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Leonora, who had been standing a few feet away with a length of cream muslin draped over one arm and very little interest in either option, looked up from the fabric she was not really examining. “I like them both well enough.”

“That is not an answer. You sound like a woman trying to keep the peace between two old fools who have been arguing about hemlines since before she was born.” Marian waved the comment away before Leonora could object to any part of it. “Pick one. I shall not ask you again.”

Leonora looked between the grey in Marian’s hand, and the blue that Lady Byron wanted. “The grey, then.”

Marian’s smile widened. “There. You see, Amanda? Grey. A sensible colour, chosen by a sensible woman, and considerably more flattering than that drowned-man blue you keep thrusting at her.”

Leonora could not decide, watching Amanda’s jaw tighten at the sound of her name spoken aloud in a shop full of strangers, which offense sat heavier with her. There was the name itself, Marian saying “Amanda” as easily as she said anything else, forgetting or simply refusing to remember that Lady Byron did not let that name out of the house.

There was the other thing, the larger thing, the one Leonora had been bracing for since the morning the engagement had become common knowledge before she had found a way to tell Lady Byron herself. She had been forced to sit across from her and confess the whole of it, that there was no understanding, no courtship, nothing real underneath the announcement everyone in London now seemed to believe. Lady Byron had listened without interrupting, which should have been a mercy but had not felt like one.

She was still angry. Leonora could see it in her eyes, even now, hours later, even as Lady Byron agreed that today, of all days, was not the day to make a scene of it, not with Marian standing right there asking after her. Whether the anger belonged to the lie or to the name, Leonora could not say with any certainty. Perhaps it did not divide so neatly. Perhaps a woman could be furious about two things at once and let neither one show more than the other.

Lady Byron folded her arms. “I think grey is a beautiful colour.”

“Grey is a dull colour, and you only like it because it is easy.” Marian held the bolt of fabric up to the light, frowning at it. “I am trying to find something that will not wash her out completely.”

“You said the same thing about the last three I picked.”

“Because the last three were wrong too.” Marian turned the fabric over, still frowning. “I think you just like to argue with me, Amanda. We need to become familiar with each other. Our loved ones are going to be married to each other soon.”

“I am not arguing.” Lady Byron threw Leonora a nasty look. “You think you are right about everything.”

“I usually am.”

“You are not.”

Leonora let the argument carry on without her, the way she had let most of the morning’s arguments carry on without her, and returned the muslin to its table. She had agreed to come shopping because Marian had asked, and because refusing would have required more energy than she currently possessed for the task of refusing anybody anything. The truth was that she did not particularly care what color her next gown was. She had other things occupying the greater share of her attention this morning, and none of them had anything to do with fabric.

She had slept badly again. She had been sleeping badly for the better part of a fortnight now, ever since the morning Anthony had told her, standing far too close for her own comfort in his study, that he knew about her mother. It was not the knowing that kept her awake. It was the offer that had followed it, the certainty in his voice when he had told her she could come to him. She did not know what to do with an offer like that, and she had spent a great many nights since turning the thought over.

“You are not listening to a word either of us has said,” Marian observed, rather more gently than her tone with Lady Byron had suggested she was capable of. “What is it?”

Leonora cleared her throat. “Nothing. I am simply tired.”

“We should hurry then. So you can rest.” Marian turned back to the counter, already moving on to the next bolt of fabric.

They had been in the shop the better part of an hour by the time the bell above the door rang again, and Leonora glanced up out of habit rather than interest. The interest arrived a half second later the moment she recognized the man standing just inside the doorway.

She recalled him from the ball, the man who had introduced himself as George Bannerman, Earl of Brighton, and whose gaze had stayed on her face a moment too long even then.

He was dressed well, his coat cut in a style that suggested money without quite suggesting taste, and he smiled the moment his eyes found her, as though the whole of the shop had arranged itself for his convenience.

“Miss Ashcroft. What a fortunate coincidence.”

“Lord Brighton.” Leonora smiled too. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you, though I confess I am glad of it. I have been meaning to call on you this past week, but one thing and another kept intervening.” He bowed, briefly, to Marian and to Lady Byron, who had both gone quiet. “Your Grace. Lady Byron. A pleasure.”

“Lord Brighton.” Lady Byron’s reply carried the faintest chill.

“Forgive my directness, Miss Ashcroft, but I have thought of little else since the Camden ball.” He glanced, briefly, toward Marian and Lady Byron, as though weighing whether to continue in front of them. “The resemblance I mentioned that night struck me enough that I made a few inquiries of my own afterward. I believe I know now who you are, and who your mother was.”

Leonora’s heart gave an unsteady lurch. “Who do you believe she was?”

“I believe her name was Rose.”

“Yes.” The word came out before she had properly decided to say it.