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Sophie had already taken her seat and offered a greeting before Miss Penney looked up. She had such narrow cheekbones, what might have been subtle blushing on the average lady’s countenance took up considerable, unmistakable real estate on Miss Penney’s face.

“Good afternoon,” she echoed quietly.

The tea trays were brought in, bringing with them the scent of light lemon cakes. Sophie leant slightly in Miss Penney’s direction, but directed her smile straight ahead. “I am sorry, for what attention your family is receiving in the papers. The authors prize themselves on whatever tale reads most interestingly, with no thought to truth. It will pass soon.”

“You flatter me.” Miss Penney’s tone sent warning tingles up Sophie’s spine. “The only liberty they take with the truth is the idea that I had any interest in making a husband of that heathen man. Were it not for … delicate reasons, of a personal nature, concerning my parents, I should wish the elder Balfour had vanished along with his son.”

Pressure built in the space between Sophie’s brows, and she realized belatedly that she was scowling at the petite golden-haired girl she’d once thought tolerably well of. “Your judgments of Mr. Balfour are unwarranted and incorrect. What connection has his father with yours?”

The transformation that took place on Miss Penney’s face made Sophie feel exposed. Like her undergarments had been torn off, and only the thinnest encasement of decorum separated her soul from the eyes of the world.

“You fancy him,” Miss Penney said, something like superiority and mirth twisting up the corners of her lips. “I should strongly advise against it.”

Denial hovered on the tip of Sophie’s tongue, but different words came out. “Have you seen his father these last days?” Perhaps she had been hasty in assuming Thomas Balfour was the one to board that dawn coach. She hadn’t seen him with her own eyes, after all.

“I don’t know why I should tell you.” A chorus of laughter drew the ladies’ attention to where Lady Milton was serving the first cup of tea from a black basaltware pot. When Miss Penney spoke again, her tone was cooler. “But I suppose it makes no difference, now. Better persons have come to town, it would seem.”

The girl’s large, cornflower blue eyes absorbed something in, and Sophie followed her gaze to where Lord Hansbury sat.

“Listen,” Sophie bit out in a whisper. “You may lust after that rakehell all you like. But first, tell me what you know of the Balfours.”

“Oh. I did not realize you were so afflicted.” Miss Penney had small teeth, brilliantly white, like that of a child. “You might want to consider the greater good of your family, and of their estate, before falling at the feet of such a man as Balfour.”

“All I think of is the greater good of my family.” The insult landed like a harpoon in Sophie’s ribs. Especially because, even as she gave her instinctive rebuttal, she realized it had become false. She would have done better to say, Up until a few weeks ago, I thought of nothing but the greater good.

“You do not comprehend true duty, Miss St. Quinton, but use it as a point of pride all the same. You ought to see the state my father is in, the extraordinary stress. It is more than any person should ever bear. It is enough to drive a man to his death. And your carrot-headed numbskull is the cause of it all.”

Sophie’s palms were slicking with sweat. Her heart thundered forcefully against her breastbone, strongly enough she wondered if it wouldn’t be visible above the neckline of her gown. “Shame on you, for placing such blame on the shoulders of one man. Even the scandal sheets report it was your father who chose to invest exorbitant sums. He must wear that mantle by himself.”

“By himself?”

Had so much outrage ever been packaged into a whisper before? Sophie immediately wished she could take the words back—didn’t she know how acutely the actions of ones parents could prey upon their children?—but a mass of yellow skirts appeared before her. It was Lady Milton, whose bosom nearly burst from her dress as she leant over to serve Sophie her cup of tea.

When she reached Miss Penney, their hostess leant forward until her lips dusted the blond ringlets beside the girl’s ear. “I was pleased to see the young Balfour has run off, though I wish my warnings to you had not held such merit. All will work out to your advantage, however, I am certain of it.” She backed away and squeezed Miss Penney’s hand.

The look between them could only be described as devilish. Or calculating, if one felt like being less dramatic—but Sophie did not. That Rafe, her Rafe, who possessed such an overabundance of goodness as to be off defending strangers, all because his conscience told him he ought, was being ridiculed in this room of brats flayed her open with anger.

“If you spill on this settee,” Miss Penney’s voice returned in her ear, “you may count upon it to not go unnoticed.”

Sophie realized her teacup and saucer were canting to the right, the liquid dancing close to the container’s rim. She righted her hands.

“I will choose to have pity on you, for I can see how affected you are.” Miss Penney’s near-set blue eyes were dizzying at close range. “The elder Mr. Balfour has consented to proceed with the business arrangement he and my father made. Begrudgingly, perhaps, but he knows we possess connection enough to ruin him in polite society. I will be fine, see? It is only you …” Miss Penney took an infinitesimal sip of tea, then settled a smile on Sophie. “Well, my dear, I shall just say it plain. Mr. Balfour is confident his son shall never return from his flight, but if by some miracle he did, he should face exile for the shame he has caused. His father is of a rational mind, and will have nothing to do with him.”

Sophie did not answer. She didn’t even speak as the droll event wore on, but let the vile words penetrate her consciousness.

She understood, perhaps for the first time, what Rafe was about. He was a caregiver, a master at balancing everything but his own needs. That he should receive this in return:

A father who would refuse to know him in favor of wealth and appearances.

A woman who would make love to him and send him on his way with the words Don’t go expecting me to wait on you.

She wished she could scrape the words from her tongue, leech them from her memory—and most of all, from his.

“Did you read that piece in the Star? A group of them Greenwich Geese were caught falsifying their papers and claiming more pensions than they were owed.”

The phrase, which Sophie knew to be an insult against the pensioners at the Royal Hospital for Seamen, caught her attention. She found the speaker in Lord Milton, who was perched slightly apart from the group. He sat beside a guest she hadn’t noticed before now: an ancient specimen of a man in a wheeled chair. His face was sunken, his skin splotched purple in the hollows under his eyes, his white hair almost violent in its brightness. For all that, he looked important. Velvet-coated and alert.

“Oh, what a shame it is,” said Lady Alder from her plush chair. “I suppose that is the sort of men those pensioners are, as unfortunate as it may be. Living in that grand place, the king so kindly keeping them up, and still, they want for more. It is the sin of greed, plain and simple.”