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Hannah closed her eyes, then nodded. “Very well. Shall we take our leave?”

Viola nodded, not trusting her voice.

“We shall call back at Madame Lefebvre’s on our way.” Her sister guided her gently back towards the door. “Your gown will be waiting, with the lace you asked for, and you must have something for tomorrow. We have a ball to attend, if you recall.”

The invitation had come only that morning. Viola’s stomach twisted sharply. It was not the ball itself she dreaded, but the thought of walking back into society when every soul in the room would already know that Stoneleigh House was hers.

Madame Lefebvre’s shop, when they returned to it, was as bright and warm as it had been that morning, and the familiar bustle eased Viola’s pulse back towards something steady. She stood turning the pale blue gown this way and that — the lace now soft along the neckline, just as she had asked — and let her thoughts settle on muslin and trimming rather than on anything heavier.

“Stoneleigh House, I was told.”

She turned her head. A young lady caught her eye, then looked quickly away to her companion. Viola kept her gaze upon the gown before her, and heard, all the same, the next whisper come pressing toward her.

“Astonishing, is it not? And you say she is no relation?”

The shop seemed to shrink. Viola moved away across the floor, her feet heavy, her heart pounding, not knowing where Hannah had gone — wanting only to lose herself among the silks, or to run for the carriage.

“Who would have thought it?”

Her head dipped. Her breath came ragged.

“I know. Most surprising. Why ever would Lady Warrington give so grand a house to such a little mouse of a creature?”

Shame filled her like a sail taking a sudden gust. Blindly she turned, feeling her way along the counter until she found the door. The fresh air met her hot cheeks and she pressed her gloved hands to her face, unable for a moment to take another step. She moved a little way along the pavement and set her shoulder to the shop wall, lifting her chin, drawing in great lungfuls of air. She could not make for the carriage until she was composed. There were too many of the ton about to risk being seen in such a state.

“Miss Trent?”

She turned sharply, her heart slamming against her ribs.

She knew him at once — the gentleman from the solicitor’s office, the one who had looked at her as if she had robbed him with her own two hands. Tall, broad-shouldered, his blue eyes clear and, just now, creased with something that looked very much like concern. She did not know his name. She had never been given it.

“Are you quite well?”

“I — ” She faltered. “I do not — ”

“There you are.” Hannah came hurrying from the shop, her expression pinched. “I heard what was said. I am sorry, my dear. Shall we go?” She did not so much as glance at the dark-haired gentleman, only took Viola’s arm and drew her toward the carriage. Viola looked back once. He inclined his head and stepped respectfully away, making off along the street.

“Do you know who that gentleman is?” she asked, sinking into the carriage seat with relief. “He spoke as if we were acquainted.”

Hannah sat opposite and rapped at once upon the roof. “I do not.” She frowned. “I am sorry, Viola. I had not thought society would begin whispering so soon.”

“Nor had I.” A small, sad smile touched Viola’s lips, and she closed her eyes. “And tomorrow I must attend a ball, knowing every one of them will be speaking of what I was given.”

“Yes. They will.” Hannah did not soften the truth of it. “There is nothing to be done there. You must face them with your head high, and you will not do it alone. I promise you that.”

Viola nodded, her eyes shut against the tears that stood so ready to fall. This wonderful gift, this great good fortune that was now hers, had brought her nothing yet but confusion and sorrow. Society’s judgment would be harsh, and she feared she had not the strength to stand among them without buckling.

I must, she told herself, as the carriage rolled on towards home, towards safety. I have no other choice.

CHAPTER 5

By the time Julian entered the ballroom, it was already thick with guests. The air was warm with candlelight and close with the scent of hothouse flowers and warm beeswax. Conversation rose and broke in waves; somewhere at the far end the musicians drew their bows across their strings, testing them for the dance to come. Julian had no intention of dancing. He had come because Brookmire had insisted upon it, and because a man could not hide in his study forever and expect the talk to die of its own accord.

“A fine evening, I think.”

Julian glanced at his brother and the satisfied set of his smile, and allowed himself a small one in return. “Yes. I suppose it shall be.”

“For tonight, neither of us ought to think of wills, houses, elderly relatives, or determined young ladies.” Brookmire arched a brow. “And I say so only because Miss Galbraith is sure to be present, and I intend to spend as much of the evening in her company as she will permit. Though she is a great deal more inclined toward yours, I fear.”