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Had Mother and Father simply misunderstood the invitation? Or had they sent her despite knowing it had been meant for Wesley alone?

“Do you happen to know if the Hollises have arrived?” Nell asked as they worked to unpack the trunk.

“No, miss,” Shaw said. “There is too much chaos with all the arrivals to know anything for certain. Fifty guests, they say! And the majority of them young and unmarried. I spoke with a very finely spoken housemaid named Clara a few minutes since. She said the countess planned the party largely in hopes of matching her son—who has no intention of even attending. Can you imagine?”

Nell could not. She could not fathom any of it. The expense to house, entertain, and feed fifty people for nearly three weeks. Having enough eligible acquaintances to fill an estate like Bellthorne. The lack of filial obedience—or affection, for that matter—that would lead Lady Dalmeer’s son to simply not attend a house party planned with him in mind.

“The countess fancies herself a great matchmaker, they say.” Shaw set a neatly folded chemise on a shelf in the small armoire. “Perhaps you shall make a match, miss.”

A bark of laughter Nell’s governess had always abhorred escaped her. “I think you are more likely to make a match, Shaw.”

Nell would not allow herself to form any real attachments. This house party was about painting a fresh coat over her sad reputation. She had proven beyond a doubt that she could not be trusted with love.

Shaw sent her a severe look. “You are too hard on yourself.”

“Lady Dalmeer would disagree, I think.”

“If that is true, it is only because she does not know you.” She set her hands on her hips and looked at Nell. “Well, she shall soon enough. I mean to make certain you look your very best.”

Nell smiled gratefully at her maid, but Nell’s appearance was a small, albeit important, matter in comparison to her comportment. “I shall endeavor not to undermine your efforts.”

“Mark my words, miss,” Shaw said, “her ladyship will change her opinion of you by the end of the party.” She shut the door of the armoire. “I shall have water brought for you to bathe before we begin your toilette.”

With all the guests arriving, it was little wonder it took a full three-quarters of an hour for the water to appear. She washed the travel grime from her body, then Shaw helped her into her clothing.

She took her time coiffing Nell’s honey locks, and with each passing minute, Nell’s chest closed more tightly around her lungs. It had been over a year since she had attended a gathering more public than a small dinner party hosted by her parents.

After what had happened, she had kept to her room from hurt and humiliation. As that had subsided, it had been affection for her family that had prompted her to avoid the public. She had hoped time would insulate her family from the harm her indiscretion had caused.

But all the while, she had known that she could not stay hidden forever. At some point, she would have to face the rumors and her reputation. That was when Lady Dalmeer’s invitation had arrived. Her mother, who had watched her self-imposed seclusion with sympathy, had persuaded her that it was time.

Nell should not have allowed herself to be persuaded. How would she face fifty guests who did not wish her there?

“There, miss,” Shaw said when she had finished. “I would wager you will outshine most of the guests. All that remains is a bit of confidence and a smile.” She winked at Nell, then left her to herself.

Perhaps it was due to how long it had been since Nell had well and truly dressed for a fine dinner, but she could not help looking in the mirror with a bit of awe. Her golden hair had been twisted and plaited, then pinned at the crown. The pale blue taffeta she wore glinted in the candlelight with its beaded hems and a white satin ribbon at the waist. If there was any chance of distracting guests from her past foolishness, Nell would owe it to Shaw’s skill.

She smiled at the ridiculous notion, then stood, took in a slow breath through her nose, and opened the door.

Two

NELL

Nell had not been offered a tour of the house, but she trusted she could find her way to the drawing room. When she reached the end of the narrow corridor, she turned left into the echoing one lined with busts. She kept her gaze forward, refusing to meet the stern but hollow eyes of the Roman and Greek figures who stood as disapproving sentinels.

Under their unyielding gazes, however, she put a hand to her coiffure, suddenly doubting Shaw’s skill. Perhaps her choice had been too newfangled and bold. A dowdy, powdered wig might have served her purposes better, giving the impression of a staid and steady character.

Staid and steady Nell was not.

At least, not in the past, but she had every intention of being so at Bellthorne.

As a corridor opened up to her left, she took it, only to find herself faced with more of the same figures. She had not appreciated before just how many there were or how long the corridor had been.

She stopped short, her brow furrowing as a short corridor came up on her right—one she did not recognize. Where was the marble corridor the maid had first led her through? The one with the black and white floors and no Caesars or Neros.

She turned around, looking at the path she had trodden. She had been nearly certain the journey from the entry hall had been through the black and white corridor, then the one with the heads of the Roman Legion, then the short one that had led to her bedchamber.

If only she had paid better attention—and left herself more time to arrive at the drawing room before dinner.