. She knew of
Mrs. Griffin—or at least of her husband, Mr. William Griffin. A Tory,
unfortunately, but he consistently voted in favor of reduced taxation and
Catholic emancipation—both issues Emmeline felt strongly about—so she
supposed she couldn’t judge him too badly, nor his wife. Mrs. Griffin was
exquisitely beautiful—tall and slender, with smooth dark curls, fair skin,
and a long neck. And she possessed an exceptional eye for fashion.
Emmeline glanced back at the door to her mother’s bedchamber. “I’m
afraid my mother is indisposed at the moment, but if you’d care to make an
appointment . . .”
Miss Presley’s smile grew, her dimples deepened, and her eyes appeared
to actually sparkle. “Miss Newton, we’ve come to see you.”
“Oh.” Emmeline blinked, confused. “Of course.” She led them into the
parlor, trying to remember the last time she’d received a social call. It had
been years, she realized. And never since they’d moved to London.
Emmeline ignored the large round table that took up one side of the
room, showing the pair instead to a sofa in the corner. She left them for a
moment and returned with a tea tray, feeling very self-conscious that she
had no servant to prepare it.
As she poured the tea for her guests, Emmeline tried to imagine what
they could have come to discuss. Neither woman seemed old enough to
have a child in need of tutoring. Perhaps they came at the behest of a family
member. Or maybe Mrs. Griffin was considering joining the London
Women’s Society. But if that was the case, certainly there were other ladies
with whom she was more closely acquainted to consult. And neither
purpose seemed sufficient reason for a formal visit.
Miss Presley thanked Emmeline for the tea, looking as if the day could
not be happier.
Mrs. Griffin smiled as well, but her expression seemed a bit forced. Her
gaze flicked around the room as if she were nervous that something might
jump out at her.
In spite of herself, Emmeline felt her shoulders tighten defensively. The
rented rooms might be in a less glamorous part of town, the furniture worn,
the décor old-fashioned, but she still took pride in her home.
She pulled over a chair from the table and sat facing the visitors with her
own cup and saucer in her lap. “What can I do for you ladies?”
Miss Presley took a sip of tea and glanced at her companion with wide
eyes and a smile on her lips, as if she held a secret.
Mrs. Griffin set her cup on its saucer. “Miss Newton, my husband and I
are to host a house party in two weeks’ time.”
 Miss Presley nodded, looking back and forth between the two women.
“And I would be very pleased if you would attend.”
“You need a tutor,” Emmeline guessed.
“No.” Mrs. Griffin lowered the saucer to her lap. “I hope you will come
as my guest.”
Emmeline stared, not knowing what to say. Surely there was some
mistake.
“Me? But—”
“Miss Presley speaks so highly of you,” Mrs. Griffin said. “And we—”
“Please say you’ll come,” Miss Presley burst out, speaking over her
friend. “So many diverting activities are planned: lawn games, cards,
dramatic charades, picnics. There is a splendid lake where we might go for
a row or where the gentlemen can fish, and, weather permitting, we will
even take a daytrip to Wolvesey Castle.”
Mrs. Griffin didn’t seem at all offended by her friend’s interruption. She
smiled softly, nodding. “I hope it will be enjoyable for all. It is my first time
hosting such a gathering.”
“It will be talked about as the most diverting house party any of the
guests have ever attended.” Miss Presley patted her friend’s arm
reassuringly. She grinned and turned back to Emmeline. “And, Miss
Newton, I’ve not yet told you the very best part. There will be, of course,
handsome gentlemen in attendance.”
Miss Presley’s cheeks reddened, and Emmeline supposed there was one
gentleman in particular whose presence she anticipated.
“And,” Miss Presley continued. “The duke of Southampton himself has
extended all of us an invitation to his ball.”
“It all sounds marvelous,” Emmeline said, feeling a flutter of excitement,
but she still felt wary. There must be more to this invitation than they were
letting on. “And I do not wish to sound ungrateful for the honor you have
extended me. But, forgive me, I can’t imagine why you’ve done it.”
Mrs. Griffin glanced at her companion.
Miss Presley’s smile dimmed, and her eyes tightened the slightest bit.
“My husband is fascinated by the supernatural,” Mrs. Griffin said. She
pursed her lips, looking as though she were not pleased with his interest. “I
suppose it can be attributed to losing his sister at a very young age.” She
glanced at the round table. “He hoped the baroness might be persuaded . . .”
She left the question hanging, and Emmeline’s stomach felt heavy. She
understood now. “You wish for my mother to come perform a séance.” She
spoke in a measured tone, not wanting them to hear her disappointment.
Miss Presley’s smile was now more of a grimace. “Yes. If she is
agreeable to it. But we want you to attend for the entire three weeks. Not
just come for the séance and leave. You will enjoy yourself immensely, and
we will enjoy having you there.”
“And I will be very pleased to become better acquainted with you,” Mrs.
Griffin said. She set her teacup on the low table beside the sofa. “Whether
or not your mother can attend.”
Emmeline was saved from answering when another knock came at the
door. She stood, feeling self-conscious again at performing the duties of a
servant in front of these ladies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just—”
The ladies stood as well. “We should be going anyway,” Mrs. Griffin
said. “Might I expect a response within a few days?”
Emmeline nodded, her mind whirling with the implications. A house
party with ladies and gentlemen and a duke’s ball . . . all things she’d
thought lost to her when her father had died. It seemed unreal.
She opened the door for the housekeeper and her daughters. Mrs.
Turner’s eyes went wide at the sight of the fine ladies. She curtsied deeply,
and her daughters followed her example.
Emmeline bid her two visitors farewell from the doorway as they
descended carefully the outside steps to the alley below.
Just as she was turning back to go inside, Miss Presley hurried back up to
the landing. She grasped Emmeline’s hands. “Harriet is shy, but you will
simply love her once you are better acquainted.” She tipped her head
toward her friend. “I do hope you’ll come. We will have a wonderful time
—you’ll see.” She kissed Emmeline’s cheek and hurried back down to join
Mrs. Griffin.
Emmeline watched as the two climbed into a fine carriage at the mouth
of the alleyway. She and Miss Presley were friendly enough at the women’s
meetings and the marches they’d attended, but she hadn’t expected a social
call from the woman, let alone an invitation such as this.
Later that evening, with both the shepherd’s pie and the Turners gone,
Emmeline and her mother cleaned the dishes. She hadn’t realized before
what a chore it was to do something that sounded like such a simple task.
She’d gone four times down the stairs and across the alley to fetch water at
the public faucet, making certain she had enough for the dishes, as well as
filling the washbasin pitchers in both sleeping chambers for the next
morning. And she’d had to hurry to get it all done before darkness fell.
Though the neighborhood wasn’t a slum, it was still unsafe for a young lady
to be out at night alone in any part of London.
As she rinsed off the plates, she told her mother about Miss Presley and
Mrs. Griffin’s visit and their unexpected invitation.
“Why do you sound so hesitant, dearest?” Her mother dried the plates
and set them on a cupboard shelf. “It sounds like a wonderful experience.
You know, I met your father at a house party. And won’t it be lovely for you
to make some new friends?”
“But they didn’t invite me in hopes of gaining a friendship,” Emmeline
said, feeling the tingles of shame burning up her neck. “They just—”
“The reason behind the invitation matters not,” her mother interrupted,
holding up a hand to stop Emmeline’s argument. “It matters only that you
were invited. They will see soon enough that you belong there. And once
they realize what a treasure they’ve found in you—and how could they not?
—you will be invited to future events.”
Emmeline gave a small smile in spite of herself as she wiped the crumbs
from the table with a wet towel. Her mother’s faith in her was never in
doubt.
“An opportunity such as this is not one you should ever discount simply
because of the blow to your pride, do you understand?” her mother
continued. “Three years ago, invitations like this were so plentiful we could
afford to be selective. But as it is . . .” Her mother held up her palm and
shook her head.
Emmeline knew she was right. She just wished the humiliating feeling
that soured her throat would abate. She wanted to be known for herself or
even as the child of the Baron and Baroness Newton, not as the fortune-
teller’s daughter. And she was ashamed at the thought.
She hung up the dishcloth and sat in her chair at the table. “I suppose I
could attend for a day or so, but I cannot stay for the entire time.”
“And why is that?” Her mother sat across from her, clasping her hands on
the table and leaning forward. “You’ve no reason to hurry back.”
“There is to be a ball at the Duke of Southampton’s,” Emmeline
explained, feeling the hot tingles return to her neck. “And I couldn’t
possibly . . .” She rested her chin on her palms, sighing.
Her mother grinned.
 Emmeline stared at her, confused. “What is it?” After a moment, she
couldn’t help but grin in return.
Her mother shook her head in pretend pity. “Oh, poor darling,” she
teased. “You remind me of Cinderella in the German fairy tale, wanting to
go to the wedding ball.” She stood, holding out her hand. Emmeline took it,
letting her mother pull her off her chair and across the kitchen into the
baroness’s bedchamber. “But instead of an enchanted bird bringing a golden
dress, you will have to be contented with these.” The baroness opened the
trunk at the foot of her bed and pulled out dress after dress, laying them
over the bed.
Emmeline had forgotten her mother owned such beautiful gowns. She
lifted one, holding it in front of her, and a flicker of something hopeful
glimmered inside her heart.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” her mother muttered, digging deeper into
the chest. “Aha!” From beneath a pile of shoes, underclothing, gloves, and
silk stockings, she pulled a glorious gown.
Emmeline gasped, clasping her hands together. “Mother, I have never
seen this.”
Her mother held it up in front of her. The dress was a light-rose color
with a lace overlay. Pearl beads decorated the neckline, and a wide silk
ribbon ran around the waist. It was stunning.
“It will need some alterations,” her mother muttered, tipping her head to
the side. “As will all of these”—she motioned with her chin to the other
gowns—“if they are to be in accordance with the latest fashion.” She
pressed the dress to Emmeline’s shoulders, and when Emmeline held it in
place, her mother fussed with the waist, leaning back and tipping her head
to the side. “And I think you are a bit slimmer than I was.” She laid the
gown on the bed and pulled out more. “I’ll hire a dressmaker tomorrow,”
she said. “I’m certain any would be pleased for work with the Season over.”
She glanced at Emmeline. “And don’t go lecturing me about the cost.”
Excitement started to replace Emmeline’s worries. She bounced on her
heels as her mother opened her hatboxes, pulled out a particularly lovely
straw hat with bunches of silk flowers around the rim, and put it on
Emmeline’s head, tying the ribbon under her chin. “Perfect for a picnic,
don’t you think?” Her mother turned her around to look in the mirror,
resting her hands on Emmeline’s shoulders and speaking to her reflection.
She tipped her head, looking at her daughter with fondness that brought
tears to Emmeline’s eyes. “My dearest, do not let anyone make you feel as
if you do not deserve to be at the party. You are a gentlewoman, and if you
behave as such, you will leave them in no doubt—” Her hands stilled, and
her eyes closed. She blinked rapidly, as she did when experiencing some
type of psychic phenomenon.
Emmeline didn’t pull away, though she was sorely tempted.
“I see you at peace, my dear. Happy and . . .” Her mother’s head wove
from side to side, and her face was slack. “Berries on a bed of words . . .
golden stars floating in a green sea . . .” Her voice was low and the sound
haunting.
It was all nonsense, of course—vague images that clients would later
match to random experiences and believe the baroness had indeed predicted
their future.
Emmeline put her hands on her mother’s and lifted them gently from her
shoulders, then released her hold, making the baroness gasp. This was the
part of the demonstration where the connection to the other world was
broken. Emmeline had seen it plenty of times over the years, and she
thought there was no need for the dramatics when it was just the two of
them.
She helped her mother to a chair to rest after her psychic episode while
Emmeline put the gowns away and tidied the room. In spite of her mother’s
eccentricities, she knew the baroness wanted the best for her daughter.
She smiled as she moved the rose-colored gown, laying it carefully over
the trunk and imagining twirling on the dance floor with a handsome
gentleman.
“Thank you, Mother.”
 Chapter 3

ARTHUR RODE UP TO THE gate and paused, glancing up at the two large griffin
statues that sat on high pillars on either side, like mythical guards. But to
him, they had always appeared welcoming instead of forbidding. The metal
gates were open wide—he’d never seen them any other way—but he
paused all the same, feeling the significance of returning to a place where
he’d spent so much time as a young man.
He glanced at his friend. The two grinned, and at the same moment, they
took off, pushing their tired horses at a gallop. Years seemed to fall away as
they followed the familiar paths through the woods where they’d once
playacted as bandits or members of Robin Hood’s merry men. They crossed
streams where they’d splashed and shouted on school holiday and rounded
the large pond where they’d spent endless hours fishing and racing in
rowboats, and then they continued through a green meadow and up a
gradual slope past a forest. They came to a stop at last beneath a copse of
grand oak trees overlooking Griffin Park.
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Lord Chatsworth’s smile was wide
as he surveyed the scene below.
“It does indeed.” Arthur could feel the horse panting beneath him and felt
a bit sorry for the animal. The stallion had obliged him with an entire day’s
journey only to be rewarded with an exhausting sprint at the end. He leaned
forward and patted the horse’s neck. Soon enough, they’d both be able to
rest.
“Old Griff hosting a house party.” Chatsworth clicked his tongue and
shook his head. “It seems so domestic of him. Nothing like the lad who
used to rock the rowboat until we all fell into the lake. I guess marriage has
a way of subduing even the most—” He cut off his words, darting a quick
look at Arthur and grimacing. “Sorry, old boy. I didn’t mean—”
“No apology necessary,” Arthur said, feeling guilty that the reminder of
his dead wife didn’t make him as sad as everyone assumed it did.
“Marriage didn’t change you at all, Mather,” Chatsworth said. “You’ve
always been the levelheaded one.”
Arthur shifted in the saddle. “I think you mean the intelligent one.”
Chatsworth laughed, shrugging good-naturedly.
“My cousin Joanna Presley will be here,” Arthur said, wishing to change
the topic from both himself and his marriage. “I imagine that’s why you
insisted we make the journey in one day instead of two.” He raised a brow
at his friend.
Chatsworth flashed the familiar white-toothed smile the gossip
columnists reproduced so faithfully in their cartoons. “You are the
intelligent one.” He urged his horse forward at a run.
Arthur followed.
Ten minutes later, with their horses happily munching oats in the stables,
the men walked up the stone steps to the manor house.
Before they reached the door, it opened, and Mr. William Griffin came
out personally to greet them. “Is this what it takes to bring you both back
here? A house party?” He gave a dramatic sigh and shook his head as if
annoyed by the entire thing, but underneath the expression, Arthur knew his
friend was pleased.
Chatsworth put an arm around Griff’s shoulders. “What better way to
celebrate one year of marriage to the lovely Mrs. Griffin than to entertain,
accommodate, and feed a houseful of unwanted guests?” He grinned.
“Unwanted?” Griff said, all the former teasing gone from his expression.
“You could not be more wrong, sir.” He clapped each man on the shoulder.
“I’m so pleased you both consented to attend. Rothschild is already here.
And the young ladies arrived just this morning.”
“Young ladies?” Chatsworth said. He pulled away and pressed his hand
to his chest, pretending the news caught him by surprise.
“Yes, and before you ask, Miss Joanna Presley is among them.” Griff
gave his friend a teasing smirk, then turned to include Arthur in the
conversation. “Of course, my wife would be bereft without her. And two
others have come as well: Miss Emmeline Newton, the honorable daughter
of the late Baron Newton. She is a friend of Miss Presley’s.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met Miss Newton,” Chatsworth said.
“Apparently, your cousin has been keeping her friend to herself.”
“I’ve not met her either.” Arthur shrugged. He remembered the Baron
Newton had died a few years earlier—from the same fever that had killed
Margaret. If he wasn’t mistaken, the title had been taken up by a distant
cousin, one who was regularly absent for important votes and who had
gambled away a significant portion of his estate. Arthur had heard rumors
the house had been lost to debtors, but what had become of the baroness
and young Miss Newton, he hadn’t heard.
“And Miss Blanche Stewart is here as well,” Griff said.
 Chatsworth nodded. “I have made her acquaintance a few times. Strikes
me as a pleasant young woman.”
Arthur thought the young lady’s presence another surprising choice. “I
didn’t realize Mrs. Newton was well acquainted with Miss Stewart.”
“Miss Stewart’s mother is a dear friend of my wife’s mother,” Griff
explained. “As Chatworth pointed out, she’s . . . pleasant. Reminds me quite
a bit of Margaret, truth be told.” His voice lowered at the last sentence, as if
saying it quietly would make it easier for Arthur to hear.
The pair looked toward him, and Arthur again felt uncomfortable at the
attention. He cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at the door. “Are you
going to invite us in, or has Mrs. Griffin deemed us too ill-mannered for her
home?”
“Never,” Griff said, the smirk returning. “The pair of you are as dear to
me as any brothers, and my wife is fully aware that marrying me meant
enduring your company as well.” He stepped to the side, motioning with a
sweep of his hand for the gentlemen to enter.
As Arthur passed, Griff walked inside with him. “You’ll never be
unwelcome at Griffin Park, Mather. Especially not when your steward sends
ahead three cases of my favorite brandy.”
They came into the grand front hall, and a maid took their hats, gloves,
and riding crops. Directly ahead, a large staircase rose to a landing from
which it branched, each side curving around to the east and west wings of
the upper floor. Arthur remembered the first time he’d stepped across the
threshold as a twelve-year-old boy on school holiday. The house even
smelled the same. A comfortable feeling settled over him, as it always did,
a welcoming feeling that he strove to instill in his own guests.
“Mrs. Griffin sent your trunks to your usual rooms in the west wing,”
Griff said. “You might prefer to wash up before—”
“Chatsworth! Mather!” Lewis Rothschild strode out of the drawing room,
his walking stick tapping on the tiled floor and his voice booming through
the high-ceilinged hall. He wore a perfectly tailored coat and a rumpled
waistcoat. Though the man’s style was, as usual, impeccable, his hair was
deliberately mussed—he managed to always look as if he’d not given a
thought to his appearance, carrying himself with a devil-may-care attitude.
“Isn’t this just the thing? The four of us again at Griffin Park?” His grin was
rather wider than normal, and Arthur suspected he must have already
sampled the brandy. “But Griff has improved the experience
tremendously”—he pointed with his walking stick toward the drawing room
—“with the addition of young ladies.”
The others glanced in the direction he indicated.
“That Miss Newton.” Rothschild spoke in a lowered voice. “She’s a
spirited one. Not your type, Mather, but as for myself, I do enjoy a
challenge.”
Arthur glanced toward the drawing room doorway again, hoping his
friend’s voice hadn’t carried. Rothschild’s meaning was obvious, and
Arthur was hardly surprised. He held a great fondness for his friend, but he
didn’t particularly approve of Rothschild’s reputation. Though the man was
a gentleman, he did not always act so, especially where pretty ladies were
concerned. A flirt if there ever was one. And for reasons Arthur still
couldn’t fathom, ladies found him irresistible. And apparently, he’d already
set his mind to winning Miss Newton’s affection.
Arthur couldn’t help hoping the young woman was not easily swayed by
pretty words.
Mrs. Griffin rose from her chair when the men entered the drawing room
and came to greet them. “Welcome, welcome. Lord Mather, Lord
Chatsworth. I am so delighted you arrived safely.” Her smile was bright,
showing the fetching dimples Arthur’s friend so admired.
Arthur and Chatsworth exchanged greetings with their hostess.
Rothschild lifted a glass of brandy from the mantel and took a sip.
Griff stood beside his wife.
As Arthur glanced around the familiar room, he could see subtle
differences since the last time he’d visited. The curtains were sheer instead
of heavy, and some of the furniture was arranged differently. It appeared the
new mistress of the house favored pastel colors and landscape paintings.
“Come,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Allow me to make introductions.” She
motioned toward the other women, who had risen to their feet.
The group crossed the room, and Arthur turned his attention to the ladies.
He recognized Miss Blanche Stewart and, of course, his cousin Joanna
Presley, but it took a moment before he remembered why the other woman
looked familiar.
Her gaze met his, and a scowl tightened her eyes.
Seeing it was like a blow to his gut. He stumbled, realizing with a jolt
exactly where he’d seen Miss Newton. She was the very woman who’d
argued with him in St. James’s Park.
 What had Rothschild said? Spirited? The word didn’t even come close to
what Arthur had seen of the young lady. And he could think of much more
accurate words to describe her: rude, impudent, cheeky, insulting . . .
He looked to Joanna, wondering why his cousin hadn’t mentioned this
happenstance, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she joined Rothschild
near the hearth and struck up a conversation with him.
Her action was an answer in itself. Traitor. She knew he wouldn’t have
come if he’d been made aware of that guest.
“And if I may, Miss Newton, this is Lord Mather,” Mrs. Griffin’s words
broke through his thoughts.
Arthur inclined his head. “How do you do?” He said the words
automatically.
“My lord.” Miss Newton smiled but only with her lips. She bent her
knees in a curtsy, somehow making the motion sharp.
She turned away almost immediately to join Rothschild and Joanna.
Mrs. Griffin apparently didn’t notice the woman’s rudeness, seeming
much more interested in making certain Arthur was introduced to Miss
Stewart and encouraging their conversation.
“Miss Stewart, why don’t you tell Lord Mather about your cats?” Mrs.
Griffin prompted.
The young lady gave a soft smile, and her eyes lit up. “I do have some
extremely special cats, your lordship. Clementine is a white angora, and she
is a dear. She just loves to chase a rolling ball. And Mr. Ruffles is a Blue cat
from France.”
Arthur smiled and nodded as she continued on. After only a moment of
small talk with the woman, he saw what Griff had meant. The young lady
was extremely like his late wife—aside from her obsession with cats.
Arthur had an uneasy feeling that Miss Stewart’s resemblance, both in
appearance and temperament to Margaret’s, was the reason Mrs. Griffin had
invited her. He was certain Mrs. Griffin intended a romantic relationship to
develop. She must think three-and-a-half years to be enough time to mourn.
But did they really believe he needed a new wife exactly like the first?
Arthur felt betrayed, assaulted on all fronts. But he was also trapped. He
tugged at his cravat, wishing the blasted thing weren’t so tight, and
considered his options. He couldn’t leave, of course, and risk offending his
friends—especially Mrs. Griffin.
 And on the other front, could he really endure weeks with Miss Newton
when one encounter with her months earlier still infuriated him?
Avoiding either of the women at such a small gathering would be
impossible.
Arthur’s head ached, and instead of considering any longer, he went to
the side table, let out a heavy sigh, and poured himself a glass of Griff’s
favorite brandy.
 Chapter 4

EMMELINE TOOK A BITE OF toast and turned the ironed page of the broadsheet.
Griffin Park’s breakfast room was sunny and bright, its walls painted
yellow, with sheer curtains and fresh flowers. Her mother would adore this
room when she arrived in a few weeks.
Men’s voices sounded from outside the room, and she darted a glance
toward the door on the other side, wondering if she could make it out before
they entered. She’d managed to avoid speaking to Lord Mather at dinner the
evening before, as well as in the drawing room afterward, but didn’t think
she could continue coming up with reasons to leave when he joined a
conversation. Not without being extremely rude. Best to steer clear of him
altogether. But before she could even rise, the four gentlemen stepped
through the doorway. Their conversation cut off immediately when they
saw her.
Emmeline rose and gave a curtsy.
“Good morning, Miss Newton.” Mr. Griffin smiled widely, his eyes
crinkling. “I hope you had a pleasant night.”
“I did. Thank you.”
The other gentlemen greeted her as well and then went to the side table,
where the breakfast selections were laid out.
Mr. Griffin remained standing on the other side of the table, across from
Emmeline, and set a hand on the back of a chair. “And your
accommodations are suitable?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Mather looking into the mirror
over the hearth. He appeared to be having trouble with his cravat.
“Everything has been just splendid, sir.”
“Excellent. I’m very glad to hear it,” Mr. Griffin said. “And have you
plans this morning? You’ve risen quite early.”
“I hoped to explore the gardens for a bit. Mrs. Griffin has plans for us to
visit a haberdashery later, so I thought to do it early.” She glanced at the
other men. “And I think you said last night that the four of you intend to go
hunting?”
“Indeed, we do,” Mr. Griffin said, grinning. “These chaps and I have
been shooting birds in Griffin Park’s hedgerows for nearly twenty years.
’Twould be a shame to stop now.” He gave a cheerful nod and moved to
join his friends.
 Mr. Rothschild came around the table with a plate and sat next to
Emmeline. A footman brought him coffee. “What are you reading, Miss
Newton?” He leaned closer to examine the news story over her shoulder.
“A fascinating turn of events on the Malay Peninsula,” she said, tapping
the article.
“Oh?” He spread butter over a piece of toast.
“Sir Stamford Raffles and Major General William Farquhar are
attempting to establish a British trading colony,” Emmeline explained,
pleased that Mr. Rothschild appeared interested. “Since the sultan of the
region will not allow it, they are appealing to the sultan’s elder brother,
promising to recognize him as the ruler of the new colony.” She turned back
to the previous page. “This is where it becomes interesting. You see, the
tradition of the Malay people will only allow a person who was at the dying
sultan’s side to inherit power. And the older brother, who should have been
the sultan by rights of his birth, was away getting married when his father
died.” She turned the page around, giving Mr. Rothschild a better view of
the sultan’s portrait. “What do you think of that? An amazing story,
wouldn’t you say?”
Mr. Rothschild yawned. “Rather a complicated one for so early in the
morning.” He skewered a piece of sausage and popped it into his mouth.
“Does the paper have any satirical cartoons?”
Emmeline furrowed her brows, unable to believe the man could have no
curiosity in regards to something so compelling. She had misjudged his
interest completely. Embarrassed, she slid the newspaper back toward
herself to keep reading.
The other gentlemen had taken seats on the opposite side of the table.
“It is quite amazing,” Mr. Griffin said. “I am always intrigued by foreign
traditions, especially those that seem so primitive.”
“Yes.” Emmeline smiled, glad to see that at least someone was able to
have a mentally stimulating conversation this early in the morning. “And
what is your opinion on the matter, Mr. Griffin? Are Raffles and Farquhar’s
actions ethical?”
He chewed a bite of toast and swallowed before answering. “I believe
any action done in the interest of expanding the empire is the best action.”
“Keeps the Dutch from monopolizing trade in the region,” Lord
Chatsworth said.
 Lord Mather set down his coffee cup. “And what is your opinion on the
matter, Miss Newton?” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “I’ve no doubt you
have one.”
She wondered if the others could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “I am still
considering where I stand on the issue. I would like to understand the
reasoning of it all better, as well as the future implications,” she said,
wanting him to know she used logic and not simply feminine intuition to
make decisions.
“A wise approach,” Mr. Griffin said, nodding and giving a pleased smile.
“To all matters.”
“If anyone can explain foreign policy and trade in the Far East, it’s
Mather,” Lord Chatsworth said, pointing with his fork toward his friend.
“I’d wager the man understands more about Britain’s dealings abroad than
any man in Parliament. Understands more about nearly everything than the
rest of us.”
Emmeline turned her gaze to Lord Mather. “And what do you think about
this upheaval of the local government for Britain’s financial gain, my lord?”
she asked. She knew full well that as a Tory, a royalist, and a capitalist, he
would defend the expansion of the empire as well, and she also knew full
well that in spite of her earlier statement of still developing an opinion, she
would very likely completely disagree with him.
Lord Mather set his knife and fork on his plate and considered for a
moment before answering. “I know neither man went into it without
consulting with myself, other members of the House of Lords, or the local
ambassadors to the region. Lord Raffles conducted months of research into
the matter, and neither man entered into the agreement lightly, and certainly
not with the intention to take advantage of the local traditions.” He spoke in
a measured voice, one that was used to explaining complicated politics—
and one that was used to masking truths with careful words, she thought.
“But that’s exactly what they did,” Emmeline said. “They exploited the
customs of the Malay people to get to the natural resources of the land.”
“Not to benefit themselves but the empire,” Lord Mather said. “As
Chatsworth explained, the Dutch control the trade in that region.”
She was annoyed by his calmness when the injustice of it all made her
clench her hands in her lap. Why did no one ask the Malay people what they
wanted? She forced her voice to be steady. “But that is by design, is it not?
Once the war ended, Britain returned Malacca to Dutch rule.”
 “That is true.” Lord Mather nodded. He held up a finger as if he were a
teacher making an important point. “But rather than allow any one country
to become too powerful, Britain’s trading station will keep the economics of
the region in check.”
Mr. Rothschild groaned and held up his hands as if the conversation were
too much for him to handle. “I hardly think a young lady needs to worry
herself with such matters,” he said, resting his wrist on the arm of her chair.
“Wouldn’t you rather speak of something more pleasant, Miss Newton?” He
pushed the newspaper away, across the table, and turned more fully toward
her. “Perhaps we can talk about the duke’s ball. And if I might be so bold, I
should like to take this opportunity to claim your hand for the first dance.”
Emmeline blinked, the man’s words and the abrupt change of topic
leaving her utterly speechless. Her initial reaction was anger. How dare he
speak to her as if she were a child? But the anger abated quickly, leaving
her hollow. The familiar feeling of a man returning her to her place—the
place he deemed suitable—burned inside her stomach. Her ears went hot.
She was frustrated at not being taken seriously, and she felt ashamed that
she had assumed it might be different in this company. She’d promised
herself she wouldn’t argue about political matters at the house party, and
yet, here she was, less than a day after arriving, doing just that. Somehow,
Lord Mather brought out the most contrary side in her. And while Mr.
Rothschild did not argue, Emmeline would have preferred that to his
speaking down to her as if she were a simpleminded debutante.
“Thank you, Mr. Rothschild. I would be honored.” She spoke in a quiet
voice and mustered a smile. She looked across the table, hating how easily
she could be made to feel small. Heat burned her cheeks. “I’m sorry for
arguing with your guests, Mr. Griffin. I do get rather heated when politics
are brought up.” She glanced at Lord Mather, who was watching her with a
curious expression. She did not offer him an apology.
Mr. Griffin’s wide smile returned. “I am not bothered by it at all, Miss
Newton. Please, feel free to discuss whatever you’d like.” He elbowed Lord
Mather. “And you could not have picked a better person to argue with.
Mather does enjoy debating important issues.”
Emmeline glanced at the arrogant lord again, but she continued to direct
her words at Mr. Griffin. “I don’t believe Lord Mather considers this
important issue to be within a woman’s realm.” She raised her brow. She
hadn’t forgotten one word of their former argument, and she wanted him to
know it.
Lord Mather rested a forearm on the table. “On the contrary, Miss
Newton. I would never criticize a person—man or woman—for wishing to
expand her understanding of the world.”
His response managed to sound polite and condescending at the same
time.
Emmeline stood, setting her napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me,
gentlemen, I’d intended to explore the grounds before the day grew too
hot.”
The gentlemen stood as well. “The gardens are magnificent,” Lord
Chatsworth said. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Mr. Griffin folded the newspaper and set it in the center of the table. “I’ll
make certain Giles picks up the latest edition every morning.” He motioned
between Emmeline and Lord Mather. “For those with a penchant for
political events.”
“Thank you, Mr. Griffin.” Emmeline shot a look at Lord Mather, unable
to resist a final jab. “Perhaps I will bring a pencil to breakfast to mark the
passages I particularly think you should consider, my lord.”
He laughed, and Emmeline was surprised to notice the sound was not
condescending at all but rather agreeable. He bowed, and she got the
impression that he did not consider the argument to have been entirely
unpleasant. Had he enjoyed the debate? “If I arrive first to breakfast, I will
do the same.” He smiled, the expression holding the slightest tease. “I am
typically an early riser.”
The other men chuckled as well, none louder than Mr. Griffin, who
slapped his knee as if the exchange were the most amusing thing he’d ever
heard. “I’m tempted to send for two papers,” he said, wiping his eyes. “But
I believe this way will be much more entertaining.”
***
Emmeline strolled along a wooded path. She’d decided after just an hour
of wandering that she preferred this untamed area of Griffin Park to the
manicured gardens. She had missed being in the country, and while
London’s parks were large and filled with trees, there was something about
a natural forest that spoke directly to her soul. The ground beneath her feet
was soft and springy, the trees spread overhead making the air cool and
muffling sounds. Ivy climbed up some of the trunks, rustling like a
thousand whispers when a breeze passed through.
She paused at a fence and reached through the rails to scratch the pink-
spotted belly of a fat pig. A small shed sat on one side of the pen, and
inside, another pig nosed through a feeding trough.
In the distance, she heard the occasional report of gunshots, reminding
her of her interaction with the men at breakfast. Perhaps it was a testament
to how long she’d been away from formal society that she’d been so
completely out of her element. When she’d met the man the day before, she
would have said with no hesitation that she would have been thrilled above
all imaginings to have the dashing Mr. Rothschild request a dance at the
ball. But when it actually happened, she felt none of the heart fluttering or
nervous excitement she would have expected to accompany such a request.
She left the pig and continued along the forest path, wondering if she was
getting close to the duke’s property. The butler, Giles, had told her the forest
was the dividing line between the two estates. But she would have to travel
farther if she wanted to see the castle. A pheasant darted across her path,
and she hoped the bird would find safety somewhere far away from the
hunters.
If she had been asked yesterday to predict the result of an interaction with
Lord Mather, she would have wrinkled her nose and hoped not to find out.
She’d grown defensive and angry when he’d spoken politically, but in spite
of it, she found herself considering some of his points long afterward. He
did understand what he was speaking of, she admitted grudgingly. And
while she didn’t necessarily agree, she was glad that he at least had an
opinion. Which was a far superior trait to Mr. Rothschild’s disinterested
acceptance of whatever point required the least thought.
Emmeline picked up a long stick, absently swatting at patches of
undergrowth as she walked. Ahead, she saw the edge of the forest and, a bit
farther along, a gazebo beside a small pond surrounded by willows. The
roof and floor of the structure were made of copper, green with patina, and
the columns were stone. When she stepped inside and looked up, she saw
shiny copper stars on the domed ceiling. Four stone benches were set
around the edges of the gazebo, curving with the structure’s shape.
Emmeline sat on one and continued to ponder her interaction this morning.
The thing that had struck her the most was Lord Mather’s laughter.
Something about the sound had changed the entire encounter. She’d been
defensive, angry, and, she was embarrassed to admit, fully prepared to be
offended by whatever he said next. But then he had laughed at her rather
poor joke, and . . . Emmeline had wanted to laugh as well. She thought back
over the entire conversation, wondering if she may have misread the man
all along. Perhaps he was just as passionate about his opinion as she was,
and maybe—well, there was a very slight possibility—he was not as
arrogant and close-minded as she’d believed.
With reluctance, she turned back toward the manor house. She didn’t
want the other ladies to have to wait for her and delay their outing. She
followed the path back through the forest and past the pigs. When she
emerged from the woods, she tossed aside her stick and continued back
down a slope in the direction of the Manor House. The field was covered
with wildflowers. As she drew closer to the house, she saw two women and
recognized them as Mrs. Griffin and Miss Presley.
When the pair saw Emmeline, they waved and started toward her.
She quickened her pace to meet them. “Are you hoping to leave already
for town?” she asked when she reached them. “I apologize if I’ve made you
wait.”
“Not at all,” Miss Presley said. “Miss Stewart hasn’t risen yet.”
“When Giles told us you’d gone for a walk in the sun, it was too
tempting a proposition not to join you,” Mrs. Griffin said. She linked arms
with both women, and they continued across the lawn toward the manicured
gardens. “A gorgeous day, is it not?”
Mrs. Griffin seemed much more at ease here at her home than she had the
first time Emmeline had met her.
“Griffin Park is splendid,” Emmeline said. “I could happily walk here
every day and not tire of it.”
“I agree completely,” Miss Presley said.
“As do I,” Miss Griffin said. “And I will admit I fell in love with this
estate almost as much as its master.”
“You seem very happy here,” Emmeline said, smiling.
They entered the garden at the side of the house, and Miss Griffin
released their arms so the women could step beneath the arbor and continue
single file along the narrower path that led among the roses.
“I feel that I owe you an apology, Miss Newton,” Miss Presley said from
ahead of her. Miss Presley stopped in front of a fountain, turning to face her.
 Emmeline was surprised. “I can’t imagine what for. And please, call me
Emmeline.”
“If you will call me Joanna.”
Emmeline nodded her agreement. “For what do you feel the need to
apologize, Joanna?”
“Arthur—Lord Mather. I knew you were not fond of my cousin. But I
didn’t tell you he would be here, because I worried if you knew, you would
not come.” She grimaced.
Emmeline felt a pang of guilt. Had her feelings for the man been so
obvious? “I don’t think I have ever met anyone who disagrees with me so
completely in every way,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “But
you do not need to apologize—for anything. I am so pleased to be here.
And one irritable cousin does not change that.”
“I am glad for it,” Mrs. Griffin said. “I rather hoped Miss Stewart would
help Lord Mather to be less . . . irritable.”
“Miss Stewart?” Emmeline asked.
“She is very similar to Margaret—Arthur’s late wife,” Mrs. Griffin
explained.
“And Harriet considers herself quite a matchmaker,” Joanna said, teasing
her friend.
Mrs. Griffin shrugged. “You did not complain one bit when I invited
Lord Chatsworth.”
Joanna’s cheeks went red and her eyes soft. She smiled dreamily. “What
do you think of Lord Chatsworth, Emmeline?”
“He is very agreeable,” Emmeline said. “And polite.”
Joanna put her hand on her heart. “And so handsome, isn’t he?”
“Please don’t swoon, Joanna,” Mrs. Griffin said in a droll tone. The three
burst into laughter, and Emmeline felt warm inside, glad the women had
thought to come after her and very pleased that a friendship was forming.
They continued through the garden, pausing now and then to admire the
flowers.
Joanna and Mrs. Griffin chatted about their planned activities for the next
weeks, and Emmeline considered what they’d said. Specifically about Miss
Stewart and Lord Mather. Emmeline had spoken only briefly with the
woman. She seemed pleasant enough. And apparently loved to talk about
her cats. Would the pair make a good match? Emmeline couldn’t imagine
the man would be content to discuss cats for the entirety of his marriage.
But then again, perhaps he would. She was surprised by how much the idea
bothered her.
 Chapter 5

ARTHUR CAME DOWN THE STAIRS early and stepped into the empty breakfast room.
He stopped at the mirror over the hearth and tried his best to fix his cravat,
as usual, then gave up and served some of the food from the side table onto
his plate.
The quiet of the morning was very welcome. While he enjoyed
socializing—especially with his dear friends—he did crave his solitude
every now and then.
A footman slid out a chair and poured tea. Arthur thanked him, pulling
the Times toward him as he tucked in to the meal. He turned the pressed
pages, skimming the advertisements and social announcements, at last
coming to the important news sections.
He turned the page and paused, teacup halfway to his mouth, and stared.
A smile tugged at his lips. The title of one article was circled, and an arrow
leading from his name written neatly in the margin pointed directly at it.
Various sentences throughout the article were underlined.
A thrill pulsed through Arthur’s nerves. The exhilaration of a challenge.
He’d wondered—hoped, actually—if the opportunity for another debate
would present itself. But over the past few days, Miss Newton had seemed
especially careful about bringing up anything that might be the least bit
controversial. Her behaving so properly had been a bit disappointing. After
their discussion about the Malay Peninsula, Arthur had thought of little else.
The young lady wasn’t simply an angry bluestocking with an agenda. She
was intelligent and earnest, and though he had never considered it a
woman’s place to argue about political matters, he’d rather enjoyed that she
seemed unafraid to say what she thought. She had an opinion. One
developed through research and careful thought. And while the result was
typically the complete opposite of his own opinion, he respected it. His
thoughts flicked for just an instant to Miss Stewart and her pleasant nods
and compliments. It was so blasted irritating when someone agreed with
him all the time. And he was growing very tired of hearing about cats.
“Let us see what point you wish to make today, Miss Newton,” he
muttered.
“Are Innocents the Casualty of Progress?” was the title of the article. It
discussed the proposed factory acts, legislation that would limit child labor
in cotton mills and some factories to twelve hours per day. Based on the
phrases she underlined, Miss Newton’s views on the matter were quite
obvious.
“Exploitation of childhood?” he muttered. “Workhouse enslavement?”
He glanced at the top of the article, looking for the reporter’s name. The
tone of the essay was grim and accusatory, blaming wealthy industrialists
for profiteering off the lives of the most vulnerable members of society.
Though it felt sensationalized, it was nothing he’d not heard before. Almost
weekly, representatives from various charitable societies wrote appeals to
his office or came in person. He’d spoken quite a few times with Bishop
Forsyth, who ministered particularly to the workhouses in the Whitechapel
slum in attempts to combat the pervasive poverty in the area, especially as it
pertained to children. Did Miss Newton think Arthur’s heart so hard that he
cared nothing for the suffering of the youngest members of the kingdom?
The thought brought back some of the anger he’d felt at their first meeting.
There were more factors at play than simply telling factory owners to limit
their workshifts.
When his breakfast was finished, Arthur folded the paper, tucked it
beneath his arm, and set out in search of Miss Newton, not entirely certain
what to expect when he found her.
He learned from Giles that she had left an hour earlier to take in the fresh
air of the gardens. And after a bit of searching, he found her strolling
around the edge of the pond.
She didn’t see him as he approached. She walked slowly, with her hands
behind her back and her face turned up toward the morning sun. Her curls
seemed to be trying to escape her bonnet, and they bounced as she walked.
Arthur paused, not wanting to disturb her. Miss Newton looked happy, even
though he couldn’t see her face. It was more in the way she carried herself.
Some would call her brave or even foolhardy to walk so far from the house
alone, but she didn’t seem to be doing it for effect. The young lady was
confident, there was no doubt about that. Arthur wondered what had
happened in her life. What experiences had made the Honorable Miss
Emmeline Newton into the woman she was? And why was he so curious
about it?
He cleared his throat as she neared.
Emmeline blinked, looking startled, but seeing him, she smiled and
inclined her head. “I see you’ve brought the Times, Lord Mather.”
 Not even a “good morning.” But he wasn’t surprised. Miss Newton had
not struck him as a person fond of small talk.
She continued to walk, and he joined her. “The exploitation of children?”
he asked, taking the paper from beneath his arm and holding it out to her.
“Do you think I condone such a thing?”
“I hope you do not.” She turned her face back toward the sun, and he
realized she had a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose. Had those
been there when she had arrived at Griffin Park? He hadn’t noticed.
“I only pointed it out because you have a chance to influence the vote on
the issue next winter,” she said. “And you must agree the offences are
egregious.”
“I do agree.”
She glanced to the side, one corner of her mouth tugging into a smile.
“Well, that was easy. I admit I rather worried I would need to convince
you.”
“I agree that something must be done. But it is not a problem as easily
dealt with as you may think.” The freckles were really very fetching, and so
was the color on her cheeks. Why did so many women hide themselves
away from the sun when it enhanced their beauty in such a manner?
She turned her face completely toward him. “Enacting laws to protect the
most vulnerable members of a society is not easy? I thought that was
precisely the duty of government.”
“There is more to a grand-scale social reform than just making a law. The
poverty problem in London is extremely complicated, with many factors in
play.” He rolled the newspaper into a tube as he spoke. “I suppose you think
it could all be fixed if only the government allotted a fund for every poor
person.”
“It’s a start,” she said, nodding as if satisfied with the suggestion. “And
repaired the tenement buildings, cleaned the streets, educated the children
to give them the option of a better future . . .”
“Again, it is not that easy.”
Miss Newton stopped. “Why?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Will you explain
it to me?”
Arthur certainly hadn’t expected that. He glanced around, and seeing a
partly buried boulder beneath a birch tree, he motioned toward it.
Miss Newton sat on the boulder, and he sat next to her, extending one leg
and shifting around as he tried to find a comfortable seat on the bumpy
surface. “Imagine if the government were to give every man, woman, and
child in the rookery twenty pounds,” he said. “What would happen?”
She furrowed her brow. “I suppose everyone would have enough for food
and lodging, and parents would no longer worry that their babes would go
to bed with an empty belly. Children would be able to play and attend
school instead of working at a dangerous job for eighteen hours a day.”
“Ideally, that is so,” he said, bumping the rolled newspaper against his
leg. “Many would use the money for food. Some might pay off debt. There
are even some who would invest it wisely. But the money would run out,
even with the most prudent spending. And within a year or so, people
would be back to where they were. Ready for the next distribution. You see,
the amount is enough to better their lives for a time but not forever. So what
is the answer?”
Miss Newton considered for a moment, picking blackberries from a
nearby bramble. “The answer is opportunity.” She offered him a handful of
the plump berries. “That is why education is so important. For the girls, as
well as the boys. That is how they will rise out of the rookery and have a
chance at a better life.”
He spread the newspaper over his lap, setting the blackberries on it and
picking some of his own to add to the pile. “I do not disagree with you,
Miss Newton.”
“Then it should be provided. By the state,” she said. “Britain would only
be strengthened by improving the education of its population. It should be
mandatory for all children.” She popped a blackberry into her mouth.
Arthur was distracted as he watched her lick a drop of juice off her lip. It
took a moment before his mind caught up to the conversation. “Yes.” He
cleared his throat. “But how would it be enforced? Children work because
families need the income. Most would not agree to sending their child to
school instead of to the factory. They simply can’t survive.”
“Then the problem comes back to how we care for the poor,” Miss
Newton said. “Surely there is something that can be done to help these
people.”
“Again, it is more complicated, miss. There are factors that you don’t
understand.”
Miss Newton went still. “Lord Mather, I have a much more personal
understanding of poverty than I could have possibly imagined three years
ago. That is why I feel so passionately about this issue.”
 He heard a change in her voice. She wasn’t arguing with him now but
sharing something personal. He ate a few blackberries, letting the words
hang in the silence instead of sweeping them away with too quick an
answer. “I’m sorry, Miss Newton. I confess I know nothing of your life.”
She shrugged and took another berry. “I would not expect you to.”
“I knew your father,” Arthur said. “I was very sorry to hear of his
passing.”
“Thank you.”
“He was a good man. And a good politician,” Arthur continued, wishing
he could say the right words to bring the fire back to her eyes. Even hearing
her go on with ridiculous ideas of women’s voting rights was preferable to
this. “I did not always agree with him, but I did respect the understanding
behind his opinions.” Much like his daughter’s, he nearly said. But he did
not want Miss Newton to think he was using the moment as an opportunity
to flatter her. He handed her a particularly juicy berry. “My own father died
when I was fourteen. And my mother soon after.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiled thoughtfully, looking at the hillside leading down to the pond.
“She’d have loved this view. Mother adored wildflowers. Preferred them to
a tended garden.”
“You miss her.” Emmeline looked at the wildflowers as well.
“Every day.”
“Does the pain become easier to bear?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But it never leaves altogether.”
“I don’t believe I’d want it to,” she said, reaching for a berry. “It
would . . .” Her words stopped.
“Miss?” She was staring at the berry heap on the newspaper. “Miss
Newton?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gave her head a small shake, sending her curls
bouncing. “My thoughts wandered for a moment.” She blinked, looking
distracted. She ate a few more berries and then stood. “Thank you for
joining me this morning. Your company was very pleasant.”
Arthur rose as well. He folded the newspaper beneath the berries, making
a bowl he could hold with one hand. “As was yours.” He offered his elbow.
“Shall we return and see what activities Mrs. Griffin has planned for us
today?”
 Miss Newton slid her hand beneath his elbow. “Yes. But let us walk
slowly. I don’t want to have to share the berries.”
Arthur chuckled and put a blackberry into his mouth. He hadn’t known
what to expect when he’d come to find Miss Newton, but in the end, he
hadn’t missed his solitude at all.
 Chapter 6

MRS. GRIFFIN DID INDEED HAVE grand plans for the day. When the entire group
was gathered in the drawing room after luncheon, she announced that
evening they would be performing dramatic charades.
“I have split the party into two groups,” she said. “With two ladies and
two gentlemen in each.” She distributed papers. “Here are your partners and
a choice of dramatic works from which to choose your performance.”
The others took the papers, studying them.
Joanna grinned, showing her dimples and looking as thrilled as a child
with a yard full of puppies.
“The only rules are,” Mrs. Griffin continued, “you may interpret and
present the story—or a part of the story—however you wish.” She ticked
each item off on her fingers as she spoke. “Each member of your group
must have a speaking part, and lastly . . .” She gave an excited smile,
holding up a finger. “None may tell any member of the other group which
work your group is presenting.” She ticked them off on her fingers as she
listed them. “Won’t it be diverting to see what everyone has chosen?”
Emmeline studied her paper. Knowing how Joanna felt about Lord
Chatsworth as well as Mrs. Griffin’s aspirations for Lord Mather and Miss
Stewart, Emmeline could see the matchmaker had chosen the groups
carefully.
Lord Arthur Mather, Mr. Lewis Rothschild,
Miss Blanche Stewart, Miss Emmeline Newton
The Castle of Otranto
The Beggar’s Opera
Robinson Crusoe
Romeo and Juliet
Castle Rackrent
Don Quixote
Mrs. Griffin instructed the groups to gather in different rooms and
explained that they had the entire afternoon to prepare. Servants would be
on hand to help gather props and costumes and anything else that was
needed.
Emmeline followed her group into the first-floor parlor, feeling
enthusiastic at the proposition of performing. It did sound diverting. Much
more so than another evening engaged in small talk or cards. She sat on the
sofa beside Miss Stewart, and the two men took seats facing them.
Mr. Rothschild sat back in his chair, looking over the list. He appeared
quite pleased at the planned activity. “What shall we choose, then? Does
anyone have a preference?”
Lord Mather glanced over his list as well. He looked . . . resigned to the
game but not unhappy. “Perhaps Castle Rackrent? We could each play the
part of one of the heirs?”
Miss Stewart’s brows pulled together as she studied her paper. “I do not
know that story,” she said. “And I do not want to play the part of a man.”
“The Beggar’s Opera?” Emmeline suggested.
“Too much singing,” Lord Mather said.
“And The Castle of Otranto is much too distressing,” Miss Stewart said.
“But it would have parts for each of us,” Mr. Rothschild said. “The two
ladies, of course, could play Isabella and Hippolita.” He motioned toward
the two on the sofa. “Mather, you could play Theodore, and I, naturally”—
he showed his teeth—“would play the villain himself, Manfred.”
“You would be a very convincing Manfred,” Emmeline said, imagining
which scenes they would reenact and how the characters would be
portrayed. “And I would happily play either of the women—even Matilda.”
She grinned at the idea. “Although, she does meet with an untimely death.”
“I think you would make a very convincing Conrad,” Lord Mather said to
his friend, tapping his chin and finally looking interested. “I have actually
considered dropping a helmet on you a time or two.”
“I wonder if the cook could come up with some simulated blood—maybe
a cherry pie mixture.” Mr. Rothschild laughed.
“And we will need a a giant helmet,” Emmeline said.
“No, no, we mustn’t.” Miss Stewart jumped to her feet, her voice echoing
through the room.
The gentlemen stood reflexively.
Emmeline stared, shocked at the shout that had come from the typically
docile person.
Miss Stewart’s face had gone pale, with patches of red standing out on
her cheeks. Her hands were clenched into tight fists. “Such a horrible tale.
I’m bound to have frightening dreams just thinking of it.”
“Mr. Rothschild would not actually stab anyone or attempt to marry his
son's fiancée,” Emmeline said flatly, her surprise turning to irritation at the
young lady’s dramatics. “It is all make believe.”
“It is evil and sacrilegious. And I will have no part of it.” Miss Stewart
folded her arms and shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
Apparently, the woman did have an opinion now and then, Emmeline
thought.
Lord Mather called for a servant to bring a glass of water. “Set yourself at
ease, miss. We will not speak of it again if it upsets you.” He spoke in a
calming voice.
Emmeline met the servant at the doorway, and when she returned to the
sofa, Lord Mather had taken her seat, sitting beside Miss Stewart and
patting her shoulder.
Emmeline gave her the water, annoyed that the anticipation in the room
had been squelched by the young lady’s tantrum.
Miss Stewart lifted it to her lips with trembling hands.
Using every bit of her self-control, Emmeline kept her expression
pleasant. She sat in the chair vacated by Lord Mather. “Miss Stewart,
perhaps you should choose our play.” She spoke carefully, not wanting her
irritation to be heard.
Miss Stewart fanned herself with her hand. “Romeo and Juliet.” She
spoke without a pause. “There are plenty of parts to choose from, and it is
so romantic.”
“Hardly,” Emmeline muttered but not loud enough for Miss Stewart to
hear.
Lord Mather’s lips twitched, but he didn’t glance at her.
“Shall you play Romeo, then, Mather?” Mr. Rothschild asked. “I’m sure
you’ll have no trouble assuming the role of our impulsive, idealistic hero.”
“It is very like him.” Emmeline nodded.
“And I will be Juliet,” Miss Stewart said quickly. She looked shyly
through her lashes at Lord Mather.
Emmeline controlled her expression again, acknowledging to herself that
the role of a naïve aristocratic young lady would not be too difficult for
Miss Stewart to assume.
“Then, you will be Benvolio?” Lord Mather said to his friend.
Mr. Rothschild scoffed. “Of course not. I am perfect suited to play
Mercutio. Imaginative, witty, sarcastic . . .”
“Don’t forget hotheaded,” Lord Mather said.
 “Naturally, I will need a sword.” Mr. Rothschild ignored his friend’s
barb. “I wonder if Griff would mind if I use one of those in his library
cabinet.”
“And Miss Newton, you shall be Nurse,” Miss Stewart said. Her eyes
tightened the smallest bit in an expression only Emmeline saw. Triumph.
The young woman actually believed she had won some sort of victory. That
by portraying the romantic lead, she had proved herself more . . . desirable?
Was that what she thought? That this was all a competition? Did she believe
Emmeline would feel jealous?
“Are you agreeable with that, Miss Newton?” Mr. Rothschild asked.
“Perfectly agreeable,” Emmeline replied, sounding as if the part were the
very thing she had wished for. For all her eye-batting and conversations
about cats, Miss Stewart was not as angelic as she seemed. Beneath her
sweet-tempered gentility, there was a shrewdness. And in Emmeline’s
experience, that sort of woman was dangerous.
Lord Mather took a pile of paper and a pencil from the low table in front
of him and settled back into the sofa. “Now, then. How shall we tell our
story?”
Mr. Rothschild fetched a copy of Shakespeare’s works from the library,
and he and Emmeline turned through the pages, making certain their
favorite lines were included in the script. They laughed at forgotten jokes
they came across.
Miss Stewart gave instructions, scooting closer to ensure that Lord
Mather wrote them down accurately. She would, of course, have the
majority of time on the stage—which was completely fine with Emmeline.
Long-winded soliloquies about instant love were not as satisfying as biting
satire or vulgar wordplay, of which both Mercutio and Nurse had plentiful
examples.
Lord Mather dutifully wrote Miss Stewart’s directions—even her
suggestion that both Romeo and Juliet own a cat—and when the seamstress,
valets, and ladies’ maids came to discuss hair and wardrobe, both he and
Mr. Rothschild agreed to the young lady’s costume choices. Which
surprised Emmeline more than anything else. The gentlemen were to wear
hose and doublets.
Miss Stewart had chosen for herself a lovely medieval-style gown with
her hair flowing loose over her shoulders.
 And for Emmeline, she ordered an oversized woolen frock, with an apron
and mobcap.
Not the most flattering of costumes, but in line with Nurse’s supposed
ugliness. Emmeline had made a decision the moment she’d seen the
gloating on Miss Stewart’s face and glimpsed the young lady’s true colors.
She would prove—even if it was only to herself—that beauty was no
indication of a person’s value. And Nurse was the perfect role to prove it
with.
After a few hours of rehearsals, a maid informed them that tea would be
served downstairs with the others in the drawing room.
Emmeline was glad for the break. She thought if she never heard the
words “wherefore art thou Romeo” again she could die happily.
The four of them made their way along the passageway to the staircase
and started down.
But Lord Mather paused. He caught Emmeline’s arm as they descended
the stairs, slowing her as the others moved ahead. “Miss Newton, I hope
this playacting has not upset you.” He spoke in a lowered voice.
“Not at all, my lord. I am enjoying myself very much.” They continued
down the stairs behind the others. “If I gave an impression otherwise, it was
unintentional, I assure you.” She wondered if he’d caught a glimpse of the
exasperation she’d tried to keep under control.
“No, you seem perfectly amiable about the thing. I simply worried when
Miss Stewart claimed the role of Juliet and cast you as Nurse. I don’t want
you to feel slighted.”
His concern brought on a strange feeling, like a constriction inside her
chest.
They stepped down the last step into the great hall. “Nurse is beyond
question my favorite character in the play,” Emmeline said. “Her loyalty
and wit—not to mention her inappropriate comments.” She shrugged one
shoulder and smiled. “I far prefer her to an easily swayed heroine whose
only attribute is her beauty.”
“I concur.” Lord Mather gave a nod. “Nurse is my favorite as well.”
The constriction inside Emmeline’s chest tightened again, nearing an
ache. “I hope you still like her after she refers to Romeo as a dishclout.”
She spoke in a teasing tone, hoping to dissipate the sensation.
“I will accept the insult with honor.” He gave a formal, old-fashioned
bow, pointing his toe and making an elaborate gesture with one hand while
the other was tucked behind his back.
Emmeline chuckled. She would never have imagined the straight-laced,
conservative earl would turn out to be so diverting.
“And it was very generous of you to allow Miss Stewart to choose the
play. Even when you would have preferred something different.”
Emmeline shrugged as she paused outside the door to the drawing room.
“It was much more important to her than it was to me."
“A pity Rothschild won't be crushed by a giant helmet,” Lord Mather
said, giving an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose we can always wish.”
Emmeline grinned and walked past him into the drawing room.
***
Emmeline was amazed by how quickly the hours passed. The remainder
of the afternoon was spent in rehearsals, costume fittings, and set
decorating. The performances would take place in the separate rooms where
the two groups had practiced so they could move from one to the other
without having to rearrange the furniture. When dinner was finally finished,
Emmeline, Miss Stewart, Lord Mather, and Mr. Rothschild, as well as some
of the household servants sat in chairs in the drawing room and watched the
other group perform.
The Griffins, Joanna, and Lord Chatsworth acted out scenes from a
Shakespeare play as well, but instead of a tragedy, they had chosen the
comedy Twelfth Night.
Emmeline laughed with the others at the confusion of mistaken identities
and cheered when Duke Orsino, played by Mr. Griffin, declared
passionately his love for Viola, played by his wife.
After the final applause and bows, coffee and cakes were served as an
intermission. Emmeline’s group ate quickly and hurried off to get into
costume.
The Nurse’s dress was scratchy. And much too large. But Emmeline
hardly noticed. She and the ladies’ maid, Mary, were enjoying themselves
far too much. At Emmeline’s suggestion, Mary had fastened cushions
beneath the dress for padding, especially around Emmeline’s back side. She
tucked her hair into the mobcap, and then they got down to the business of
making up her face.
Shoe-shining gum blackened some of Emmeline’s teeth, making them
appear to be missing, and for an extra touch, the pair made a large wart out
of candle wax and stuck it on Emmeline’s chin with pinesap. She even
poked horsehairs from a hairbrush into it.
Mary giggled, studying her completed disguise. “I’d never recognize
you, miss.”
Emmeline thanked the girl for her help, than sneaked into the parlor and
waited behind the screen as the first scenes were played out.
At last, from the low platform used as a stage, Miss Stewart said, “‘Come
hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?’”
That was Emmeline’s cue. “‘The son and heir of Old Tiberio,’” she said,
walking onto the stage and speaking in a creaky voice.
There was an audible gasp from the audience.
Lord Mather and Mr. Rothschild stared, mouths open from their places
offstage.
Seeing their shocked expressions, Emmeline had to fight down a laugh
and concentrate on maintaining her character.
Miss Stewart blinked, staring. “I . . .” She looked closer at the wart.
“‘Go ask his name . . .’” Emmeline muttered in a low voice, reminding
her of her lines.
Snickers came from the audience.
Miss Stewart’s cheeks went red. She pointed with a theatrical sweep of
her arm toward where Romeo had left the stage. “‘Go ask his name: If he be
married. My grave is like to be my wedding bed.’”
After her initial shock, Juliet managed to remember her lines, giving her
impassioned speeches and declarations of love about Romeo and the forces
working to thwart their union.
Nurse played her part happily. She pretended offence at Mercutio’s
insults and conspired with Romeo, acting the part of a saucy older woman
with relish.
When, at last, Juliet plunged the knife into her heart, falling lifeless over
Romeo’s body, the room applauded, but when Mercutio and Nurse returned
to the stage for their bows, the applauses became cheers.
Emmeline grinned, bowing with her coactors, and after a moment,
excused herself to change out of the hot, padded dress. When Emmeline
returned—with clean teeth and wart removed—Joanna rushed across the
room to meet her.
“Oh, Emmeline, I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard. My
sides ache,” Joanna said.
 “As do mine,” Lord Chatsworth said, joining them. “An outstanding
performance, Miss Newton.”
“Thank you,” Emmeline said. “And I can say the same to each of you. I
enjoyed Twelfth Night very much.” She glanced across the room. “If you’ll
excuse me for a moment, I have yet to congratulate my partners for their
performances.”
Mr. Rothschild lifted his glass as she approached. “There she is.” His grin
was wider than usual. “I believe after tonight, each of us has a new favorite
of the Bard’s characters.”
“You surprised us all,” Lord Mather said, smiling. “I doff my feathered
velvet cap to you, Miss Newton.”
“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Rothschild.” She inclined her head to each
gentleman in turn. “You were both dashing Elizabethan heroes. And I’m so
happy we had this opportunity to take the stage together.” She turned
toward Miss Stewart. “And you made an excellent Juliet.”
The young lady smiled, but the expression was not a warm one. “Thank
you.”
Emmeline was not one to revel in the displeasure of another, but she did
feel a bit of satisfaction at the woman’s coolness. The fat, warty nurse had
garnered far more praise than the beautiful Juliet.
The celebration continued on late into the night as the actors recounted
humorous moments in the planning and execution of the plays. The parlor
was filled with laughter and the contentment that came from planning
something and seeing it through to fruition. Emmeline thought she had
rarely felt in such high spirits.
Miss Stewart excused herself early, and one by one, the gentlemen bid
the ladies good night and took their leave.
Emmeline leaned back on the sofa, feeling exhausted but very happy.
“What a night this has been,” she said to Mrs. Griffin and Joanna.
“It was all wonderful, was it not?” Joanna said. Her eyes were bright, and
Emmeline was certain the wistfulness in her voice could be attributed to the
playacted marriage between herself and Lord Chatsworth.
“A splendid night,” Mrs. Griffin said, looking very happy that her plan
had gone so well. “And your role as Nurse was my very favorite part of the
evening, Miss Newton.”
“It was a very diverting activity,” Emmeline said. “Thank you for
arranging it. And you must thank your staff for all of their assistance. They
went beyond the call of duty to make everything just perfect.”
“I shall, certainly,” Mrs. Griffin said.
Joanna was leaned back on the sofa as well but turned toward Emmeline
and gave her hand a squeeze. “You were remarkably forbearing today,
Emmeline.”
“How so?”
“Arthur. I know you and my cousin have had disagreements. It was very
sporting of you to consent to being on his team.”
“I didn’t mind in the least,” she said, realizing that she meant it. She’d
actually enjoyed spending the day with Lord Mather, something she would
never have predicted. “He was sporting as well. Both men were. A romantic
tragedy was not either of their first selections.”
“I cannot believe you convinced my cousin to wear a doublet and hose.”
Joanna grinned, showing her dimples.
Mrs. Griffin giggled. “We simply must bring back that fashion for men. I
thought it very cute.”
“And the feathered caps!” Joanna put a hand over her mouth to quiet her
laugh.
Emmeline laughed as well. The lateness of the night had made them all
silly. “It was not I who convinced them. Miss Stewart picked the costumes.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Griffin said. She and Joanna shared a knowing look.
“They do make a fine-looking couple,” Joanna said.
“I knew they were well suited,” Mrs. Griffin agreed, looking very
satisfied in her matchmaking endeavor. “And I sensed an attraction between
them that was more than simply playacting. Didn’t you think?”
“They did perform well together.” Emmeline’s contented bubble began to
deflate.
Mrs. Griffin leaned close, raising and lowering her brows. “Perhaps they
weren’t acting after all.”
“Perhaps not.” Emmeline tried to smile.
“Are you all right, dear?” Joanna squeezed her hand again. “You look
rather pale.”
“I am suddenly tired,” she said.
Mrs. Griffin sat straighter in her chair. “I think we all are tired. Such an
eventful day, wasn’t it? And our efforts may have produced a previously
unrealized attraction.” She glanced pointedly at Joanna. “Or more than one.
I’d say it was very worth it, wouldn’t you?”
 “Absolutely,” Joanna said. She stood and held out a hand to help
Emmeline rise as well.
Emmeline’s throat was scratchy, and she felt wrung out. She smiled and
nodded at the matchmakers’ pleasure in their success, bidding the women
good night and walking toward her bedchamber. She wasn’t certain the
reason for her discomfort, but she definitely didn’t want to examine the
feeling too closely tonight, fearing what she might find.
 Chapter 7

FOUR DAYS LATER, MRS. GRIFFIN must have considered the party suitably
recovered from the excitement of dramatic charades because she announced
during dinner that she had an especially delightful activity planned for the
following day.
“Make certain to get a good night’s sleep and eat a hearty breakfast,”
she’d advised. “You’ll want your strength tomorrow.”
When the party assembled in front of the manor house the next morning,
Griff and his wife stood before them. A weathered sea chest sat on the
gravel drive behind the couple and, atop it, a small wooden box.
Griff put his hand on a pistol tucked into a sash around his waist. He
acted as though he was being tolerant of his wife’s latest scheme, but Arthur
recognized enthusiasm in his friend’s eyes. Whatever she had planned, Griff
was excited for it.
Mrs. Griffin, on the other hand, looked as if she were positively going to
burst with anticipation. She clasped her hands together, smiling widely and
bounced on the balls of her feet.
“What is it?” Lord Chatsworth asked, looking unable to stop a smile
when he saw his hostess’s grin. “What is your secret? Are we to put on
another play?”
“No, my lord.” Mrs. Griffin answered. “It is something completely
different, I assure you.
“It’s not hunting, is it?” Rothschild asked. “I think there are still a few
birds we’ve not managed to shoot yet.”
“You mustn’t keep us in suspense,” Miss Stewart said. She looked at
Rothschild with an irritated expression and opened her parasol.
“Maybe we should go hunting instead of putting everyone through all
this fuss,” Griff said, teasing his wife.
Mrs. Griffin swatted him on the arm. “Stop it.” She opened the small box
and took out three envelopes. “We are dividing into groups again. Smaller
groups today. Miss Stewart, you’re with Lord Mather. Miss Newton with
Mr. Rothschild, and Miss Presley with Lord Chatsworth.”
The party shuffled around until the pairs stood beside one another.
“It is you and me again, my lord,” Miss Stewart said, tipping her head to
the side.
 “It appears so.” He smiled, though it was only thanks to his mother’s
repeated insistence that he exhibit gentlemanly manners at all times that he
was able to conjure the expression. Mrs. Griffin meant well with her
meddling, he knew, but her insistence on thrusting the pair of them together
at every opportunity was becoming tiresome.
He glanced at the other pairs. Chatsworth and Joanna looked perfectly
happy to be together. And Miss Newton and Rothschild seemed content
enough. A bit of heat rose in his throat at seeing the two exchange smiles.
The feeling came as a surprise. Would he rather have Miss Newton as a
partner? They would likely just argue the entire time. He attributed the
feeling to missing out on another morning of hunting. The last few days had
proven too rainy for much outdoor activity.
He studied the sky. This morning, the weather was warmer, but the dark
clouds in the distance looked ominous.
“Today’s activity is a race.” Mrs. Griffin handed each of the pairs an
envelope with their names on it and gave instructions not to open it until
told to do so.
“Excellent,” Mr. Rothschild said. “Sorry to disappoint you other chaps,
but we already know who’s the fastest.”
“I told you he’d say that,” Griff muttered to his wife.
“You did indeed,” she replied, and then she turned back to the group.
“This race will not be won by speed alone. You will need to use your wits,
solve puzzles, find clues, and do it all before your competitors.”
The others shared glances, looking intrigued.
Arthur studied his envelope and nodded before giving it to Miss Stewart.
The game did sound interesting.
“And is there a prize for the victors?” Chatsworth asked.
Mrs. Griffin stepped back around the large trunk, the grin reappearing.
“The team who finds this treasure chest first . . .” She motioned for Griff to
open the box.
The six competitors leaned close to see what was inside, then burst into
laughter.
Griff and his wife pulled a man’s and lady’s hat from inside the chest.
Each was styled in an old-fashioned manner, with wide brims and gaudy
colors. The headpieces were extravagantly decorated with flowers and
feathers and ribbons.
 “The winners shall wear the spoils of their victory!” Mrs. Griffin said,
holding up the lady’s hat. “And for the remainder of the day, they may only
be referred to as Lord and Lady Toodledoo.”
“An excellent prize,” Chatsworth said, slapping his thigh. “I believe we
shall look smashing as Lord and Lady Toodledoo, shan’t we, Miss
Presley?”
Joanna smiled, dimples showing. “Indeed, we shall.”
“Come along, then,” Mrs. Griffin said. “The race begins at the pond.”
The eight of them started down the gravel path and across the wildflower
meadow to the pond, chattering happily. Miss Newton was telling
something to Rothschild that Arthur couldn’t quite hear. And Arthur felt
that heat in his throat again. This time, it left behind a bitter taste.
Miss Stewart walked slower than the others, and Arthur reduced his pace
to match hers. “Are you quite all right?” he asked, seeing that they were
getting farther behind the rest of the group. Not a good indicator of their
success in the race.
“I am not used to walking so far,” Miss Stewart said. “My shoes are not
cut out for trekking through the countryside.”
He offered his arm, reminding himself that he could still enjoy the race,
whether he won it or not—or had a chance of winning—or had a partner
who was willing to actually participate.
They crested a hill and joined the others near the bank of the pond. Three
rowboats were spaced out in front of them in the water, tied to posts on the
shore.
“Is everyone ready?” Mrs. Griffin asked.
The competitors gave their assent, glancing at one another.
Rothschild grinned, cracking his knuckles.
Griff took the pistol from his waist.
“Once you hear the signal, you may open your envelopes and read your
first clue,” Miss Griffin announced. “On your marks, get set, and . . .” She
plugged her ears.
The others did the same.
Griff shot the pistol into the air.
A burst of energy moved through the group as they tore open the clues.
Miss Stewart unfolded the paper from their envelope, and Arthur leaned
close to read.
Row with all your might
 On the far side, locate the lady in white.
The others were already running toward the rowboats.
“Come along, Miss Stewart.” Arthur hurried to a boat, untying it. He put
one foot inside, holding out a hand to assist his partner.
She made her way to the boat much more slowly than he would have
liked, stepping carefully over rocks and around puddles.
Arthur stepped out of the boat and back up the beach, taking her elbow
and helping her over the uneven ground.
Miss Stewart hesitated as they got near to the water’s edge. “Oh, I shall
get mud on my shoes.”
Arthur let out a breath. He hurried back to the water and pulled the boat
up onto the shore as far as he could. Looking across the pond, he saw the
other two boats were already underway.
Having a nice dry path, Miss Stewart at last let him help her into the boat.
She sat on the bench, holding her parasol as if they were out for a pleasant
day on the water.
Arthur glanced back at Griff, shaking his head.
His friend smirked.
Arthur shoved the boat with his shoulder, sliding it back into the pond,
and then climbed inside, sloshing water into the bottom with his wet boots.
Miss Stewart grimaced.
Arthur ignored her and turned to take the seat facing the rear. Digging the
oars into the water, he leaned back to get the boat underway, then developed
a rhythm in a hurry, but they were still behind the others.
“I wonder what this means. The lady in white,” Miss Stewart said,
indicating the paper with the clue.
“A statue.” Arthur spoke through his heavy breaths. “At the cemetery on
the other side of the pond.” Griff obviously had a hand in this clue. Arthur
didn’t tell Miss Stewart that as children, they were convinced the statue was
haunted, and they would creep out to the old cemetery on foggy nights to
frighten one another. She would probably insist he turn the boat around.
He wondered briefly if Rothschild was telling the story to Miss Newton.
He imagined the conversation and thought the young lady might be, at this
very moment, making plans to bring the group back on a dark night to see
for herself whether the rumor was true.
By the time they reached the far side of the pond and pulled the boat
ashore, the others were nowhere to be seen. Arthur helped Miss Stewart out
of the boat, and they hurried over the hill and through the trees.
The cemetery was just as he remembered. Quiet and eerie. A low
wrought-iron fence surrounded a grouping of headstones—some broken,
others tilted or fallen over—whose carvings had long since washed away. In
the center of the graveyard was a statue of a woman carved out of white
stone. She wore a robe, one hand outstretched, her features weathered. A
single envelope sat at her feet, held in place with a rock.
Arthur handed it to Miss Stewart, who read the next clue.
The building is kept warm
No matter the season.
Herbs and flowers are grown here
For that very reason.
“A hothouse?” she guessed.
Arthur nodded. “I think that is correct.” And it would explain why they
did not pass any of the others when they came from the boats. “The
gardener keeps a hothouse near his cottage.” He pointed. “In that direction.”
“And is it nearby?” Miss Stewart asked.
“Just a short walk,” he said. “But we should make haste, or we will fall
too far behind the others.”
“My shoes,” she reminded him as they left the cemetery.
They continued at a slow pace, in spite of Arthur’s attempts to speed up.
Miss Stewart seemed to have no drive to compete, which frustrated him to
no end. Finally, the hothouse came into view. Mr. Harms, the stablemaster
stood outside, holding the bridles of two horses. One animal was equipped
with a lady’s sidesaddle.
Arthur greeted the man, noticing that his back was more stooped than he
remembered and his face more wrinkled. Another reminder of the time that
had passed since he’d been at Griffin Park.
“Yer clue’s inside,” Mr. Harms said.
“And the others?” Arthur asked.
“Yer the last,” he said, glancing in the direction that Arthur assumed they
had gone. “But ye could catch ’em if yer quick.”
That was all the motivation Arthur needed. Perhaps there was still a
chance. He held open the door of the hothouse for Miss Stewart.
She stepped inside, taking down her parasol. “Oh, it is so humid. My hair
will simply be ruined.”
 Arthur had stopped caring about her complaints a half hour ago. He
moved quickly, searching through the building for the next envelope.
Through the large windows, he could see the clouds were gathering.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t get caught in the rain. He didn’t think he could
bear to listen to Miss Stewart’s complaints if that were to happen. Nor could
he endure another story about her cats.
He found the envelope at last, among the pots of herbs. A small pair of
shears lay on it. Though he was tempted to open it himself, he called out for
Miss Stewart to join him before reading it.
An herb sacred to the Druids,
Ancient witches used it in their charms.
If you choose correctly and present it to your mount,
You’ll be given leave to ride by Mr. Harms.
“What does it mean?” Miss Stewart asked. “Who is Mr. Harms? And
what are we supposed to choose?”
“Mr. Harms is the stablemaster,” Arthur said. Hadn’t she heard him greet
the man less than two minutes earlier? “And I think we’re supposed to
choose an herb to feed the horses.”
“But how should we know what herb a horse would like?” She wrinkled
her nose, looking at the various pots of plants. “Or maybe they like all
herbs, and we can just choose any of them.”
“I believe the answer is in the first part of the clue,” he said.
“Sacred to the Druids and used in witches’ charms . . .” Miss Stewart
read.
“And safe for horses to eat,” Arthur reminded her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “And it is so dreadfully muggy in here. Maybe
we could ask the horse man. What was his name again?”
“It’s yarrow,” Arthur said.
“Let’s ask Mr. Yarrow.” Miss Stewart started toward the door.
“No.” He picked up the shears. “The herb is yarrow.” He clipped off two
bunches of the plant and handed one to Miss Stewart.
“Pretty,” she said, admiring the little yellow flowers.
Arthur hurried outside, holding the door and not letting his foot tap
impatiently as he waited for Miss Stewart to join him.
“Is the answer yarrow, Mr. Harms?” Arthur said.
The stablemaster nodded. “Aye. Now ye’re to ride to the gardener’s
toolshed near the edge of the forest. Do ye know where ’tis?”
 “I do.” Arthur fed the yarrow to one of the horses.
Miss Stewart fed her clump of the herb to the other.
Mr. Harms helped them mount, and they were off.
If there was one thing he could compliment Miss Stewart on, she was an
excellent rider. The pair galloped around the pond and past the house and
gardens, then turned their mounts up the slope to the forest. A gentle rain
had started, but it was hardly more than a few cool drops on his cheeks.
Nothing to be alarmed about, yet.
Chatsworth and Joana were coming out of the gardener’s toolshed when
Arthur and Miss Stewart rode up.
A stableboy waited for the horses.
Chatsworth tipped his hat when he saw Arthur and Miss Stewart.
Joanna waved. “Mr. Rothschild and Miss Newton just left,” she said.
“Those two had a bit of a row,” Chatsworth grinned. “I think we can
catch them easily. Especially if they’re still arguing.”
Arthur glanced around, wondering in which direction they’d gone. What
had Miss Newton and Rothschild been arguing about? The thought bothered
him.
He dismounted and handed the reins to the stableboy, then helped Miss
Stewart from her horse.
“Good luck to you,” Chatsworth said. He took Joanna’s hand, and the
two rushed away.
Arthur and Miss Stewart entered the toolshed. An envelope sat on an
upturned bucket.
Finding it a bit dim to read inside the shed, Miss Stewart opened the
envelope outside, small drops of rain landing on the paper as she read.
The last clue is simple as can be.
It tests your knowledge of Royal history.
The wives of Henry VIII are all now dead.
But do you remember which lost their heads?
If you believe it was numbers one and three,
off to the rose garden with you.
But make haste to the pig house
If you believe it was wives numbered five and two.
The treasure awaits, so don’t delay.
The first to find it has won the day!
 “That is simple enough,” Miss Stewart said, turning over the paper. On
the back was a numbered list of King Henry’s wives. “So which lost their
heads?”
“Do you want to hazard a guess?” he asked.
“Do you know?”
“I do,” Arthur said.
“Is it Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn?” Miss Stewart asked, her
brow furrowing as she looked over the list.
“Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard,” Arthur said.
“Numbers two and five,” Miss Stewart said. “Then the treasure is at the
pig house?” She wrinkled her nose. “What is that? It sounds dreadful.”
“A little barn in the forest, with a pen around it. Griff’s mother insisted
the pigs be kept well away from the manor house.”
“I don’t blame her,” Miss Stewart said.
“Make haste.” Arthur started up the path into the forest. “If they’ve
chosen wrong, or if we can outrun them, we can still win.”
The rain was coming harder, but they were so close to their goal. The pig
house was just up this forest path.
Miss Stewart called out from behind him, and he stopped, hurrying back.
“Are you hurt?” He looked her over, wondering if she’d fallen or twisted
an ankle.
“I’m not hurt. Just soaked. We must return to the toolshed until the rain
stops.”
Arthur wiped raindrops off his face. He glanced up the path. “The rain is
lighter in the forest, beneath the trees,” he said. “And we can shelter in the
pig house.”
“Absolutely not.” Miss Stewart whirled and stormed back down the hill.
Arthur glanced back once more, gritting his teeth, but he followed. It
would not do to leave a lady alone in the rain. Even if it meant losing the
contest.
When they reached the toolshed, Rothschild was running toward it—
from the direction of the manor house. And he was alone.
“Hold the door, Mather,” he called out, one hand on the rim of his hat.
“Quite a downpour, isn’t it?”
He rushed past Arthur and into the small building.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, crowding inside with the other two.
“Where is Miss Newton?”
 Rothschild shook his head, frowning. “Headed off to the pigs, I wager.
She insisted it was the answer to the clue, but of course Mrs. Griffin
wouldn’t hide a treasure in that foul-smelling place.”
“Miss Newton was right.” Arthur looked through the door at the pouring
rain. “How could you leave her alone? In this?”
“She’s rather upset with me.” Rothschild shrugged. “We argued about the
herb, about the king’s wives, about everything, really. She’s pretty enough,
but when she has to be the most intelligent person in the room—that’s not
the reason men seek out a young lady’s company.”
“You are so right, sir,” Miss Stewart said.
Rothschild nodded, glad to have someone in agreement with him. “I told
her as much and”—he held out his hand toward the doorway—“there you
have it.”
Arthur let the shed door slam behind him as he stormed out into the rain,
furious with his friend for treating the young lady so poorly. Was Miss
Newton taking shelter alone in the pig house? He could think of only one
other place she might be.
 Chapter 8

EMMELINE PACED BACK AND FORTH across the wet floor of the gazebo. Rain
pattered on the roof and ran down the columns. She was furious and
embarrassed and . . . hurt. She wiped at her cheeks, wishing she could stop
her tears. But Mr. Rothschild’s words kept coming back into her mind.
You’re pretty enough, but men don’t seek out a lady’s company because of
her intelligence. Finally, she sat on one of the curved stone benches that
surrounded the green copper floor and scooted forward to the very edge to
keep from being dripped on.
Why had she argued? She rested her elbows on her knees and put her
face into her hands. Hadn’t she told herself that she would be agreeable for
the sake of her hosts? But when she thought of plastering on a smile and
accepting Mr. Rothschild’s erroneous conclusions about the answers to the
clues . . . she just couldn’t do it. Pretending not to understand something in
order to spare a man’s feelings—it felt dishonest somehow. As if she
weren’t being true to herself.
Emmeline sighed. Today had been a disaster. Why had she come to
Griffin Park? While she felt that she and Joanna and Mrs. Griffin had truly
begun a friendship, she was fooling herself if she thought that she belonged
here with these people in the first place.
Hearing a footstep on the copper floor, she looked up.
Lord Mather stepped beneath the gazebo roof and took off his hat, letting
a stream of water drip off the brim.
She wiped her cheeks furiously with her gloved fingers, humiliated that
he’d seen her weeping.
Lord Mather sat on the bench next to hers. “Rothschild told me what he
said.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, voice louder than usual to be heard
over the rain.
Emmeline was grateful that he didn’t attempt to sugarcoat his words or
give her extra sympathy. Having one more person speak down to her might
just be the final blow to her already battered self-confidence. She glanced
past him, worried that Mr. Rothschild might be right behind. She wasn’t
ready to face the man just yet. “Where is he?”
“Taking cover from the rain with Miss Stewart in the gardener’s
toolshed.”
 Something about the way he said the young lady’s name gave the
impression that he was frustrated with his partner as well. But perhaps
Emmeline was reading too much into it. “You agree with him,” she said.
“That a woman should not correct a man. That she should not argue with
his decisions. That it is outside her realm.”
He sighed, taking off his coat and offering it to her. “Are you never going
to forget I said that?”
Emmeline took the coat. The outside was wet, but it was warm inside.
She slid her arms into the sleeves. “I cannot forget it. I—” How could she
make him see how his words had made her feel? How strongly she felt
about the issue of equality? She let out a heavy sigh. “Why do I, as a
woman, have this mind if I’m not meant to use it?”
He looked surprised for a moment but seemed to see that she was not
boasting but asking an earnest question.
“I am intelligent enough to understand governmental procedures, yet I
have no say in the government,” she said. “I want more than anything to
attend University, and I’m not allowed. If I could just—” She cut off her
words, feeling foolish for even speaking them aloud. “I don’t know why
I’m talking to you, of all people, about this.” She looked away, unable to
meet his gaze. “You would never consider a woman to be your equal.”
“Why would I want a woman to be just like me?” he asked. “Indeed, that
is the last thing I should wish for. Women and men are not the same. Not
physically nor in temperament or capability. I do agree that you possess an
exceptional intelligence, Miss Newton. But that doesn’t mean you must be a
man to use it.”
“I do not wish to be a man. Only to have the same rights as one.” She
stood, folding her arms.
He stood as well.
“As a woman, I have none.” She spread her arms, his coat sleeves
covering her hands. “I cannot seek higher learning. I cannot become a
solicitor or a doctor.”
“But there are still plenty of opportunities available to you.”
“Within my realm,” she reminded him, knowing that her voice sounded
bitter.
“Yes.” He nodded. “And how is that a bad thing?”
His expression did not look irritated or arrogant. Simply curious. And
seeing it, she wanted to tell him everything.
 She sat back down, pulling the coat tighter around her bare arms. “When
my father died, a distant cousin none of us had met inherited the estate. He
became the baron over tenants and farms and land he’d never seen and
didn’t know how to manage. While I, who had been assisting my father in
the running of the estate for the entirety of my life, inherited nothing. I was
forced to watch as my cousin made one poor decision after another, losing
my ancestral home and my mother’s jointure and plunging my father’s
legacy into insurmountable debt.” She didn’t realize her tears had returned
until Lord Mather offered her a handkerchief.
“I knew every tenant, every animal, knew which crops grew best in
which fields. I’d marked ledgers and taken accountings since I was a child.
And yet”—she wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief—“that . . . imbecile
not only bears my father’s title, but he also has a vote in the House of
Lords.” She clutched her hands tightly on her knees. “If it were not for my
few tutoring appointments each week and my mother’s particular
occupation, we would be utterly destitute. As it is, we live in rented rooms
above a public mews in Central London. And it is all because I was born a
female.” Emmeline stopped, breathless from her outburst. She felt both
relieved and extremely vulnerable at sharing something so personal.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. His voice was gentle yet not patronizing.
“What your cousin did was unpardonable. I’m so sorry for what you’ve
endured. And I understand your frustration. The laws of primogeniture do
have their faults, as do any laws.” He set his hat on the bench beside him.
Wearing only a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he showed his shape more
clearly. His shoulders were broad, his waist slender, and the muscles on his
arms defined. Emmeline was embarrassed when she caught herself staring.
He did not appear to notice her studying him. “If you could, what would
you change?” he asked. “What would make a difference—to you and to all
women?”
“Education,” she said without hesitation. “If young girls were encouraged
to attend school and then go on to University, it would change everything.
Women have more of an influence on young children than men. Can you
imagine what a difference it would make on an entire generation if every
mother were educated?”
“Many women do receive an education,” he said.
She gave him an exasperated look. “My learning consisted of French,
embroidery, watercolors, and harpsichord. I learned mathematics only
because I pestered my father to teach me how his ledgers worked. Girls are
limited in what they’re permitted to learn, while boys are encouraged to
learn everything.”
Lord Mather scratched his chin as he watched her. He didn’t argue, but
that didn’t necessarily mean he agreed.
“I am angry, my lord,” she confessed. “Always. And so frustrated. But
mostly, I am tired of being considered less because of my sex.”
“Different does not necessarily mean less,” he said.
She sighed. Apparently, he was not going to change his thinking. At least
he had listened. She supposed she’d take whatever small victories she
could.
Lord Mather ran his fingers through his hair, pushing curls off his
forehead. “Do you know what I thought when Mrs. Griffin assigned the
pairs for the race this morning?”
She shook her head, surprised at the change of topic.
“I thought how lucky Rothschild was. He had the most intelligent partner
and one who wasn’t worried about sullying her gown or taking a risk.” He
interlocked his fingers and looked down at his hands. “I was jealous.”
The tightness in her chest that she had felt before came back full force,
and she nearly gasped as heat covered her cheeks. “You were?” she
managed to say, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
“I was.” He moved to sit on the bench beside her. “I know we’ve had our
differences, Miss Newton. And I imagine we always will.” He held up a
hand to keep her from interrupting. “That is as much my own stubbornness
as yours. But we aren’t so different. We do share an interest in government
affairs.” He smiled. “Giles tells me the two of us are the only ones who read
the Times every day.”
Her heartbeat grew stronger with each word he said until she thought he
must surely hear it. “Perhaps we have more in common than we thought,”
Emmeline said. “We do both like blackberries.” She tried for humor—
anything that might ease the tumbling of her insides.
“That is true.” He smiled again.
Had he always had such a handsome smile? Why hadn’t she noticed
before? And why were her thoughts so muddled?
Lord Mather took her hand. “I have . . . adjusted my position—albeit the
slightest bit—about a woman’s realm. I am not of the same opinion as Mr.
Rothschild—except for the part where he said you were pretty. I do agree
with that. But I appreciate your intelligence and enjoy a spirited discussion.
You are passionate about issues you care about, and I rather like you, Miss
Newton.” He spoke the last words softly.
Emmeline’s face felt like it was on fire, and her thoughts had apparently
scattered. Was she really losing her head because a man had called her
pretty? What had happened to her reason? She stared at her hand in his,
unable to lift her gaze to Lord Mather’s face.
She glanced up, then looked back down quickly. “You are very different
than I assumed after our first meeting in St. James’s Park.”
He squeezed her hand. “That will teach us both not to jump to
conclusions, won’t it?”
Emmeline nodded. She could feel his gaze but could not manage to lift
her eyes again. Her usual confidence seemed to have fled. Finally, she could
not stand the silence any longer and decided to change the topic to an easier
subject. “Do you think Lord Chatsworth and Joanna found the treasure?”
“I believe so.” His voice resumed a more casual tone, but he did not let
go of her hand. “They were at the pig house when I passed.”
“I am glad for them,” Emmeline said. “They will be happy to be Lord
and Lady Toodledoo.”
“I can’t think of anyone who deserves the honor more.”
Emmeline noticed that it was easier to hear his voice than it had been a
few moments earlier. She glanced upward at the starry ceiling. “The rain
has stopped,” she said.
“I am not in a rush to return to the house, are you?”
Emmeline mustered her courage and raised her gaze. She shook her head.
“No, my lord. I’m not in a hurry.”
He settled more comfortably on the bench, his arm pressed against hers.
Emmeline relaxed. She hadn’t realized how stiff she’d gone. The entire
conversation had felt like running a race. Her insides were still a mess, but a
warmth spread through her chest. She tipped her head the slightest bit,
resting it on Lord Mather’s shoulder. “I like you too, my lord.” Her words
came out as little more than a whisper.
Lord Mather tightened his grip on her hand.
Emmeline thought she could happily sit in the gazebo forever. With him.
Her eyes grew heavy, and her vision blurred. Golden stars floating in a
green sea . . . Her mother’s words came into her thoughts as she stared at a
puddle on the gazebo floor. The reflection of the stars from the ceiling
shone back at her. What had her mother said?
“I see you at peace, my dear. Happy. Golden stars floating in a green
sea . . . berries on a bed of words.”
The gazebo . . . Lord Mather’s pile of blackberries on his newspaper . . .
Emmeline’s rational mind could not come to terms with her mother’s
strange predictions. She didn’t believe in the supernatural or in psychic
phenomenon. But she also hadn’t believed she would ever fall in love with
a man like Lord Mather, and it appeared that was exactly what was
happening.
 Chapter 9

ARTHUR SAT ALONE IN THE breakfast room. He chewed on a piece of bacon as he

read an article in the Times. He had half a mind to underline a few passages
about the Chilean War of Independence. Not because he thought Miss
Newton would wish to argue about it but because she might find it
interesting. But this article didn’t particularly stand out to him any more
than the others since the young lady was interested in practically
everything. Over the past few days since they’d taken shelter from the rain
in the duke’s gazebo, they’d yet to run out of topics for discussion. Arthur
left each interaction with the young lady more impressed each time, both
with her extensive knowledge about various topics and her curiosity and
desire to learn more.
As a typically solitary man, Arthur couldn’t remember enjoying any one
person’s company as much as he did Miss Newton’s.
He realized he was smiling and took a drink of tea. Instead of marking an
article to discuss later, he wrote a small note in the margin beside a report
on the British control over the Maratha Empire.
Hoping your day is enjoyable.
He looked at what he’d written, debating for a long moment over whether
to sign his name. In the end, he didn’t. Miss Newton would know who had
written it. He read it again, questioning whether he should have written it in
the first place. The message sounded stilted and supremely dull. He
considered, trying to come up with something more clever to say. But what?
He should have at least made a joke. Something to make her smile. He
tapped his pencil on the table, thinking of how to improve the little scribble
in the newspaper margin. What if he added a drawing? He dismissed the
idea immediately. No, that was silly. He was acting like a lovesick
schoolboy.
The thought brought him up short. Lovesick? Is that what he was? Was
his friendship with Miss Newton more than friendship after all? Just
thinking about her made his stomach roll over in a delicious feeling. He felt
hot and cold and nervous and giddy—was that love? Or infatuation? Or had
he put too much sugar in his tea?
Without thinking about it, he sought her out during the day, and the two
ended up sitting by each other in the drawing room after dinner, as if by
arrangement. His first thought in the morning was when he might have the
opportunity to see her, and his last thought upon falling asleep was of a
conversation they’d had, the freckles on her nose, or her particular way of
tipping her head when she was thinking.
But could he be in love? His feelings were so very different than those
he’d felt for Margaret. He’d thought his first wife very agreeable, and he’d
believed she would be a good hostess when the two received guests, but
while he’d admired her beauty, his affection for Margaret had most
certainly not been love, and he felt guilty for it. It seemed unfair to both of
them to have had a loveless marriage.
Giles entered the room and cleared his throat. “Your steward has arrived,
my lord.”
“Thank you.” Arthur glanced at the clock on the mantel. Mr. Lambert
was precisely on time, as usual. The steward brought the tenant leases. Even
though he could have just as easily put the documents in the post, Arthur
felt they were important enough to have the man deliver them personally.
The two of them typically went through each one, discussing changes or
adjustments that either he or the tenants had requested before signing. Mr.
Lambert was extremely meticulous in his work, and Arthur hoped the
process wouldn’t take longer than a few hours.
“I installed him in the library and sent a footman with breakfast for him,
as you requested,” Giles said.
“Very good.” Arthur folded the newspaper, disappointed that he’d not
come up with a witty message for Miss Newton, and set it beside his plate.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose, coming around the table. As he
did, he glanced at the mirror over the fireplace and stopped, sighing as he
tried to fix the knot in his cravat.
“Let me help you, my lord.”
Miss Stewart came up behind him, her gaze holding his in the mirror. She
slipped in between him and the mantel and loosened his cravat knot.
Arthur instinctively took a step back, but she matched him, staying much
closer than he was comfortable with. He cleared his throat. “You’re awake
early, Miss Stewart. Have you plans for the day?”
“I hoped to catch you,” she said, still working on the knot. She blinked
slowly, looking up at him with large eyes. “I’ve not seen you as much these
past days. I thought perhaps we could take out a boat onto the pond? We
hadn’t the opportunity to enjoy ourselves last time. And the weather
promises to be lovely today.”
 “That sounds very nice,” he said, pulling away slowly so not to appear
rude. “I have business with my steward this morning. But perhaps later.”
Miss Stewart stuck out her lip in a pout. “You absolutely must promise,
my lord.” She tightened his cravat knot and adjusted his collar, scooting
closer as she reached around the back of his neck to smooth it.
Arthur caught her arms and pulled them away gently. “Thank you, miss.
And my cravat knot thanks you.”
“Did you know,” Miss Stewart said, taking his arm and walking with him
toward the breakfast room doorway, “that the Griffins have invited a
psychic to host a séance tomorrow?”
“I’d heard something of the sort,” Arthur said.
“It’s all nonsense, if you ask me.” She wrinkled her nose. “An utter waste
of time, and—dare I say—sacrilegious.”
Arthur thought that was going rather far. The diversion, while strange,
seemed harmless enough.
“And,” Miss Stewart said, her eyes narrowing, “I have learned the
psychic is none other than Miss Newton’s own mother. What do you say to
that?”
“The Griffins are our hosts,” he said, taking her hand from his arm. “If
they choose to invite a psychic—whether we think it’s nonsense or a waste
of time or sacrilegious—we, as their guests, should do them the courtesy of
attending with an open mind.”
“But surely you don’t believe Miss Newton’s mother can contact spirits?”
He didn’t. But he wouldn’t speak ill of the baroness. “I do not know.”
“I think she is a charlatan,” Miss Stewart said.
“Well, we shall have to wait and see, won’t we?” He bowed and started
away, feeling as though he’d just escaped a sort of trap. Miss Stewart’s
actions were not typical, and he wondered what had gotten into the young
lady.
He stepped through the breakfast room doorway and nearly ran into Miss
Newton. His stomached flipped over pleasantly when he saw her, and he
inclined his head.
“Good morning to you, my lord.” She curtsied, and a bit of pink rose to
her cheeks. She looked utterly fetching. “Finished with breakfast already? I
hope you did not eat all the berries.”
He grinned. “Good morning to you as well, Miss Newton.” A thought
came to him. What if Miss Newton had walked into the breakfast room a
few moments earlier and seen Miss Stewart with her arms around his neck?
Had that been the young lady’s plan all along? He got a sick feeling. Miss
Newton wasn’t the type to be angered over a misunderstanding, but he
didn’t want to give her any reason to question him either. Her opinion of
him had become extremely important, and Arthur did not wish to jeopardize
it.
“You got to the Times first today,” she said. “Did you mark specific
passages for me to read?”
“Perhaps.” He smiled, wanting to hit himself for not writing a more
diverting message in the newspaper margin. He would put some thought
into it and come up with something better for tomorrow. “You will have to
see.” He inclined his head. “I’m sorry to hurry away, but if you’ll excuse
me, I am to meet with my steward today.”
Miss Newton’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, I hope all is well with your estate.”
He nodded, pleased at her concern. “It is. Rather a routine duty today but
one I feel should be taken care of personally.”
“And I intend to finish the book Mr. Griffin loaned me about the history
of Wolvesey Castle before our outing tomorrow. It is fascinating.”
“Then you must tell me all about it while we are there.”
“I shall.” She nodded. “Have a pleasant day, my lord.”
“And you as well, Miss Newton.” On impulse, Arthur took her hand,
feeling the warmth of her soft fingers.
Miss Newton jumped, surprised by the action. Then she smiled,
squeezing his hand in return. The pink on her cheeks deepened into a rosy
blush that somehow corresponded directly to the heat inside Arthur’s chest.
He bowed and left for the library, whistling a merry tune as he walked.
There were worse ways to start one’s day.
***
Mr. Lambert rose when Arthur entered, and the slender man wiped a
napkin quickly across his mouth. “My lord.”
“Finish your breakfast,” Arthur said. “You’ve had a long day already.”
The steward would have had to leave Mather Hall well before dawn to
arrive at Griffin Park by such an early hour.
“Thank you, my lord.” He sat back into the leather chair and leaned over
a side table to cut a bite of sausage, then put it into his mouth. He pointed
with his fork toward a leather portfolio on the desk. “There are the lease
contracts, as you requested.”
 Arthur unlatched the buckle and slid out the documents. “Everything is in
order?”
“Yes, my lord. No surprises this year.”
Arthur was glad to hear it.
Once Mr. Lambert was finished eating, they got to work. Arthur not only
wanted to read through the contracts but also wanted to discuss each of the
tenants and their circumstances. It was as important to recognize those
whose land produced well as it was to figure out why others struggled. Was
it a matter of individual work ethic? Or were there other factors at play?
As Mr. Lambert made his reports and they read through the lease
agreements, Arthur found that contrary to his usual capacity for
concentration, his mind kept wandering back to the breakfast room. What
had happened once he’d left the two young ladies? Had Miss Stewart
behaved rudely to Miss Newton? He couldn’t imagine her insulting another
of Mrs. Griffin’s guests outright, but she’d surprised him this morning. Miss
Stewart was not as angelic as she’d wanted everyone to believe, and her
true colors were showing in her jealousy of Miss Newton; first in the play
and then at the race.
Arthur glanced at the door more than once, thinking he would like to be
there should she say something hurtful. He knew Miss Newton could hold
her own against any of Miss Stewart’s affronts, but she was not always as
unshakable as she tried to appear. As he’d seen in the gazebo after her
argument with Rothschild.
Three hours later, Mr. Lambert slid the last lease contract back into the
case, and the two men sat back in their seats. Arthur bent his neck to the
side to work out the stiffness.
Mr. Lambert picked up the portfolio. “If there is nothing else, my lord—”
“Wait.” Arthur slid out a paper from Griff’s desk and uncapped his ink
well. “I promised Mr. Wilburn I’d write a letter recommending his son for a
clerk’s apprenticeship in Town. Harold, isn’t it?” Seeing Mr. Lambert’s nod,
he dipped in a quill and wrote quietly for a moment. When he finished, he
sat back, waiting for the ink to dry, then Mr. Lambert secured the envelope
with wax and Arthur’s family seal.
“I believe that’s everything,” Arthur said. He rose, and the men walked
toward the library entrance. Arthur opened the door while Mr. Lambert slid
the letter into the portfolio with the other documents.
“You’ve done the family a great service, sir,” the steward said.
 “They are fine people, and I would do no less for any tenant who gave as
much effort to their schooling as the Wilburns.”
The two walked through the great hall toward the front entrance.
“How are the other Wilburn children?” Arthur asked.
“Doing well, my lord. With your help, Charles has secured his own
ministry in a small village in Kent. And George excels in his studies.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Giles met them at the entrance and gave Mr. Lambert a basket containing
a luncheon to be eaten in his carriage.
Arthur smiled his thanks for the butler’s thoughtfulness. He bid Mr.
Lambert farewell and turned to go back inside the house. But he stopped as
an idea occurred to him. He put out his hand to prevent Giles from closing
the door. “Wait, Mr. Lambert.”
The steward stepped back into the doorway, shifting the basket to his
other arm. “Yes, my lord?”
“The Wilburns have a daughter as well, do they not?”
“They do sir,” Mr. Lambert said. “Their youngest, Cassie.”
“And does she attend school as well?”
“I shouldn’t think so, sir.”
“Encourage it, if you please, Mr. Lambert,” Arthur said. “And make it
known to all my tenants that if their daughters wish to attend school, I will
pay half of their tuition, as I’ve done for the boys.”
“My lord?” Mr. Lambert’s eyes were so wide Arthur thought they might
be in danger of falling out.
“The Widow Summers runs a day school in town. A female seminary, I
believe,” Arthur continued, ignoring the shocked look on his steward’s face.
“Make certain that she teaches scholarly topics, such as mathematics and
biology, as well as the usual young ladies’ subjects.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Arthur bid his steward good day once more, and once more, he walked
back through the great hall, whistling a tune. A smile pulled at his lips.
It must be love, he reasoned. What else could cause such a change in this
stubborn man’s heart?
 Chapter 10

THE JOURNEY INTO WINCHESTER THE next morning took nearly an hour and a half,
but the day was sunny, and the Griffin’s carriage was well sprung. The
gentlemen rode on ahead, grateful for a chance to exercise their horses, and
Emmeline rode with the ladies in the open landau.
Joanna sat beside her, Mrs. Griffin and Miss Stewart facing.
Emmeline tipped back her head to let the sun shine on her face. The
ladies chatted pleasantly, Mrs. Griffin occasionally indicating a point of
interest on the way.
“Today is simply gorgeous,” Joanna said as the carriage rolled along a
narrow road between hedgerows. “Perfect for a picnic among castle ruins.”
“I do wish the weather had cooperated like this for our race,” Mrs.
Griffin said, grimacing.
“I think the rain added an extra challenge to the contest,” Joanna said.
She smiled brightly, as usual finding the positive aspect to the situation.
“Nice weather might have saved my shoes,” Miss Stewart said. She
huffed as if mud on her shoes was the worst fate imaginable and adjusted
her parasol to prevent one ray of sunlight from touching her skin.
“I imagine you do not agree, Miss Newton,” Mrs. Griffin said. She raised
and lowered her brows, smirking mischievously.
Emmeline glanced at Miss Stewart’s shoes. “I’m not sure I understand
your meaning, Mrs. Griffin.”
“Harriet.” Mrs. Griffin shook her head, smiling. “How is it that you still
do not call me Harriet?”
Emmeline gave a confused smile. “I’m not sure I understand your
meaning, Harriet.”
“Well,” she leaned closer, glancing ahead to where the men had ridden.
“If the weather had behaved, you would never have been caught in the rain
with Lord Mather.” She raised and lowered her brows again.
“Are you going to tell us what happened, Emmeline?” Joanna leaned
forward as well.
Emmeline squirmed at the assumption. She looked between the women.
Harriet and Joanna were wide-eyed with anticipation of a good story, and
Miss Stewart looked quite the opposite, watching Emmeline with a scowl.
Her parasol’s shadow on her face made her look even more angry. “Nothing
happened,” she said. “I was simply caught in the rain, and not wanting to
take cover in the pig house, I ran to the gazebo. Lord Mather found me
there, and we waited until the rain stopped.”
“But something must have happened,” Harriet said. “The two of you
have argued for weeks—at every opportunity. Then you return from a
rainstorm and—”
“And now you share smiles and glances across the dining table,” Joanna
finished, her eyes twinkling with implication.
“Things are very different between the two of you now,” Harriet said.
“There was nothing improper at all.” Emmeline could feel Miss Stewart’s
glare without even glancing in her direction. She kept her own expression
open and hoped she didn’t betray her feelings. “Lord Mather behaved very
gentlemanly. He came to find me and ensure that I was all right. He lent me
his coat, and we . . .” She felt a blush rise up her neck and hoped the others
didn’t notice.
“Yes?” Joanna and Harriet spoke in unison, leaning forward.
They’d noticed.
“We talked.”
Joanna and Harriet shared an overly dramatic look, then returned to
looking at Emmeline. “What did you talk about?” Harriet asked.
“This and that. Truly, it was nothing worthy of all this speculation. I think
we may have talked about berries, and a cousin of mine entered into the
conversation at one point.”
“I think it highly improper for a young lady and a gentleman to spend so
much time alone—without a chaperone,” Miss Stewart said.
“And what should they have done instead?” Joanna said, looking
irritated. “Perhaps Arthur should have stood in the rain outside the gazebo?
Or they should have walked through the downpour back to the house,
catching their deaths of cold just to maintain propriety?”
Emmeline did not mention that she knew for a fact that Miss Stewart had
spent the storm inside a toolshed with Mr. Rothschild.
Miss Stewart sniffed and turned in her seat, intent on watching the
hedgerow.
Joanna patted Emmeline’s arm. “Whatever happened between the two of
you, I am glad for it. I’ve not seen my cousin so happy for years.”
Miss Stewart turned back. “Harriet, your gown is the perfect shade of
lavender today.”
“Thank you.” Harriet looked a bit confused at the abrupt change of topic.
 “The color reminds me of a ribbon I wore to Almack’s,” Miss Stewart
went on. “What a lovely Season, wasn’t it, ladies?”
Joanna and Harriet agreed, still looking as if they weren’t certain why
Miss Stewart was choosing to bring up the topic.
Miss Stewart sighed. “Do you recall the opening night at the Theater
Royal? Such a splendid performance.” She put her hand on her heart. “And
wasn’t it a scandal when Lord Brinton’s daughter, Mary, absconded with
Mr. Thomas Yardley to Gretna Green?” She glanced at Emmeline and drew
back, her fingers in front of her mouth. “Oh my. I apologize, Miss Newton.
I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I am not offended,” Emmeline said. She felt a prickle of apprehension.
“Why would I be?”
“Well, I just meant that we are reminiscing about the Season’s events,
and I realized that you didn’t attend any of these, because . . . well, you
know . . .” Miss Stewart shook her head, her eyes wide as if in pity, but
there was no compassion in the expression.
“Because I am poor?” Emmeline spoke the word frankly, feeling there
was no reason to circumvent it now that Miss Stewart had so rudely brought
it up.
Both Harriet and Joanna shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“Yes, it is a tragedy,” Emmeline continued. “It sounds like you all had a
marvelous time, and I should be extremely envious.”
“I am so sorry,” Miss Stewart said. “How thoughtless of me to mention
it.”
“You act as if I should be ashamed, Miss Stewart,” Emmeline said,
feeling her defenses rise, as well as her confidence. She would not be
intimidated by a woman who resorted to such rude tactics. “I am not. My
circumstance, you see, is not of my own making. As a woman, I cannot
control my mother’s jointure settlement, the running of my father’s estate,
or the resulting allowance it provides for my living.” She sat tall and looked
the other woman in the eye. “I can, however, control my attitude, my words,
and how I treat people. In spite of my circumstance, I do not resort to
belittling others or acting in a spiteful—”
“Oh, we are nearly there,” Harriet cut in. “You can see the cathedral. And
beside it is the castle.”
Emmeline was glad for a reason to pull her gaze away from Miss
Stewart’s. She would not let it show, but the woman had tapped directly into
her biggest insecurity. Emmeline was fully aware that her circumstances
were greatly below the other women’s, but to be reminded in so malicious a
manner—She clenched her hands together so nobody would see them
shaking.
Joanna and Harriet pointed out various features of the cathedral and the
city, keeping a running dialog, most likely to prevent Miss Stewart and
Emmeline from continuing their conversation.
The cathedral was stunning. Built in the gothic style, with spires, flying
buttresses, and enormous windows divided into smaller sections and filled
with colorful stained-glass scenes, it dominated the city.
The carriage drove past, crossed the river, and continued toward the
crumbling walls of a castle ruin. In spite of Miss Stewart’s words casting a
pall over her mood, Emmeline’s breath still caught at the sight. She knew
from her reading that the castle was begun in 970 by the Anglo-Saxons and
was added onto over the next centuries. The idea of a structure so ancient
was humbling, to say the least, and she felt there was something reverent
about the old walls. Apparently, she was not completely unaffected by her
mother’s inclination toward spiritualism.
When the ladies alighted, the gentlemen met them. Mr. Griffin and his
wife led the way to where a picnic had been laid out on the castle lawn.
Lord Mather caught Emmeline’s glance. He tipped his head in a question,
his brows pulling together as if he were worried.
Emmeline gave a cheerful smile to hopefully alleviate any impression
that she was troubled and determined that she would not allow Miss
Stewart’s rudeness to ruin her enjoyment of the day.
She sat on a blanket as far away from Miss Stewart and her parasol as
possible. Joanna and Harriet sat beside her. The others spread around on the
blankets, stretching out their legs and making themselves comfortable.
A footman set a plate of food in front of the ladies.
As they ate, Mr. Griffin told the group about the castle’s history. Though
Emmeline had read about it in the book he’d loaned her, she was still
fascinated by the tales of King Stephen, his wife, Mathilda, and the Bishop
of Windsor’s help in their quest for the throne. She tried to imagine the
battles fought on this very ground and, especially, the women’s roles in
leading the armies and negotiating for prisoners.
Mr. Griffin launched into a lengthy explanation of how the defenders of
the castle burned all the nearby houses with fireballs to prevent the enemy
from taking cover.
“I must apologize for Miss Stewart,” Harriet said in a quiet voice as her
husband talked. “There is simply no justification for her rudeness.”
“She did not say anything that was untrue,” Emmeline whispered back.
“Sometimes the truth is just difficult to hear.”
Joanna squeezed Emmeline’s hand. “We are so happy you are here with
us, Emmeline,” she said.
Emmeline smiled as the warmth of the ladies’ friendship chased away the
coolness the other woman’s comments had left.
“Miss Newton?”
At the sound of his voice, Emmeline looked up, shielding her eyes
against the sun.
Lord Mather stepped to the side to give her shade. He held out his hand.
“If you’re willing, miss, would you join me for a stroll around the castle?”
“Certainly,” Emmeline said, trying to make her voice sound casual and
avoiding eye contact with any of the ladies. Her neck burned, knowing they
would have more reason for speculation. She took his hand, and he helped
her rise.
Lord Mather offered his arm, and the pair started away, stepping through
the arched entrance to the inner courtyard. The wall had fallen in some
places, but it stood tall in others, with arched spaces showing where
windows had once been. Emmeline imagine Queen Mathilda watching
through one of the windows as the Angevin armies drew near.
“You looked upset when you stepped out of the carriage earlier, miss,”
Lord Mather said. “Your face was quite pale. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly so.” She gave a smile that she hoped looked convincing
and pointed through a crumbled section of the castle. “The cathedral is
magnificent, isn’t it? Have you been here before?”
He continued to study her, looking as though he weren’t entirely ready to
leave the topic, but finally, he nodded. “Yes.” He glanced toward the
crumbled wall. “My mother loved the cathedral. She and my father were
married there, and she insisted we come for Christmas service every year.”
He sighed, a distant look in his eyes. “I was always frustrated at the journey
when I just wanted to get home and tuck into the Christmas feast.”
“How far did you have to travel?” she asked.
“My estate is about the same distance as Griffin Park.” He pointed with
his chin. “In that direction.”
 “It must have been torture for a young boy to travel so far when there
was a pudding and roast goose waiting at home.” She smiled, imagining
him watching out the carriage window on Christmas Day.
“You cannot imagine the suffering,” he said, shaking his head in pretend
sorrow.
They continued around the edge of the courtyard, stopping to peer into
spaces that at one time must have been rooms or passageways leading to
other parts of the structure. Coming to an opening, they exited through a
different section and turned to follow the outer wall. Ahead were the ruins
of a separate structure. The roof was missing, and only part of the walls
remained.
“I believe this is the kitchen building,” Lord Mather said.
Emmeline studied the crumbled walls. “How can you tell?”
“The walls are thin,” he said. “Not a place that was meant to be defended
in an attack.” He motioned toward a flat area against one wall, set down
lower than the rest of the floor and a corresponding spot on the opposite
side. “And here are the remains of the large cooking hearths.”
“Oh, I see. How fascinating.” Emmeline tried to imagine the room as it
had been, with pots and tables and meat turning on a spit over the fire.
“You read Griff’s book, did you not?” Lord Mather asked.
“Yes, but seeing a thing, it’s so different from reading about it.”
He nodded, looking toward the cathedral. “I wish we had time to tour the
cathedral. The columns and stained-glass are spectacular. But Griff said we
need to leave by three?” He checked his pocket watch.
“My mother is coming this evening,” Emmeline said. “I wanted to be
there when she arrives.”
He nodded. “Of course you do. And I will be pleased to meet the
baroness at last.”
Emmeline took his arm, and they continued their slow stroll. “My mother
is a bit . . . unconventional.” She said the word carefully, not certain exactly
how much he knew about her claims of supernatural abilities.
“Your mother?” He drew back, an expression of shock on his face.
“Impossible.”
Emmeline smiled at his teasing.
“She could hardly be more so than her daughter,” Lord Mather said,
taking her arm again and continuing at their leisurely pace.
“Unconventional in a different way,” Emmeline said.
 “Ah, yes, I hear we are to have a séance tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She winced, imagining how he would react to her mother’s
performance. Would it affect his opinion of her? Her cheeks went hot.
“And the day after is the duke’s ball,” Lord Mather continued.
“Yes.” She was relieved that he didn’t dwell on the paranormal aspect.
“If I remember correctly, Rothschild has claimed your hand for the first
dance,” he said. “I hope you did not promise him the waltz as well.”
Emmeline’s heart beat faster. “I did not.”
He stopped and turned toward her, his eyes capturing hers. “Would you
reserve it for me?”
The castle wall turned slightly, creating a niche where they stood.
Greenery pushed its way between the stones, giving the small corner a feel
of privacy.
“I will, my lord.”
Lord Mather nodded. He studied her, and his head tipped the slightest bit,
as if he were considering.
Emmeline was not certain what it was about her answer that warranted
his reaction. Had she said something wrong? “My lord?”
A smile pulled the corner of Lord Mather’s lips. He touched a finger
beneath her chin, lifting her face toward him, and leaned close, pausing a
breath away, waiting.
Emmeline closed the gap, touching her lips to his, and her eyes drifted
closed.
His arms went around her, pulling her against him, and he kissed her
harder, his lips soft and hot and his arms strong. For a moment, all other
thoughts vanished, and he was her entire world.
Lord Mather pulled back, his breathing ragged and his eyes dark.
Emmeline’s lips burned.
He kissed her once more, then pulled away, tucking her arm beneath his
to continue their walk. “So, that’s yes for the waltz?” he asked in a voice
that sounded far too nonchalant for what had just happened.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was a miracle her legs still
worked.
He glanced to the side and smiled, sending her heart racing.
They returned to the party just as the group was preparing to depart, and
Lord Mather took her hand to help her into the carriage. He gave a soft
look, one just for her, tipped his hat, and strode off to join the gentlemen
with their horses.
Emmeline watched him, admiring how tall he sat in the saddle and
feeling anew the fluttering in her belly when he rode past. When she
glanced at the others, the three young ladies were staring.
She tried to comport her face into a look of innocence, but seeing it,
Joanna burst into laughter and was followed right away by Harriet.
Emmeline could not help but join in, laughter building deep in her belly and
spilling out in peals.
She laughed until her sides ached, and then she leaned back against the
carriage seat, breathing hard.
“Oh my, ladies. What has come over us?” Joanna said.
Miss Stewart scowled as she watched the hedgerows. “Oh, honestly,” she
muttered.
Joanna wiped tears from her eyes.
“Did you have a pleasant walk, Emmeline?” Harriet said between
breaths.
Joanna giggled and drew in a breath so quickly that she snorted.
The three burst out in laughter once again and hardly stopped for the
entirety of the return journey. All it took to start them off again was one
snicker, and they were hopelessly lost to their mirth.
Emmeline thought there was only one sensation more wonderful than
laughing uncontrollably with friends. She touched her lips, smiling to
herself. And she hoped she might experience it again soon.
 Chapter 11

ARTHUR DECIDED THE LARGE ROUND table made the parlor feel crowded. But it
could also be a result of the heavy curtains fully closed against the sun and
the copious amount of candles lit throughout the room. Apparently, the
baroness required a particular mood for her performance.
He was not uncomfortable, per se, but he would be much more at ease if
he knew what to expect. Part of his worry, of course, was for Miss Newton.
He did not want the strangeness of her mother’s “spiritual sensitivities” to
affect how the others regarded her. He felt extremely protective of the
young lady. Even though she projected an image of confidence, he could
see just a hint of uncertainty beneath it, and he realized her poise was as
much a defense as anything.
He shifted in his chair, glancing at the others seated around the table.
Miss Stewart sat beside him, arms folded and looking put out at having to
be here at all.
Griff sat between Miss Stewart and his wife. He glanced at the door in
anticipation. Out of everyone Arthur knew, Griff had the most curiosity
about unexplained phenomenon. He was certain the séance was his friend’s
idea.
Mrs. Griffin chatted pleasantly with Miss Newton, but the younger
woman’s finger tapped on the table nervously. She glanced occasionally
toward the door as well as the empty chair where her mother would
apparently sit when she joined them.
Rothschild sat on the other side of the empty chair. He looked bored,
scrutinizing his fingernails.
Chatsworth sat next to Rothschild, and beside him was Joanna. The
couple could have been standing on the lip of a volcano and he imagined
they would look just as pleased to be in each other’s company as they did
now. His friend was truly smitten.
Arthur glanced at Miss Newton again, remembering the stolen kiss in the
shadow of the castle ruin. A rather romantic spot for a kiss, if he did say so
himself. But just like his friend, he could have been anywhere at all and
enjoyed the moment every bit as much.
The feel of her soft lips, her taste.
The baroness swept into the parlor pulling Arthur’s thoughts back from
where they had wandered.
 He rose with the others.
The baroness wore her hair pulled back, with loose curls streaked with
gray flying around her face. She walked slowly toward the empty seat,
seeming to glide in her flowing gown. Standing behind the chair, she met
the gaze of each member of the party with wide eyes so pale that they
seemed almost translucent. The woman did know how to make a dramatic
entrance.
She spread her hands wide, motioning for the party to be seated.
“Friends, I am but a conduit to another plane.” The baroness spoke in a
low, melodious voice that made Arthur even more uneasy. “I do not pretend
to understand the workings of my gift, nor can I foresee whether the spirits
will esteem us worthy of their presence. My visions often manifest as
flashes of another’s memory, which I describe to the best of my ability. But
clairvoyance is hardly a precise science.” She looked around the circle
again. “Now, whom do we seek to contact?”
“My sister, Liza,” Griff said. “She died nearly twenty years ago.”
“Have you an object dear to her?” the baroness asked.
Griff handed her a little carved horse. Arthur had seen the object in his
friend’s bedchamber when they’d been young. The sight brought a lump to
his throat, as did the look of hope in his friend’s eye.
She held the horse in both hands for a moment, then set it on the table.
“All will join hands.”
The group did as she instructed.
Arthur took Miss Stewart’s hand on one side and Joanna’s on the other.
“Close your eyes,” the baroness said in her haunting voice. “Think of
your own beloveds who have passed beyond this realm.”
He closed his eyes, feeling foolish as he did.
The baroness breathed heavily. “Spirits, we ask you to travel here, to join
us in this peaceful sanctuary. You are safe here. Please . . . reach out to us.”
A restless silence settled over the room. Someone coughed. Another
sniffed. They waited.
Arthur thought they must all look like gullible fools.
A vase rattled on its pedestal.
The baroness gasped. “They’re here.”
Arthur cracked open an eye and peeked at her.
The woman’s head swayed back and forth, her eyes were rolled back, and
she blinked rapidly, looking like she was having a fit of some sort. A chill
went up his back. He did not like this at all.
“Liza?” she asked. “Liza, is that you?”
Griff’s head shot up.
The baroness shook her head. “What is—? Who—?” She moaned, and
her eyes snapped open. She stared directly at Arthur. “She is here for you.”
Arthur jumped. “Liza?” he asked.
Griff stared between the baroness and his friend.
“No.” Her eyes rolled back again. “It is not Liza. She has a message.”
Arthur looked around the table. His friends all stared back at him.
Miss Newton’s brow furrowed, and her lips were pinched tightly. She
turned to watch her mother.
“I see wildflowers,” the baroness said. “A stained-glass church.”
“What is this?” Arthur turned toward Miss Newton, recognizing the
things he’d told her about his mother. Had she been gathering information
to make the fortuneteller’s words sound plausible? He felt sick—violated.
“This is a trick.”
“Mother . . .” Miss Newton’s eyes were wide.
Arthur pulled his hands away from his neighbors and stood, hot with
anger and the feeling of betrayal. “Stop this immediately.”
“There is more.” The baroness said. “A box of little rabbits. Bare feet
dipped in a cool creek. A cracked bureau drawer beneath a painting of the
sea.”
“No.” Arthur murmured. Had they been spying on him? How could she
possibly know any of this? His stomach turned.
“The black opal.” The baroness moaned in her haunted voice. “It is there,
behind the bureau, trapped against the wall.”
Miss Newton looked back and forth between Arthur and her mother. She
stood, putting her hands on the baroness’s shoulders. “Mother, stop this.”
The baroness opened her eyes. “The message—” She swayed. “Trust
your heart, my dearest.”
Arthur bolted from the room.
***
Three hours later, as Arthur rode up the dark path to Mather Manor, his
nerves had calmed only the smallest bit. He’d thought through the
baroness’s words thousands of times and still could make no sense of it all.
How could she have known such personal details of his mother’s life?
 The easiest answer was that she couldn’t possibly have known and the
vision was real. But logic would not allow him to believe in premonitions
or psychic abilities.
The most reasonable conclusion was that Miss Newton had told her
mother the details to make the séance seem realistic. But he could only
remember telling her a few of the things, such as his mother’s love for
wildflowers and Winchester Cathedral. He was positive he’d not mentioned
the time the gardener had found a family of baby rabbits and helped Arthur
to raise them in the stables.
Nor had he told her how he and his mother would wade in the cool creek
beyond the garden in the summer. Had he told anyone? He may have
mentioned the memories to Griff or one of the other gentlemen at some
time during their long acquaintance, but he didn’t think he had.
And why would they tell the baroness? For that matter, why would Miss
Newton have told her? It made no sense. Not when Griff had provided
details about his sister outright. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to fabricate
contact with Liza?
He dismounted by the light of the moon and tied the horse outside the
stables.
But the most disturbing piece of the puzzle was the mention of the black
opal. Arthur was certain he’d told no one about it. He’d lost the ring when
he was a child and had purposely not mentioned it to anyone, not wanting to
get in trouble. And the details about his childhood bedroom. None of the
others would have known the manor’s nursery had a bureau with a cracked
drawer and a painting of the sea. They had simply never seen it, unless one
had stumbled upon the room by accident during a visit. But that seemed
unlikely. The nursery was not near to the guestrooms.
Arthur rubbed his eyes, feeling as if he were going over the same
questions again and again without coming to any resolution. Had he
unintentionally mentioned to one of them a conversation with his mother
from more than twenty years earlier and then forgotten about it? Perhaps
hypnosis had been used at some point. He shook his head. That conclusion
seemed almost as unlikely as a psychic premonition.
And what was the motive? To create a more believable performance? The
reasoning seemed weak, at best.
He woke a stableboy to tend to his horse, then banged on the door of his
house until a sleepy footman answered, carrying a lantern.
 The man’s eyes went wide at seeing his master returned in the middle of
the night. He stepped back, holding the door, and stood straight. “My lord. I
did not realize—”
Arthur strode past him, motioning with a flick of his fingers. “Come with
me. And bring the light.”
The idea that Miss Newton had spied on him—that she had duped him—
made his gut churn. But the other option was completely beyond reason.
The very thought of the baroness somehow communicating with his
mother’s soul—it was impossible. And he would prove it.
He went directly up the stairway, walking through the dark passageways
and climbing another flight of stairs as the footman hurried to catch up to
him.
When he reached the door to the nursery, Arthur paused. His anger had
abated somewhat, leaving an apprehension. What would he find behind the
bureau? Was the ring indeed there, trapped against the wall? Whether it was
or not, he still had questions and worries. What part did Miss Newton play
in all of this? If it was there or not there, what would it mean?
Mistaking his hesitation, the footman reached around him and opened the
door. He held up the lantern and shined light into the room.
Arthur nodded his thanks to the man and walked directly to the bureau,
touching the crack on the drawer. “Help me move this.”
The two of them pulled the heavy piece of furniture away from the wall.
A clink sounded behind.
The men looked at one another, and then Arthur knelt, feeling on the
floor in the shadows. His fingers brushed against a small object, and a jolt
went through his chest. “It can’t be.”
“My lord?” The footman brought the lantern closer. “Is everything all
right?”
Arthur held up the ring to study it in the lantern light. Even covered in
dust, the flecks of color shone within the stone. He sat back against the
wall, staring at the black opal. A lump grew in his throat as his anger
softened further and the memories of his mother took on a more pleasant
feel. He missed her desperately, and the thought of her watching over him
from somewhere beyond was remarkably comforting. The baroness’s words
replayed in his mind: Trust your heart, my dearest.
 Chapter 12

EMMELINE PULLED THE BALL GOWN out of the traveling trunk and held it in front
of her, looking into the mirror and sighing. She folded it again and put it
into the trunk at the foot of her mother’s bed. She should be pleased to be
home at last, but her chest felt heavy, and sadness made her throat scratchy.
She’d so looked forward to the duke’s ball, but now . . .
She put the silk dancing slippers and feathered headpiece on top of the
gown. Disappointment was not a new emotion, but it wasn’t one Emmeline
cared to encourage. She would let herself feel sad today, and tomorrow,
she’d not allow herself to think any more about the house party, the fancy
dresses, or her new friends. Especially him. She could have walked away
from all of it with hardly a backward glance if it were not for Lord Mather.
The scratchiness in her throat constricted, and she fought to swallow as
tears filled her eyes. After the séance and Lord Mather’s hasty departure,
Emmeline had made up her mind to leave Griffin Park at once. Her mother
had caused enough of a scene that she couldn’t bear to remain any longer.
But Harriet and Joanna had begged her to stay.
“Arthur will be fine,” Joanna said. “He was just surprised, that is all.
You’ll see. He’ll come back, and everything will be just as it was.”
Harriet had agreed, insisting that they carry on as usual.
But the night had grown late, and he still hadn’t returned. Emmeline had
grown increasingly certain Lord Mather had gone for good. And if he had
come back, he wouldn’t have wanted to see her. Not when he suspected her
of playing a part in her mother’s act. The look he’d given her had been so
full of anger and hurt. She couldn’t believe he would just forget it all.
The final straw had come when Emmeline had left her mother’s
bedchamber and encountered Miss Stewart in the passageway.
“I do hope you’re happy,” the young lady had said, her eyes narrowing in
contempt. “Your hoax has quite ruined the party.”
“There was no hoax,” Emmeline said. She hadn’t fully understood what
her mother had said that had made Lord Mather react so angrily, but she did
know that her mother had not deceived him. And she did not appreciate the
young woman’s inference.
Miss Stewart fixed Emmeline with a flat stare and curled her lip. “Oh,
really now. You want us to believe a fortuneteller just happened to know
personal details about Lord Mather’s family? And that fortuneteller is also
the mother of the young lady who has sought to ingratiate herself with the
earl these past weeks? He no doubt saw right through your trickery.”
“I told my mother nothing about Lord Mather,” Emmeline said. She kept
her voice steady but felt a rising panic. Was Miss Stewart right? Is that what
he believed?
“The earl told me in confidence that he thought a séance was nonsense
and a waste of time,” Miss Stewart said. “And of course he knew full well
that your mother was the charlatan clairvoyant performing the ritual.”
Emmeline frowned, feeling a stab of pain in her heart. Lord Mather had
spoken ill about her mother? She would never have believed it of him. “He
did? Why would he say that?”
Miss Stewart had shrugged. “I imagine his lordship thought he’d wasted
quite enough of his time, and that’s why he left.” Her implication had been
clear.
Emmeline pushed away the memory, hoping she would never chance to
encounter the spiteful young woman again. She wiped away another tear,
holding a straw hat. Each of the items she drew from the traveling trunk
carried a memory of one type or another, making the act of putting them
away more painful than simply unpacking. She straightened the hat’s
ribbons and set it carefully in a hat box. She’d worn it on the day of the
race, and the silk flowers were still a bit wilted from the rain.
She put a pair of gloves in as well, noticing the threads on the tips of the
fingers were stained with blackberry juice.
She took out a blue dress and held it for a long moment. It was the dress
she’d worn to the picnic at Wolvesey Castle. She ran her fingers over the
back of the bodice, where Lord Mather’s hands had held her in an embrace.
She remembered laughing until her sides hurt with Harriet and Joanna.
Tears dropped onto the blue fabric, and Emmeline shoved it into the trunk
and closed the lid.
I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.
A knock sounded on the door. It was still early for Mrs. Thomas.
Emmeline had hoped to go to the lending library and borrow some new
books before the housekeeper and her daughters arrived. Perhaps it was just
Mr. Buxton coming to collect this month’s rent money. Emmeline rose from
where she sat on the floor but stayed in the room when she heard her
mother open the door.
 Voices sounded from the front of the rented rooms, and a moment later,
her mother came into the bedchamber. “You have a visitor, my dear.”
Emmeline pushed up her brows, asking a silent question, but her mother
just smiled and opened the door farther.
Wiping her eyes, Emmeline stepped through the doorway, but when she
saw her visitor, she stopped and pulled back. “Lord Mather?” Her voice
sounded shaky. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders,
feeling nervous but wanting to look confident. Her heart was racing. Why
had he come? Did he plan to accuse her and her mother of deception? Was
he still angry?
He inclined his head, removing his hat. “I went to the ball to find you,
but they told me you’d returned to London.”
She studied his face, trying to discern his mood, but his expression was
guarded. “I thought it best,” she said.
“Might I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” Emmeline took his hat and walking stick, feeling
flustered and embarrassed at her lack of manners. She pushed aside the
heavy curtain covering the doorway and tied it in place with a braided rope.
“The parlor is through here.”
He sat on the sofa in the corner, and Emmeline pulled a chair from the
table to sit across from him. Her mother went to get tea.
Lord Mather glanced around the small room; his eyes rested for a
moment on the round table, then he turned to Emmeline. He took something
from his pocket and handed it to her. A ring.
Emmeline studied it. The piece was exquisite, designed in an antique
style. She wondered if it was an heirloom. Gold filigree was shaped
delicately around a center stone that she recognized as an opal. The jewel
was breathtaking, with flashes of color that seemed to move beneath the
surface of the dark stone. It must be the black opal from her mother’s
vision.
She ran her finger over the smooth stone and looked up at Lord Mather.
“It’s stunning, my lord.”
He nodded. “I’d thought it lost.”
“It was your mother’s?”
“Yes.”
“A black opal.” Her face burned at the memory of the séance. She
swallowed hard. “My lord. I’m so sorry for what happened at Griffin Park. I
know you were angry when you left. And please believe me when I tell you
neither my mother nor I intended to deceive you in any way.”
“I know,” he said.
“You do?” Emmeline realized her hands were shaking. She had expected
to spend more time convincing him.
He looked at the ring she held. “My grandfather brought that stone from
New South Wales. My mother showed it to me when I was a boy, and I was
enchanted by it. To a child, it appeared to be magic. I used to sneak into her
room and take it from her jewelry case. I would climb onto the windowsill
in the nursery, holding it in the sunlight to watch the colors dance.”
Emmeline smiled, imagining it. “And was your mother angry when she
discovered you?”
Lord Mather shook his head. “She told me the ring would be mine one
day, and I was to give it to the woman I fall in love with.”
She smiled. “That’s a tender memory.”
“Indeed, it is.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I must have become distracted,
and I lost it. She was angry then. I’d forgotten about it all together until the
baroness . . .”
Emmeline glanced at the door and looked back at the ring. She grimaced.
“I’ve never believed in my mother’s gift before. But lately, some of her
visions have proven true. Or at least they’ve seemed to. I think I’ve changed
my mind about the matter.”
“As have I,” Lord Mather said. “About a lot of things.” He studied her
for a moment, his eyes looking soft.
Emmeline’s insides fluttered. She shifted in her chair and handed the
black opal back to him.
Lord Mather leaned forward and closed her hand around the ring.
“Believing in psychic visions is not the most unbelievable thing I’ve done
as of late.”
“Oh?” His hand around hers felt warm.
“It is not as unbelievable as my falling in love with a bluestocking
suffragist who supports the Whig party. But that’s what I’ve done.” Lord
Mather stood, pulling her to her feet. “The ring is yours, Emmeline. As is
my heart.”
Emmeline’s breath caught at his declaration and his voice saying her
name. Tingles spread from where he held her hands, making goose bumps
rise on her arms.
 From behind, Emmeline heard the sound of the curtain being drawn
across the doorway.
“Please say you feel the same.” His voice was low and pleading.
“I do, my lord.”
“Arthur.”
“I do, Arthur.” She looked up into his eyes and saw in them a reflection
of her own feelings. Her doubts fled. “I love you.” She let a smirk pull at
her lips. “Even though you are a Tory and a royalist and extremely
stubborn.”
Arthur took the ring and put it on her finger, then pulled her into an
embrace. His hands pressed against her back, holding her close against him.
She wrapped her arms around his waist as he kissed her. His arms
tightened, and the kisses grew in intensity, leaving her dizzy and her knees
weak. She thought she would never tire of the sensation.
He pulled back, one finger tracing her jawline. “Emmeline, it is not
within my power to promise you a vote, however much I believe you
deserve it, but if you will consent to be my wife, I promise to listen to your
advice, to hear your opinions, and to take your thoughts under advisement.”
His hand cupped her cheek. “Might you consider it the next best thing?”
She leaned against his palm. “Nothing in the world would make me
happier.”
He leaned forward, but she pulled back.
“I will continue to fight for equal representation,” she said.
Arthur smiled. “I would expect nothing less.” He kissed her again, and
this time, Emmeline kissed him back, wanting him to understand the
intensity of her promise. In spite of their differences and their arguing, he
was the man she’d fallen in love with. The man who understood her. And
his convictions, though they were not always correct, were one of the things
she adored about him.
He set her hand on his shoulder and held the other, sliding his arm around
her waist. “If you’ll remember, my love, you promised me a waltz.”
The pair moved around the small parlor, Arthur tightening his embrace
bit by bit until Emmeline leaned her head on his chest. Their dancing
slowed until they were just swaying together. Emmeline closed her eyes,
wanting to imprint the moment in her memory. No matter what the future
held, at this instant, she was giddy with love, and held in Arthur’s arms,
how could she ever be anything else?
 About the Author

JENNIFER MOORE LIVES WITH ONE husband and four sons, who produce heaps of
laundry and laughter. She earned a BA from the University of Utah in
linguistics, which she uses mostly for answering Jeopardy questions. A
reader of history and romance, she loves traveling, tall ships, scented
candles, and watching cake-decorating videos. When she’s not driving
carpool, writing, or helping with homework, she’ll usually be found playing
tennis. Learn more at authorjmoore.com and on Jennifer’s social media.
Facebook: Author Jennifer Moore
Instagram: jennythebrave
Excerpt from Solving Sophronia
Available on Amazon
 Prologue

April 19, 1873

LADY SOPHRONIA BREMERTON GLANCED TOWARD the ballroom doors, calculating her
chances of a discreet exit. Her Ladyship the Marchioness of Molyneaux’s
invitation to her annual ball held the Saturday after Easter was the most
coveted of the Season; therefore, Sophie could hardly claim boredom as her
reason for wishing to leave.
The Viscount of Kensington and Lord Hawthorne had already claimed a
waltz, and three separate countesses had offered to accompany Sophie to A
Private View at the Royal Academy. But Sophie didn’t flatter herself that
her charms or others’ desire for her company were to be credited for the
attention. Rather, her position as a society reporter for the Illustrated
London News made the members of England’s upper class either seek her
out or deliberately avoid her.
The grand clock echoed through the ballroom, chiming eleven. She’d
arrived just after nine. Two hours of dancing and socializing should
sufficiently please her parents. She looked across the room, trying to catch a
glimpse of the feathers in her mother’s hair. Truth be told, her parents
would likely not notice her absence—not when her sister had waltzed with
the future Duke of Norwood.
Moving at a quick pace, Sophie made her escape. She hurried along the
edge of the crowded ballroom toward the entrance, giving only polite nods
and avoiding direct eye contact with anyone who might hope to bend her
ear with a whisper of gossip.
Reporting rumors, scandals, and on-dits of the upper class was her
occupation, but tonight she had no interest in discovering a story. She
already knew what her next report would be, and it was hardly news. She
smirked, certain the young lady involved would feign adequate surprise
when the announcement was made, as would the other guests. London
Society kept a secret as effectively as a wicker basket held water.
Tonight the Marquess of Molyneaux was to announce the engagement of
his son and heir, Lord Ruben. The identity of the lucky young lady who
would one day become the marchioness was, of course, taken for granted.
Lord Ruben and Miss Dahlia Lancaster had carried on the most
intentionally visible and highly gossiped-about courtship in decades. Sophie
had written so many articles and created enough illustrations of the pair that
she was relieved the nonsense would finally come to an end. She would,
however, need to endure a conspicuous engagement . . . and then the
wedding.
Sophie blew out a breath as she neared the doorway. How she longed to
move away from the society columns and turn her skills to uncovering a
real story—an important story about something that mattered, not just
which member of high Society wore the most extravagant gown or had
deliberately avoided a particular soiree to spite a rival. Unfortunately, Mr.
Leonard, the editor of the broadsheet paper, valued Sophie’s artistic ability
and access to high-Society events above her investigative skills.
“Lady Sophronia?”
Drat. The voice was too near for Sophie to pretend she hadn’t heard. She
masked her irritation with a pleasant smile and turned.
Lord Everleigh stepped around a group of matrons. When he reached
Sophie, he took her hand and bowed stiffly. “Good evening.”
As usual, the man’s clothing was impeccable. Slender and pale-skinned,
he wore his fair hair short, parted smartly on the side. A waxed mustache
graced his upper lip. Sophie inclined her head. “Lord Everleigh.”
“I’d hoped to engage your sister for the next waltz.” He released her hand
and clasped his own behind his back, glancing toward the dancers. “Have
you an idea where I might find her?”
Sophie should have guessed his reason for stopping her. She and the
future Earl of Kirkham had only exchanged the briefest greetings in the
past, and although they moved in the same social circles, she would hardly
call the man more than a very remote acquaintance.
“I believe she is there, near the west windows.” Sophie lifted her chin
toward the far side of the ballroom, where a cluster of young ladies
gossiped and preened. Her younger sister, Priscilla, was no doubt the very
center of the group. “At least, that is where I last saw her.”
“Very good. Thank you.” He moved as if to leave but stopped, perhaps
thinking it rude not to bestow a compliment or at least engage in some
conversation.
For her part, Sophie was perfectly happy to forego niceties and hasten her
departure.
“I, ah, enjoyed your latest article, my lady.” Lord Everleigh ran a finger
over his mustache and glanced across the ballroom again. “Something about
spring fashions on the Brighton Palace Pier, wasn’t it?” He looked down at
her and nodded. “Very cute.”
Sophie bowed her head so he couldn’t see her nostrils flare. She was so
tired of patronizing tones when it came to her work. I am beyond ready to
move on to something real. “Thank you, my lord.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” He straightened his neckcloth, making the large
ruby of his tiepin gleam in the light of the gas lamps, gave another bow, and
then strode away.
That ruby tiepin, given to him by Lord Ruben—who thought the gem a
clever play on his name—identified Lord Everleigh as a member of an elite
group: the West End Casanovas. Sophie had first used the appellation in an
article, intending it as sarcasm, but the group had been delighted by the
moniker and had adopted it as their own. The five Casanovas were
extremely handsome and tremendously wealthy young men, each coming
from old and established families and each an heir apparent to a high-
ranking title. The men had attended school together at Eton and university
at Oxford and were considered by all of London to be the most eligible
bachelors in the kingdom. They were the future leaders of the country, and
nearly every unattached young lady and her mother aspired to catch the
attention of one of them.
Sophie suspected Lord Ruben, as self-appointed leader of the group, had
delayed his engagement for just that reason. Though he had courted Dahlia
Lancaster for two Seasons, his attentions had by no means been exclusively
to her. He enjoyed the role of flirt, and Sophie thought he must be reluctant
to give up the game and commit to matrimony.
Before anyone else could approach her, she quickly made her way
through the entrance and down the wide passageway of the grand London
home, passing sculptures and paintings but giving them hardly a look as she
walked on the thick carpet of a side passage. Surely there was a quiet room
where she could find respite from false smiles, petty gossip, and
backhanded compliments.
Ahead a band of light glowed beneath a door. When she pulled it open
and peeked inside, wooden shelves, heavy with leather books, glowed in the
light of gas lamps. Before the lit hearth was a deep sofa and plush leather
chairs that implored her to set herself at ease, forget her insecurities and
frustrations, and pretend the ball was far away.
 Stepping across the threshold, Sophie felt lighter already. She lowered
herself into a soft armchair, rested her head back, and closed her eyes. Even
before the newspaper had employed her, she’d dreaded situations in which
she was expected to play the games of Society. Acting one way and
thinking another was contrary to her nature, a trait that did little to win
friends or the approval of her parents.
And the discomfort had only become greater when Priscilla was launched
into Society last year at the age of eighteen. Sophie was only two-and-a-half
years older, and sisters so close in age naturally invited comparison; next to
Prissy, Sophie’s shortcomings felt all the more obvious. She wasn’t tall,
blonde, and slender like her sister, but short with drab brown hair, and she
struggled to keep her waist shapely, even with the strongest whalebone
corset.
Hearing a sound, she started from her thoughts, rose quickly to her feet,
and looked around the room.
On a chair in the darkened far corner, a young woman hunched over with
her face in her hands, elbows on her knees.
Sophie cleared her throat, uncertain what to say. “I beg your pardon. I did
not realize anyone was here.” Now that Sophie saw her, she realized the
woman’s breath was coming in gasps, a sound she’d first assumed was
made by the fire. Sophie walked nearer and crouched down as sympathy
replaced her unease. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
The woman raised her face, and Sophie recognized her as Miss Hazel
Thornton. Though Sophie didn’t know her personally, she had heard the
young woman had recently come to live with relatives in London while her
father, a general in Her Majesty’s army, was stationed in Africa. Sophie had
heard rumors that Miss Thornton had endured some trauma in India and
was prone to attacks of panic. She presumed the poor woman was
experiencing one at the moment.
Sophie raised her brows at the young lady’s chalky complexion and damp
forehead. “Are you all right?”
“No. I mean yes.” Miss Thornton’s hands shook, and she rubbed her
eyes. “I’m sorry, Lady Sophronia. Yes, I am all right. I just needed a
moment away from the crowd.”
Sophie nodded. “I certainly understand that.”
Miss Thornton closed her eyes and breathed deeply as if calming herself.
 “Can I get you anything?” Sophie asked. “I could find a servant to bring
tea, or . . .”
Miss Thornton shook her head. “No. Just a moment of quiet, and I will be
well.”
Sophie was not convinced. She pulled a chair closer and sat, hoping
conversation would provide a welcome distraction from the young woman’s
distress. “I believe I’ve heard you attend nurse-training school. Is that right,
Miss Thornton?”
“Yes.” She looked down, and a flush covered her neck. “But I’ve had to
suspend my attendance due to . . . panic episodes.”
Sophie grimaced, thinking she’d brought up an issue too sensitive. “Oh,
I’m sorry.”
“Silly, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not.” Sophie placed a hand on the arm of the young lady’s
chair. “If these episodes prevent you from being who you’re meant to be,
they are a completely legitimate concern.” She gave an encouraging nod.
“And I believe you write for the society column.”
“I do.” Sophie pinched her lips together, feeling a resurgence of
frustration. “But I intend to move on to something more . . . important.”
“If that is your wish, I hope you do.” Miss Thornton smiled.
Sophie noticed some of the color had returned to the young woman’s
face. Her trembling seemed to have lessened. “Thank you, Miss Thornton.
And I hope you are able to return to nursing school.”
The ladies continued in conversation, and Sophie was surprised when she
glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw the hour was past midnight. She
turned back to her companion and was about to comment on the passage of
time when, across the room, the windowed door leading to the garden
swung open. A young woman in a lavender gown stepped inside, looked
back before closing the door, then leaned against it and exhaled heavily.
When she glanced across the room and saw Sophie and Miss Thornton,
the woman’s eyes went wide. “Hello, there.”
Sophie knew the woman to be a Miss Elizabeth Miller, though she had
not formed more than a polite acquaintance with her. Dahlia Lancaster, the
young lady who was any moment to be engaged to Lord Ruben, was Miss
Miller’s cousin.
“I take it you are escaping the ball as well?” Sophie smiled wryly at the
happy coincidence of the three meeting up in the library.
 “Yes.” Miss Miller flicked a strand of hair from her face. “Luckily I
managed to get away before Lord Chatsworth asked for another dance. The
nerve of that man . . . utterly pretentious.” She stopped and closed her
mouth, clasping her hands before her as if just now remembering her
manners. “How do you do, Lady Sophronia? Miss Thornton?” She inclined
her head to each of the women in turn.
Sophie smiled at the outspoken young lady and motioned her forward
with a sweep of her arm. “Very well, and please, do join our little band of
fugitives.”
“How do you do, Miss Miller?” Miss Thornton’s voice sounded much
steadier than it had an hour earlier. “You look very pretty this evening.
What a beautiful gown.”
Miss Miller waved her hand in the air dismissively, then grimaced. “I
thank you for the compliment, but if I could remove this infernal corset
without completely disrobing, I’d throw the contraption into the fire.” She
pressed both hands at the sides of her waist and took a breath that Sophie
knew from experience must only partially fill her lungs. “Honestly,
whoever decided a woman was only fashionable if her breathing was
restricted had a brain the size of . . .” She trailed off, her gaze moving
around the room. “Oh my. What a marvelous library.”
Sophie shared a smile with Miss Thornton as their new companion
strolled around looking through the different books and periodicals.
Miss Miller dug through a stack of broadsheets on a side table. “I don’t
suppose the marquess keeps a copy of the Women’s Suffrage Journal, do
you?”
Sophie laughed at the idea. “I wouldn’t imagine the most outspoken
parliamentary member opposing women’s voting rights keeps that
periodical on hand.”
The two shared a grin.
The library door opened, and Miss Vivian Kirby entered. Seeing the
others, she stopped on the threshold, pulling back. “Oh, I was just—” Her
gaze landed on the woman beside Sophie. “Miss Thornton, your uncle
asked me to find you, to inquire as to whether you are recovered from
your . . .” She looked at the others, perhaps wondering if she ought to
mention the young lady’s affliction in front of them. “Are you quite all
right?”
“Much better,” Miss Thornton said. “Thank you.”
 Miss Kirby rested her hand on the doorknob as if making ready to exit
and close the door behind her, but she paused, looking at the shelves of
books. “I apologize for the intrusion.” She spoke without taking her gaze
from the bookshelves. “It was not my intention to interrupt.”
“There is nothing to interrupt,” Sophie said. “Unless you are opposed to a
respite from a crowded ballroom.”
“Come in and make yourself welcome!” Miss Miller said with a wave.
Miss Kirby stepped inside, closing the library door. She gave a polite nod
and greeted each of the women in turn.
She was tall, her movements extremely graceful, and surely one of the
loveliest women Sophie knew. A few years older than Sophie, Miss Kirby
was a studious person who seemed to keep to herself. From the comfortable
way she moved along the shelves, Sophie decided that visiting a library
during a ball was perhaps a regular occurrence for the woman. The few
encounters they’d shared had given Sophie the impression of a socially
awkward person who always wanted to discuss the latest scientific
discovery.
Miss Kirby looked closer at a particular volume. “Sir Humphry Davy. I
wonder if this includes his writings on electrochemistry,” she muttered,
lifting the heavy book.
As the women settled in, half of them chatting and half of them reading,
Sophie considered the gathering—four women of a similar age and status,
while well-connected, didn’t quite fit the mold to which Society would have
them conform. She felt a rush of warmth, a feeling of camaraderie with the
group. Though they were all quite different in temperament and interests,
these women were just like her.
“Oh, what have we here?” Miss Miller pushed aside the pile to pull out a
broadsheet. “The Illustrated London News. And my cousin’s face is right on
the front page.” She turned the paper toward Sophie. “Is this your artwork,
Lady Sophronia?”
“It is.” Sophie automatically tightened her shoulders, bracing for
criticism.
“A very good likeness,” Miss Thornton said, crossing the room for a
closer look. “You have quite a talent.”
Miss Kirby looked up from her book and tipped her head, studying the
picture. “I agree. I’ve always considered your illustrations to be
exceptional. Though, I admit, I rarely care for the content of the articles.”
 “Neither do I,” Sophie said, not the least bit put off by the woman’s direct
comment. She’d take honesty over manners any day. “My hope is working
for the society column will lead to a position as a news reporter.”
“That is indeed a worthy cause,” Miss Miller said. “You could report on
the plight of the poor, the residents of the rookeries whose homes are being
demolished to make way for the railroad, or the lack of women represented
in local government.” She shook the paper and tapped it with her finger.
“This, this is all nonsense. In two months will anyone bother to recall which
hat Dahlia wore to the Queen’s garden reception, whether her underskirts
were trimmed with French or English lace, or who accompanied her to the
opera? Of course they won’t. Society only cares about the latest scandal, not
the true suffering directly beneath their noses.” She scowled. “But I hope to
change that, to do something more, just like you, Lady Sophronia. I intend
to establish a finishing school for underprivileged young ladies. Poor
children miss so many opportunities, as their entire purpose is survival.
They have few chances of bettering their situations, especially the young
girls.”
“I hope for more as well,” Miss Kirby said. “Unfortunately, the scientific
and academic communities rarely acknowledge a woman’s work. If I could
—”
Her words cut off when the door opened and Dahlia Lancaster herself
burst into the library.
The four ladies stared, and Miss Kirby fell silent.
Miss Lancaster’s eyes were frantic as she looked from woman to woman
and finally rested her gaze on her cousin. “Oh, Elizabeth, here you are.” Her
shoulders slumped, and her voice came out as a whine. “Oh, whatever am I
to do?”
Miss Miller blinked and put the broadsheet behind her back. “Cousin,
this is the library. Surely you’ve made a mistake. Your friends—”
“Friends!” Miss Lancaster’s voice was dangerously close to a shriek.
“How can you call them my friends?” She rushed across the room and
dropped onto the sofa, burying her face against the arm and sobbing.
Sophie could guess what the others were thinking as they looked between
one another and then at their weeping intruder: Why was the young lady
alone? Sophie didn’t think she’d ever seen her without Prissy and the rest of
their group of close friends, the Darling Debs—Sophie had bestowed the
nickname for the group in her articles, and just like the West End
Casanovas, the name had been adopted happily by those it referred to—so
where were the other ladies? And even more pressing and bewildering
questions arose: Why wasn’t Miss Lancaster in the ballroom for the
announcement of her engagement? What had happened?
Miss Miller folded the broadsheet and set it on the side table, then sat
beside her cousin, putting an arm around her shoulders, and voiced Sophie’s
thoughts. “Cousin, whatever is the matter? Where is Lord Ruben? Shouldn’t
you be—?”
“He’s marrying Lorene.” Miss Lancaster’s voice was muffled as she
spoke against the sofa arm.
“I don’t . . .” Miss Miller glanced at the others. “What do you mean,
dear?”
Miss Lancaster lifted her head and wiped tears from her cheeks. Her eyes
were red. “Lord Ruben, my Lord Ruben, is engaged to Lady Lorene
Stanhope. The marquess announced it just now.”
Sophie and Miss Thornton gasped.
Miss Miller put a hand to her mouth.
Miss Kirby watched Miss Lancaster thoughtfully.
“Had you any idea?” Miss Miller said after a lengthy and rather
uncomfortable pause.
Miss Lancaster shook her head. “None. He . . . we . . . I thought we . . .
that I . . .” Her lip quivered and her face crumpled. She laid her head back
on her arms and cried.
Though not titled, Dahlia Lancaster’s family was old and wealthy, and all
of Society considered her to be not only the most beautiful debutante but
also the most accomplished. That she would be Lord Ruben’s wife had been
taken for granted. Sophie’s heart sank. Even though Miss Lancaster
certainly wasn’t one of her favorite people, she couldn’t imagine the
humiliation the young lady must have endured standing in the ballroom
while the engagement was announced.
“Those arrogant Casanovas.” Miss Miller scowled.
“I am sorry, Miss Lancaster,” Miss Kirby said.
Sophie sat in a leather wing chair on one side of the couch. Miss
Thornton, from her matching chair on the other side, lifted a hand as if she
might pat Miss Lancaster’s head, but lowered it again. She bit her lip, and
her expression mirrored the others’ confusion at how to console the young
lady.
 Miss Lancaster spoke after a long bout of weeping. “I don’t understand.
What am I to do now?” She took Miss Miller’s offered handkerchief and
dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “My heart is shattered, and I . . . I simply can’t
go on.” She choked on a sob. “I just can’t.”
“You most certainly can.” Miss Miller sat taller and spoke in a
commanding voice. “The world will not end because you do not marry Lord
Ruben.”
Miss Lancaster twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “But how could he
do this? He loves me.”
“Men of his rank do not always have the privilege of marrying for love,”
Miss Thornton said in a gentle voice.
“Perhaps it is best that you found out now what sort of man he is, instead
of once you were married,” Miss Kirby offered.
Miss Lancaster glanced at her and then shook her head. “I shall never
marry,” she said in a small voice. “Not after this.”
Sophie winced. The young lady’s reputation should remain intact, but
Dahlia Lancaster’s name and humiliation would certainly be on everyone’s
lips. A scandal indeed.
The poor woman sighed. She looked down at the handkerchief she was
twisting and, noticing a ruby bracelet on her wrist, she loosened it and
slipped it over her hand. “He gave the very same bangle to Lorene. He
has . . . they’ve kept their relationship secret. She was my dearest friend,
and he . . .” Her lip quivered, but this time a spark of anger lit her eyes.
Sophie recognized the look. Frustration at knowing one was powerless to
change her situation was all too familiar.
Miss Miller took the bracelet and studied it, shaking her head.
Sophie’s stomach was heavy with discouragement. All of these women
wanted something different from the hand they’d been dealt, and all felt
powerless to do anything about it.
“Well”—Miss Miller handed back the bracelet—“this could be a good
opportunity.”
“Yes,” Sophie agreed. “You have a chance to do something new, to focus
on yourself and your own ambitions.”
Miss Lancaster folded the wrinkled handkerchief in her lap and gave a
delicate snort. “Ambitions? For the last two years my entire objective was
to marry Ruben, and now . . .”
 “Now you can stop worrying about him,” Miss Miller said. “You can do
whatever you wish. Set a new course, become a new person, if you’d like.”
“I don’t have . . . I’ve never . . .” Miss Lancaster’s porcelain forehead
wrinkled.
“Well, we shall do it with you, shan’t we, ladies?” Sophie looked at the
others, raising her brows meaningfully. She hoped they would catch on and
join in to bolster Miss Lancaster’s spirits. “I propose we each declare an
objective we hope to accomplish.”
“A marvelous idea.” Miss Miller took her cousin’s hand and gave a
firm nod.
“I have an ambition,” Miss Kirby said. “I, Vivian Kirby, should like to
complete my steam-engine model and enter it for display in the
International Exhibition of Industry and Science.”
Sophie blinked, both surprised at the woman’s words and the confidence
behind them. She’d never heard of a woman entering the International
Exhibition. An ambitious objective indeed.
“Excellent, Miss Kirby,” Miss Miller said.
She gave a small smile and tipped her head. “Please, call me Vivian.”
Miss Miller replied with a nod and took Vivian’s hand. “I, Elizabeth
Miller, wish to open a finishing school for young ladies of underprivileged
upbringings.”
Sophie’s heart raced as she scooted off her chair to kneel in front of the
sofa. She took Vivian’s free hand in hers, looked at each of the women, and
took a breath. A solemn feeling came over her, as if she were making a
vow. They were really doing this. They were taking charge of their lives.
What had begun as simply a gesture to console Miss Lancaster had become
something real. She let her breath out slowly. “I, Sophie Bremerton, would
like to report a real story—something important that must be uncovered, for
which I must review sources and verify facts. I want to be an actual
newsagent.”
Vivian smiled in approval, and Elizabeth nodded.
The ladies turned to Miss Thornton.
“Have you a goal?” Elizabeth asked.
Miss Thornton came to kneel beside Sophie, taking her hand. She
glanced at the others and took a breath, looking nervous. “I, Hazel
Thornton, hope to finish nursing school, to achieve nurse probationer
status.”
 Sophie squeezed Hazel’s hand.
“Very good,” Elizabeth said in a tone that reminded Sophie the young
lady was a teacher. She turned to her cousin. “Now, Dahlia, it is your turn.”
Dahlia looked down at her hands. “I really cannot think of anything.”
“You are to inherit your father’s company,” Elizabeth said. “Your goal
could be to understand the management of the business.”
“That sounds very worthwhile,” Hazel said.
“It certainly does,” Vivian agreed.
Sophie nodded. As an only child, Dahlia Lancaster would be one of the
first women of means to benefit from the recently passed Married Women’s
Property Act. Her inheritance would remain her own, even after she
married.
Dahlia glanced at her cousin. “I suppose such learning could be
advantageous.”
“Do not merely suppose,” Elizabeth said, giving an encouraging nod.
Dahlia frowned and, for a moment, looked as though she would argue.
But as her gaze moved to each of the women, her lips pressed together and
her expression cleared in determination. She sat up straight and took
Hazel’s hand, completing the circle. “I, Dahlia Lancaster, will work to
understand the bookkeeping, operations, and management of the steamship
company I am to inherit.”
The air in the Marquess of Molyneaux’s library seemed to thicken as the
women sat in silence. Sophie felt her wish turn into something concrete,
and a surge of confidence in her own abilities grew within her. She looked
at the other women, feeling their hopes and strength join together. Her skin
tingled. She could do this. They all could. And none would have to do it
alone.
“It is settled, then.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded much quieter than before.
“When shall we meet to report our progress?” Vivian asked in her
practical manner.
“The next ball?” Sophie suggested. “Lord Everston has a fine library.”
Hazel smiled, and Vivian nodded.
Elizabeth looked at her cousin.
Dahlia hesitated, but after a moment, she nodded as well. The shadow of
a smile pulled at her lips. “Shall we gather in the library at midnight?”
Once the time and place had been agreed on, Elizabeth clasped her hands
together. “We shall do remarkable things this year, make ourselves into
remarkable people, and none of us will need to rely on marriage to make it
happen.”
Dahlia’s eyes went wide. “Elizabeth, be careful. Such talk is dangerous.”
Elizabeth smirked. “I should hope so.” She lifted her chin dramatically
and pointed at the ceiling. “And we shall call ourselves the Dangerous
Bluestocking Sisterhood. I like the sound of it. Positively scandalous.”
Vivian patted Elizabeth’s arm. “Perhaps it is a bit too . . . controversial.”
Dahlia nodded. “To say the least.”
Elizabeth looked as if she would argue with her cousin but stopped when
Hazel cleared her throat.
The shy woman glanced at the others hesitantly. “In India the orchid
represents femininity.” She smiled at Elizabeth. “And there is a blue variety
of the flower.”
“I have never seen one; it must be very rare,” Sophie added.
“To the ancient Greeks, deep blue symbolized strength and bravery,”
Vivian added. “A blue orchid, therefore . . .” She spread a hand in front of
her, as if leaving the others to deduce the meaning for themselves.
“Blue orchid,” Elizabeth said slowly, tapping her lip with her forefinger.
“It’s perfect.” She grinned.
“I like it.” Hazel smiled.
“I do as well,” Dahlia said, glancing at the others and for the first time
looking a bit excited.
Vivian and Elizabeth nodded.
“Then, ladies,” Sophie said, “we shall officially be the Blue Orchid
Society.”

TO READ MORE CLICK HERE

 Other Books By Jennifer Moore

REGENCY ROMANCE
Becoming Lady Lockwood
Lady Emma’s Campaign
Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince
Simply Anna
Lady Helen Finds Her Song
A Place for Miss Snow
Miss Whitaker Opens Her Heart
Miss Leslie’s Secret

THE WAR OF 1812

My Dearest Enemy
The Shipbuilder’s Wife
Charlotte’s Promise

THE BLUE ORCHID SOCIETY

Emmeline
Solving Sophronia

STAND-ALONE NOVELLAS
“The Perfect Christmas” in Christmas Treasures
“Let Nothing You Dismay” in Christmas Grace
“Love and Joy Come to You” in A Christmas Courting
 Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Solving Sophronia
Prologue
Other Books By Jennifer Moore