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When they’d first arrived in London, Juliet’s despondency about the recently diagnosed need for spectacles had her sulking about their house, woebegone, and in a state of the blue devils. Regine had hit upon the notion of her artistic sister creating valentines for those less fortunate as a way to help her understand her circumstances weren’t as doleful as she believed.

After procuring a list of charities for her to choose from, Juliet had selected the Shephard’s Haven Home. A small but well-run foundling home and orphanage operated by two unconventional spinster sisters and their few, equally unique staff.

Juliet shook her head, her pink bonnet bobbing. “No. I believe I have plenty. In fact, I’m nearly finish—” She stopped abruptly and tapped her chin, a contemplative expression on her face as she gazed out the window to where James approached; he strode directly toward their conveyance with the swaggering long-legged stride and assurance of a peer.

“Although…” Juliet slanted a sly glance toward Regine, wrestling to keep her mien completely unaffected.

Her sister must not suspect her interest. It would only complicate matters.

“I suppose a bit more lace and red ribbon wouldn’t go amiss,” Juliet admitted.

As the door swung open, Regine gave a brisk nod. “It’s settled then. When we pick up your gloves tomorrow, we’ll stop at the haberdashery, too. You can purchase any other items you might be short of, as well.”

“Hmm.” Juliet made a soft, suspicious noise in her throat. “And why is it you didn’t collect my gloves yesterday?” She made a pretense of examining the perfectly acceptable gloves encasing her fingers. Peeking at Regine over the rim of her eyeglasses, a distinct teasing glint shone in her eyes.

An exasperated groan throttled up Regine’s throat and pressed against the back of her lips. Juliet was too dashed astute by far. “I explained already, dear. I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a great while. You know I was away from England for six years, and Heartwaite’s failing health and the mourning periods for him and Mama kept me from London for another two.”

She made to scoot from the seat and descend the conveyance. Gracious, her sister was becoming a busybody.

“Would that friend be James Brentwood?” False innocence laced Juliet’s sing-song voice.

Pausing at the door, unprepared for Juliet to have mined that morsel so easily, Regine swung her gaze to her sister. She furrowed her brow. “You remember him?”

Regine hadn’t considered that. Juliet had been seven, and she had assumed she’d long ago forgotten about her oldest sister’s young and attentive beau. She sliced a glance to the object of their discussion, waiting patiently no more than six feet from the carriage.

Likely eavesdropping on their conversation.

James’s expression didn’t reveal one way or another whether he’d heard every word.

Juliet snorted and waved a hand as if most offended. “Of course I do. I was just seven, but I do remember you adored him.” She leaned forward and touched Regine’s shoulder, a maturity glowing behind those new lenses, far beyond her fifteen summers. “I know you only married Heartwaite to assure Mama and we girls were provided for.”

Heart cramping from renewed pain and no small degree of astonishment, Regine closed her eyes for a blink. Hovering, half-crouched, she was at a loss for words.

Juliet knew? How? Was I that obvious, after all?

The question must’ve shown in her eyes, because her sister’s mouth curved into a fragile little smile. “I’m near-sighted, Regine. Not stupid.” Angling another considering glance toward James patiently standing outside, his hands behind his back and his head at a slight slant, a speculative gleam entered Juliet’s eyes.

Her acute gaze swung to Regine and back to James three times.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Wipe that speculative look from your face, Juliet Minerva Francis Edenshaw.” Regine pointed a narrowed-eyed gaze at her sister. She could practically hear the cogs grinding away in her youngest sister’s mind. “There’s nothing between us now. It’s too late.”

“Uhm hum.” Juliet gave her a gentle shove as she giggled. “Regine, you look like a great, startled bird, hovering there. A purple martin, to be exact.” Another discovery from Juliet’s recently purchased Fascinating Birds of the World Handbook and Field Guide.

Today, Regine wore purple trimmed in black velvet. Not a demure lavender or heather, but rich, luxurious violet with equally sumptuous ebony velvet. Heartwaite had preferred she wear dulcet shades and pastels. The minute she’d tossed off her mourning weeds, she’d indulged her taste for vibrant hues—emerald, crimson, sapphire. Gold and silver, too.

Her way of rebelling.

Against what?

She wasn’t precisely sure what. The social system that rendered women possessions? That kept them restricted and without rights, and most of them reliant upon men for their every need? Against fate, for forcing her down a path she’d never have chosen?

The coachman cleared his throat, and Regine directed her focus to the street once more. To the man from her past standing there, as handsome as ever, who would always own her battered heart.

James had closed the distance and now waited, hand outstretched, to assist her from the vehicle. Once her feet were safely upon the pavement, he reached to help Juliet descend.

She grinned at him, quite the most animated Regine had seen her since—well, since Mama’s death. “Hello, Mr. Brentwood,” she fairly chirped, dipping a bouncing little curtsy. “You are looking well.”