Chapter 1 

 

“Charlotte, darling, you simply must stop glowering at your eggs. They’ve done nothing to deserve such censure.”

Lady Fairfax’s voice tinkled across the breakfast room with all the delicacy of a silver spoon against crystal, which was to say, pretty enough on the surface but rather insistent underneath. Charlotte raised her eyes from the offending eggs, which had indeed done nothing wrong save exist on a morning when she’d rather be anywhere but at her mother’s breakfast table.

“I wasn’t glowering, Mama. I was contemplating.”

“Well, one can hardly tell the difference when you make that face. You’ll give yourself lines, and then where shall we be?” Her mother reached for another piece of toast, her morning diamonds catching the light. Yes, morning diamonds. Because heaven forbid Mariah Fairfax face the breakfast table without proper adornment. “Lady Penworth remarked last night how distinguished you looked in the emerald silk. Though I do believe she meant it as a compliment.”

Charlotte’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on her teacup. Lady Penworth had actually said she looked “surprisingly refined for new money,” but Charlotte saw no reason to burden her mother with accuracy.

“Concerning night,” her mother continued, spreading marmalade with the concentration of a general planning a campaign, “Lord Wetherby seemed quite taken with you during the quadrille. His mother owns half of Derbyshire, you know.”

“The other half being owned by his creditors, I suppose?”

“Charlotte!” But her mother’s reproach carried more delight than dismay. “Though you’re not entirely wrong. Still, land is land, and titles are titles. Your father will be pleased to know you’re finally taking this seriously.”

Finally? Charlotte thought. I’ve been taking this seriously since my first curtsy. It’s simply that my definition of serious and yours appear to be quite different.

The morning sun streaming through the windows seemed to mock her predicament, all golden promise and false cheer. Outside, London was awakening to another day of social climbing and calculated conversations. Inside, Charlotte felt the familiar weight of being her father’s greatest investment opportunity.

“And where is Papa this morning?” she asked, though she knew perfectly well he’d be in his study, reviewing accounts and calculating exactly how much each dance she’d shared last night might be worth in future business connections.

“In his study, of course. You know how he is after these events, tallying up prospects like a merchant reviewing his inventory.” Her mother paused, apparently hearing her own words. “That is to say, ensuring our social investments are sound.”

Charlotte nearly smiled. Her mother had come so far from her own merchant-class origins, yet occasionally, the mask slipped. It was perhaps the only genuine thing about their morning conversations.

“Oh!” Lady Fairfax suddenly exclaimed, causing Charlotte to start slightly. “I nearly forgot. This arrived not ten minutes ago.” She produced a cream-colored note from beside her plate, sealed with an impressive amount of red wax. “The Duke of Tarroway’s seal, if I’m not mistaken.”

Charlotte’s stomach performed an unpleasant maneuver that had nothing to do with the eggs. The Duke of Tarroway, sixty if he was a day, with breath that could wilt roses and a habit of staring at her décolletage as if mentally calculating its worth in pounds sterling.

“How delightful,” she managed, accepting the note with fingers that remained admirably steady.

She broke the seal and read, her mother watching with the intensity of a hawk eyeing a particularly plump mouse.

My dear Lady Caroline, it began, and Charlotte had to suppress a bitter laugh. Three dances, two conversations about the weather, and one excruciating discussion about his gout, and the man couldn’t even remember her name.

I trust this morning finds you well-rested after the delights of Lady Penworth’s ball. I have taken it upon myself to write to suggest that I might call upon your esteemed father this afternoon to discuss certain arrangements that might prove advantageous to both our families. Your beauty and grace have quite captured my attention, and I believe we might find much mutual benefit in a closer association.

With the greatest esteem and affection, Tarroway.

“Well?” her mother demanded, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“The Duke wishes to discuss ‘arrangements’ with Papa.” Charlotte set the note down carefully, as if it might explode. “He also seems to be under the impression that my name is Caroline.”

“Whether you answer to Caroline or Charlotte is a mere detail. One does not espouse a name, after all, but the vast estates and dignity of a Dukedom. Her mother was already half-risen from her chair, no doubt ready to alert the household to this momentous development.

 “A Duke, Charlotte! Your father will be beside himself. Pray, just imagine…Her Grace, the Duchess of Tarroway.’ It possesses such an exquisite melody, does it not?”

“It has the dreadful knell of finality about it,” Charlotte muttered.

“What was that, dear?”

“I said it has a distinctive ring.”

As if a clerk were marking a ledger, she thought bitterly. A single stroke of a quill, and another daughter is traded for the sake of an inheritance. Never mind that he thinks I’m someone else entirely. Never mind that his idea of courtship involves discussing my dowry before he’s properly learned my name.

Her mother was already bustling toward the door. “I must tell your father immediately. Oh, and we’ll need to review your afternoon dresses. The rose muslin, I think…it brings out your complexion. And we’ll have Cook prepare his favorite tea cakes. I had my maid inquire specially about his preferences.”

“Of course you did,” Charlotte said to the empty room after her mother departed in a rustle of morning silk and ambition.

She picked up the Duke’s note again, studying his spidery handwriting. Your beauty and grace have quite captured my attention. What he meant, of course, was that her forty thousand pounds had captured his attention. Her beauty and grace…and apparently her name were merely inconvenient details attached to the fortune.

The clock on the mantel chimed nine, and Charlotte realised with a start that she’d promised to accompany her cousin Lydia on a ride through Hyde Park. Lydia, whose parents had managed to squander most of their fortune through a series of increasingly creative failures, yet who somehow maintained their position in society through the mysterious alchemy of an old title and selective amnesia concerning debts.

At least the horses won’t care about my worldly means, Charlotte thought, and rising from the table. Though I suspect even they’ve been informed of my worth by now.

An hour later, dressed in a riding habit of deep blue wool that her mother insisted on as the colour complemented her blue eyes she found herself trotting through Hyde Park beside Lydia, whose own habit had seen better days, specifically, days about three years past.

“You’re looking particularly grim this morning,” Lydia observed, handling her hired mount with the easy grace that came from years of good breeding and recent economies. “Let me guess, another proposal from someone who views your very existence as a mere entry in a merchant’s ledger, to be tallied and traded like livestock?”

Charlotte had always appreciated Lydia’s refreshing directness. It came, she supposed, from having already fallen from financial grace, once you’d tumbled off the pedestal, there was little point in pretending you were still balancing on top.

“The Duke of Tarroway wishes to discuss ‘arrangements’ with Papa,” Charlotte confirmed. “He addressed his note to Lady Caroline.”

Lydia snorted, causing her horse to twitch its ears in surprise. “Caroline! Have Mercy, the man’s even more senile than I thought. Though I suppose when one reaches his advanced age, all young ladies with fortunes must rather blur together.”

“Like sheep,” Charlotte agreed morosely. “Very wealthy sheep.”

They turned onto Rotten Row, where the morning promenade of the ton was already at its height. Charlotte plastered on her public smile, the one that said she was delighted to be there, honored by the attention, grateful for her good fortune. It was exhausting, that smile. She sometimes wondered if it might crack her face like poorly glazed porcelain.

“Oh, splendid,” Lydia murmured. “The Wetherby twins approach. Brace yourself for synchronised simpering.”

Indeed, Patience and Prudence Wetherby were bearing down on them, their matching pink habits rendering them little more than walking masterpieces of the pastry-cook’s art. Their smiles were identical, their waves perfectly coordinated, and their eyes, Charlotte noticed, were fixed on her with the calculating intensity of a pair of well-bred vultures.

“Lady Charlotte!” they trilled in unison. “How delightful!”

“Miss Wetherby, Miss Prudence,” Charlotte responded, because one had to observe the proprieties even when one would rather gallop in the opposite direction.

“We were just saying to Mama this morning,” Patience began.

“How fortunate you looked last night,” Prudence continued.

“In that emerald silk.”

“So bold a choice.”

“So… memorable.”

They smiled sweetly, but Charlotte caught the exchange of glances, heard the conversation that wasn’t quite quiet enough as they rode away: “Forty thousand pounds can make even a merchant’s daughter look presentable, I suppose.”

“Though it can’t buy breeding, can it?”

“Still, one must admire the effort.”

Charlotte’s hands tightened on her reins, causing her mare to dance sideways. She steadied the animal with effort, her smile never wavering. She’d learned long ago that showing hurt only provided more ammunition.

“Cows,” Lydia said conversationally, loud enough to carry. “Matching pink cows. Though I suppose that’s an insult to cows, who at least serve a useful purpose.”

Despite everything, Charlotte felt her lips twitch toward a genuine smile. “You shouldn’t say such things. Their brother is an earl.”

 Their brother is a boor who proposed by listing your endowments as if he were an appraiser at an estate sale. I recall it vividly as he spoke of ‘ready capital’ in the middle of a rose garden. Under a moon that deserved a far more gallant audience!”

“It was rather unromantic,” Charlotte admitted.

“Unromantic? Charlotte, the man brought documentation. Who brings documentation to a proposal?”

“Someone who views matrimony as a business merger, I suppose.” The words came out more bitter than she’d intended, and Lydia shot her a concerned look.

“You know,” her cousin said slowly, “you don’t have to accept any of them. Despite what your parents seem to believe, there’s no law requiring you to sacrifice yourself on the altar of social advancement.”

“Isn’t there?” Charlotte asked. “Then what would you call this Season? This parade of eligibility? This… this marketplace where I’m both merchant and merchandise?”

They’d reached the Serpentine, and Charlotte drew her horse to a halt, staring at the water that glittered deceptively peaceful in the morning sun. How many young women had stood at its banks over the years, she wondered, contemplating the distance between who they were and who they were expected to be?

“I would call it what it is,” Lydia said quietly. “A game with very real stakes. But Charlotte, you have something most of us don’t…choice. Your fortune gives you that, at least.”

“Does it? Because from where I sit, my fortune seems to have eliminated choice entirely. I’m no longer Charlotte Fairfax, you see. I’m forty thousand pounds in a presentable package. My thoughts, my dreams, my desires…they’re merely decorative ribbons on the box.”

“Then change the game,” Lydia suggested. “Or better yet, stop playing altogether.”

Charlotte turned to stare at her cousin. “Stop playing? And do what, exactly? Disappear into the countryside? Become a spinster at the mere age of two and twenty?”

“Why not? It works for me.” Lydia grinned, but there was something serious in her eyes. “Though I admit, it’s easier when poverty has already made you invisible. Amazing how quickly one ceases to exist when one’s funds evaporate.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Lord Pemberton, whose horse was as overdressed as its rider. He swept his hat off with a flourish that nearly unseated him.

“Lady Charlotte! Miss Lydia! What a delightful surprise!” His voice boomed across the park as if he were addressing Parliament rather than two young women. “I was just telling Freddy, that’s Lord Frederickton, you know, third son of the Duke of Marlborough,I was just telling him how resplendent you looked last evening, Lady Charlotte. Quite the jewel of the Season!”

“You’re too kind, Lord Pemberton,” Charlotte replied automatically, her society smile firmly in place.

“Not at all, not at all! In fact, I was hoping I might have a word with your father sometime this week. Nothing formal, you understand, just a friendly chat between men of business.” He winked, actually winked, as if they were conspirators in some delightful secret rather than participants in a transaction.

Men of business. There it was again, the reduction of her entire existence to a line item in an account book.

“I’m sure my father would be delighted to receive you,” she said, because what else could she say? That she’d rather throw herself into the Serpentine than endure another conversation about her market value?

Lord Pemberton beamed, launched into a lengthy story about his estates in Cumberland that Charlotte didn’t bother following, then finally took his leave with another flourish that sent his horse into a disapproving sideways prance.

“Well,” Lydia said once he was out of earshot, “that was remarkably like being assaulted by an enthusiastic puppy. An enthusiastic puppy with significant gambling debts and a pressing need for forty thousand pounds.”

“Thirty thousand,” Charlotte corrected absently. “He’d need at least ten thousand immediately to satisfy his creditors, according to Papa’s sources.”

Lydia stared at her. “Your father has sources on your potential suitors’ debts?”

“Oh yes. He has an entire ledger. Cross-referenced by title, land holdings, and what he calls ‘future value potential.’ It’s quite thorough. Did you know your brother owes three thousand pounds to his tailor?”

“I did, actually. He keeps trying to borrow it from me, apparently forgetting that I haven’t had three thousand pounds since… well, ever.” Lydia paused. “A ledger? Really?”

“Complete with projections of return on investment. I believe I’m currently forecast to yield a fifteen percent increase in social capital within the first year of matrimony, assuming I wed someone with at least an earldom.”

“Have Mercy!” Lydia breathed, and cast a panicked glance about the drawing room to ensure her unladylike lapse had not reached any unintended ears. 

“Forgive me, but truly, Charlotte…that is beyond the pale.” 

“Efficient? One might call it ‘enlightened.’ After all, why should the business of the heart be conducted with less rigor than the business of the purse?”

“Perhaps, my dear, because a lady is not a merchant vessel, nor is the altar a counting-house!”

“Aren’t I? I’m certainly being exported to the highest bidder.”

They rode in silence for a moment, then Lydia said, “I find you far too settled in your compliance. What you stand in need of, my dear, is a touch of insurrection!”

“I’m wearing blue instead of pink. Isn’t that rebellion enough?”

 “I am quite in earnest. You stand in dire need of a truly desperate measure…an act of such spirit that might remind you that a soul exists beneath the weight of your inheritance.”

Charlotte was about to reply when she spotted a familiar figure approaching on foot.Mrs Treadwell, her former governess, now respectably dressed but clearly in reduced circumstances. Charlotte’s heart lifted at the sight of the one person who’d always seen her as Charlotte first, heiress second.

“Mrs. Treadwell!” She dismounted quickly, paying no heed to propriety and hurried toward the older woman.

“My dear Lady Charlotte,” Mrs. Treadwell said warmly, though Charlotte noticed the slight hesitation over the title. Even after two years, her beloved governess struggled with the transition from “Miss Charlotte” to “Lady Charlotte” after her father had purchased a baronetcy with a singular lack of decorum that betrayed his origins in trade.

 “How lovely you look this morning.”

“Never mind how I look,” Charlotte said, linking her arm through Mrs. Treadwell’s. “How are you? How is the school? Are the children well?”

Mrs. Treadwell’s face brightened. “Oh, the children are delightful. We have twelve students now, you know. Your generous donation last Christmas allowed us to hire an additional teacher and expand our curriculum. Little Mary Brown is showing remarkable aptitude for mathematics, quite puts the boys to shame.”

“Good for Mary Brown,” Charlotte said firmly. 

“And good for you for encouraging her. I remember how you had to fight Papa to allow me to study algebra.”

“And look how well that turned out,” Mrs. Treadwell said with a twinkle. “Though I don’t suppose your mathematical skills are much called upon in ballrooms.”

“Only to calculate how many dances I can spare for fortune hunters before I can plead exhaustion and escape.”

Mrs. Treadwell’s expression grew concerned. “Is it very bad, my dear?”

Charlotte glanced around to ensure they had some privacy. Lydia had thoughtfully engaged a passing acquaintance in conversation, giving them space.

“The Duke of Tarroway wishes to discuss settlements with Papa,” she said quietly. “He addressed his note to Caroline.”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Treadwell’s hand covered hers in sympathy. “Though I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. These titled gentlemen often can’t be bothered to properly learn the names of anyone they consider beneath them. Even when they’re proposing matrimony.”

“Especially when they’re proposing matrimony,” Charlotte corrected. “After all, what’s my name compared to my dowry? The forty thousand pounds is what matters. I’m merely the inconvenient human attachment.”

Mrs. Treadwell was quiet for a moment, studying Charlotte with those sharp gray eyes that had seen through every childhood fib and excuse. “You’re thinking of doing something drastic,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Am I so transparent?”

“To me, yes. You have the same look you had when you were twelve and decided to run away to become a pirate.”

“That was a solid plan,” Charlotte protested. “I’d researched shipping routes and had all the details mapped out perfectly.”

“You’d also packed seventeen books and only one change of clothes. Not exactly practical for a life at sea.”

Despite everything, Charlotte laughed. “I suppose not. But at least pirates are honest about being thieves. They don’t dress it up in silk and propriety and call it courtship.”

Mrs. Treadwell squeezed her arm gently. “What are you planning, Charlotte?”

“I am yet undecided,” Charlotte admitted. “But I can’t… I can’t continue this charade. Smiling while they calculate my worth. Pretending to be flattered when they can’t even remember my name. Dancing with men who see me as a means to repair their roofs or pay their debts. I’m disappearing, Mrs. Treadwell. Charlotte is disappearing, and soon there will be nothing left of Lady Charlotte, the heiress. The investment opportunity. The fortune in female form.”

They’d walked some distance from the main path, finding themselves in a quieter corner of the park where the social parade felt more distant. Mrs. Treadwell stopped, turning to face Charlotte directly.

“You know,” she said slowly, “sometimes the best way to find oneself is to become someone else entirely.”

Charlotte frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Lady Charlotte, the heiress, can’t simply vanish. Too many people are watching, waiting, expecting. But someone else… someone without forty thousand pounds to her name… that person could go anywhere, be anyone.”

“Are you suggesting I adopt a false identity?” Charlotte’s voice held equal parts shock and intrigue.

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Treadwell said primly, then smiled. “I’m merely observing that you cannot buy respectability, my dear, but you can borrow anonymity. And sometimes, anonymity is the greatest freedom of all.”

Charlotte stared at her former governess. “That’s… that’s quite possibly mad.”

“Is it? More mad than entering into matrimony with a duke who calls you Caroline? More mad than becoming a duchess to a man old enough to be your grandfather, who sees you as a particularly lucrative investment?”

“But how would I even… where would I go? What would I do?”

“Those are practical questions for a hypothetical situation,” Mrs. Treadwell said carefully. “Though I do happen to know that Lady Marchmont in Berkshire is looking for a companion. A respectable young woman of good education but limited means. The sort of woman who might have references from, say, a small school for girls.”

Charlotte’s heart was racing. “Are you in earnest?”

“I’m merely sharing gossip. What you do with information is entirely your own affair.” Mrs. Treadwell paused. “Though I would note that Lady Marchmont is known to be kind to her companions. And Berkshire is far enough from London that one might as well be in another country entirely.”

“But my parents…”

“Might be told you’re visiting Bath for your nerves. Or Brighton for the sea air. Young ladies of delicate constitution often require such retreats, particularly after the rigors of a London Season.”

Charlotte’s mind was spinning with possibilities. It was mad. Absolutely mad. And yet…

“I would need references,” she said slowly. “A believable background. And someone would have to know the truth, in case…”

“In an hour of need,” How fortunate that you have a former governess who runs a school and might be trusted with such information. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” Charlotte agreed, though her pulse was racing with something that felt dangerously like hope. “And this Lady Marchmont…she wouldn’t recognise me?”

“I believe she hasn’t been to London in five years. Prefers the country. And companions, as you know, are generally beneath notice anyway. Remarkable how invisible one becomes when one is merely useful rather than wealthy.”

They were interrupted by Lydia’s approach, looking rather harried. “Charlotte, forgive my intrusion, but Lord Pemberton is circling back, and he appears to have recruited reinforcements. I count at least three more fortune hunters approaching from the south.”

Charlotte looked back toward the main path and indeed, a small parade of eligible gentlemen seemed to be converging on their location. She turned to Mrs. Treadwell, who gave her hand a final squeeze.

“Think about what we’ve discussed, my dear. Sometimes the greatest courage is in choosing to be nobody special at all.”

“I will,” Charlotte promised. “May I call on you? At the school?”

“I would be delighted. Though perhaps discretion might be advisable.”

Charlotte understood. If she was truly considering this mad scheme, the fewer people who saw them together, the better.

She remounted her horse with Lydia’s help, and they made their escape before Lord Pemberton’s hunting party could corner them. But as they rode back through the park, Charlotte’s mind was elsewhere, turning over the absurd, impossible, absolutely brilliant idea that Mrs. Treadwell had planted.

By the time they returned home, Charlotte had made up her mind. One more ball. She would give London society one more chance to see her as more than a walking fortune. And if they foundered, she would take matters into her own hands.

The afternoon brought the promised visit from the Duke of Tarroway, and Charlotte was obliged to sit in the drawing room, serving tea and smiling vacantly while he and her father discussed her as if she were a particularly valuable piece of livestock.

“The girl’s dowry is, of course, substantial,” her father was saying, and Charlotte noted how he’d adopted what he thought was an aristocratic drawl. It made him sound like he had a head cold. “Forty thousand pounds, well invested. Returns of eight percent per annum, guaranteed.”

“Quite satisfactory,” the Duke wheezed, his watery eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Charlotte’s neckline. “And I assume she’s been properly educated? Can manage household accounts and such?”

“Oh, Charlotte’s education has been thorough,” her mother chimed in. “French, Italian, watercolors, pianoforte…”

“And mathematics,” Charlotte added sweetly. “I’m particularly fond of calculating compound interest.”

The Duke looked startled, as if his teacup had suddenly spoken. “Mathematics? Whatever for?”

“Why, to ensure my dowry is being properly managed, of course,” Charlotte said with wide-eyed innocence. “I do so hate to see money wasted through poor investment strategies.”

Her father coughed. “Charlotte has always been… spirited.”

“Spirited.” The Duke said the word as if tasting something unpleasant. “Well, I suppose that can be corrected with proper guidance. A hand that does not waver in its purpose.”

 Charlotte carefully set down her teacup before she could throw it at his head.

“Your Grace,” she said, surprising herself with how steady her voice remained, “might I ask you a question?”

He looked vaguely alarmed that she was addressing him directly. 

“Very well then.”

“What do you know about me? Beyond my dowry, I mean. What are my interests? My favorite book? My thoughts on… oh, anything at all?”

The Duke’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “I… that is… you’re very… attractive?”

“Am I? How gratifying. And my name?”

“Your name?”

“Yes, my name. Surely you know the name of the woman you’re hoping to wed?”

“Charlotte!” her mother gasped.

But Charlotte was past caring. “Because you called me Caroline in your note this morning. Caroline. Which is particularly impressive given that we’ve been introduced no fewer than four times.”

The Duke had turned an interesting shade of puce. “I… there must have been some confusion…”

“Oh, I agree entirely. There’s been quite a lot of confusion. You appear to have mistaken my person for my purse .But I assure you, Your Grace, we are separate entities. I am a person, with thoughts and feelings and opinions that extend beyond my net worth. Though I realise that must come as quite a shock.”

“Charlotte, apologise this very moment,” her father commanded, his face red with mortification.

“For what? For expecting to be seen as more than a walking dowry? For hoping that a man who wishes to become my husband might trouble himself to learn my name?” She stood, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled only slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I find I have a headache. Too much spiritedness, I expect.”

She swept from the room before anyone could respond, though she heard the explosion of voices behind her…her father’s angry voice, her mother’s pleading, coupled with the Duke’s offence. She didn’t care. She’d reached her limit, the breaking point of her tolerance for being treated as merchandise.

 

Chapter 2

 

In her room, she found her lady’s maid, Jenny, already laying out her gown for the evening’s ball, the last ball of the Season, at the Countess of Worthing’s mansion. It was pale pink, naturally. Her mother insisted pink made her look “fresh” and “marketable.” Like produce.

“Jenny,” she said suddenly, “what would you do if you could be anyone else for a while? Anyone at all?”

Jenny looked up from the gown, surprised. “My lady?”

“I’m serious. If you could shed your life like a dress and try on a different one, would you?”

The maid considered carefully. Jenny was clever, it was why Charlotte had requested her specifically when she’d had to choose a lady’s maid.

“I suppose it would depend on the life I was trying on,” Jenny said slowly. “And whether I could come back to my own if I didn’t care for the new one.”

“Very practical.” Charlotte moved to her writing desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Jenny, I need you to do something for me. Quietly. Can I trust you?”

“Always, my lady.”

“I need you to find out everything you can about Lady Marchmont in Berkshire. She’s looking for a companion. A respectable young woman of good education but limited means.”

Jenny’s eyes widened slightly, but she simply nodded. “I’ll see what I can learn, my lady.”

“Discreetly,” Charlotte emphasized.

“Of course.”

That evening, as Charlotte prepared for the ball, she felt a strange sense of calm. This would be her last performance as Charlotte Fairfax, the heiress. Tomorrow, she would begin planning her escape.

The Countess of Worthing’s ballroom was a symphony of calculated splendor. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow patterns on the white and gold walls, while hot-house flowers perfumed the air with aggressive sweetness. Charlotte stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching the swirl of silk and social climbing with the detachment of someone who’d already mentally left the building.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral,” Lydia observed, appearing at her elbow with two glasses of champagne. “Though I suppose in a way, you are.”

Charlotte accepted the champagne gratefully. “The funeral of my patience, certainly.”

“I heard about the Duke. I daresay there is not a fan in London that isn’t fluttering with the news. ‘Charlotte Fairfax gave Tarroway the cut direct in her own drawing room!’ You’re either going to be a social pariah or a hero to every young woman who’s ever been treated like a commodity.”

“I suspect the former,” Charlotte said dryly. “Money can buy many things, but apparently not the right to have opinions.”

She sipped her champagne, observing the room. There was Lord Pemberton, holding court near the refreshment table, no doubt regaling his audience with tales of his non-existent military glory. The Wetherby twins floated past in identical yellow gowns, looking like a pair of cautionary lemons. And there, making his ponderous way through the crowd, was the Duke of Tarroway himself, his face still flushed with indignation.

“He’s coming this way,” Lydia warned.

“Let him come,” Charlotte said. “What more can he do? Forget my name again?”

But the Duke swept past without acknowledging her, which was somehow worse than a confrontation. The cut direct, from him? The irony was almost delicious.

“Well,” Lydia said, “I believe you’ve just been officially relegated to the status of ‘difficult.’ Congratulations. It’s rather liberating, isn’t it?”

Before Charlotte could respond, the orchestra struck up a waltz. She found herself once more confronted by a gentleman with a predatory eye for a dowry, Mr. Reginald Ashford, whose estates were mortgaged to the hilt and whose desperation was practically visible.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said with a bow that tried too hard to be elegant. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”

She was about to refuse when a thought occurred to her. Why ever not? Why not dance with every fortune hunter in the room? Let them think they had a chance. It would make her disappearance all the more dramatic.

“Certainly, Mr. Ashford,” she said with her brightest, emptiest smile.

As he led her onto the floor, she caught her mother’s approving nod from across the room. Splendid! Let her think Charlotte had come to her senses.

“You look ravishing this evening,” Mr. Ashford said as they began to dance. The moisture of his palm was quite discernible through the kid-leather of his glove. Truly, a most captivating discovery. 

“How kind of you to notice,” Charlotte replied. “Tell me, Mr. Ashford, what do you think of Berkshire?”

He looked confused by the change of subject. “Berkshire? Pleasant enough, I suppose. Rather rural for my tastes. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason. I was simply thinking of taking a tour of the countryside. For my health, you understand. London can be so overwhelming.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, though he clearly had no idea what she was talking about. “Your health is, of course, of paramount importance. One must protect one’s… assets.”

Assets. There it was again. Even her health was discussed in financial terms.

The dance ended, and Charlotte was immediately claimed by another partner, then another. She danced with every man who asked, smiled at every inane compliment, agreed with every vapid observation. She was the perfect heiress, beautiful, agreeable, and apparently without a thought in her head.

Between dances, she noticed her former governess’s friend, Miss Pennywether, who served as companion to old Lady Drummond. The woman looked exhausted, fetching shawls and glasses of lemonade, invisible to everyone except when needed. Charlotte watched her carefully. That could be her. That would be her, if she had the courage.

“Charlotte,” her mother materialised at her elbow during a break between sets. “You’re doing beautifully, darling. I knew this afternoon was just nerves. The Duke may come around yet, you know. Men do so hate to be challenged, but they often find it intriguing once they’ve had time to think.”

“How delightful,” Charlotte murmured. “To be both challenging and intriguing. Like a particularly difficult investment opportunity.”

Her mother’s laugh tinkled falsely. “You do say the most amusing things. Oh, look, here comes Lord Wetherby. Do try to be charming, dear. His mother owns…”

“Half of Derbyshire, yes, I know.” Charlotte watched Lord Wetherby’s approach with the enthusiasm of someone anticipating dental surgery.

The remaining hours of the ball blurred together in a haze of meaningless conversations and mechanical dance steps. Charlotte played her part perfectly, the reformed heiress who’d learned her lesson. By the time the evening drew to a close, her mother was practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Three potential proposals by week’s end, I’d wager,” Lady Fairfax said as their carriage rolled through the dark London streets toward home. “You see what happens when you apply yourself properly?”

Charlotte made a noncommittal sound, gazing out at the dim, flickering lanterns that struggled against the gloom of the street. Somewhere out there, in a modest school, Mrs. Treadwell was probably preparing tomorrow’s lessons. Somewhere in Berkshire, Lady Marchmont was looking for a companion. Somewhere, there was a life where Charlotte could be more than her handsome dowry.

“I was thinking,” She said casually, “that I might visit Bath next week. The waters are said to be very restorative, and after the rigors of the Season…”

“Bath?” Her mother considered. “I suppose it might be acceptable. Though not for too long, mind you. We wouldn’t want people to think you’re running away from the Duke’s attentions.”

But I am, Charlotte thought. I’m running away from all of it.

“Just a few weeks,” she said aloud. “To recover my strength. Perhaps Cousin Lydia could accompany me?”

“Lydia? Well, I suppose she is respectable enough, despite her family’s… difficulties. Yes, that might work. It would show you’re not entirely in retreat.”

Charlotte nodded, already planning. She wouldn’t go to Bath, of course. But Lydia would cover for her, she was certain. And Mrs. Treadwell would help with the references. And Jenny would keep her secrets.

As the carriage pulled up to their townhouse, Charlotte looked up at the impressive facade ,all that new money could buy. In a week, perhaps two, she would walk away from all of it. From the fortune, the title, the endless parade of fortune hunters.

She would become nobody. And in becoming nobody, perhaps she would finally find somebody worth being.

Her father was waiting in his study, despite the late hour. Charlotte could see the light under his door as she passed. No doubt calculating the evening’s social returns, adding up the dances and conversations like entries in a ledger. She wondered what he would say when he discovered his greatest asset had depreciated to nothing. When his investment had simply walked away.

In her room, Jenny helped her out of the pink gown, the last pink gown she would ever wear, Charlotte decided. As the maid brushed out her hair, Charlotte studied her reflection in the mirror. Who was that woman? The daughter of a merchant who’d bought his way into society? The heiress worth forty thousand pounds? Or someone else entirely, waiting to be discovered?

“Jenny,” she said quietly, “what did you learn about Lady Marchmont?”

The maid’s hands stilled for a moment in her hair. “She’s seventy years old, my lady. A widow these past five years. Lives quietly at Harcourt Hall in Berkshire. She’s known to be kind but particular. Keeps a small staff, mostly locals. And she is indeed advertising for a companion.”

“And she hasn’t been to London recently?”

“Not in five years, according to the housekeeper’s sister who works for Lady Drummond. She prefers the country. Says London society has become vulgar.” Jenny paused. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

“No need to beg pardon for the truth.” Charlotte met Jenny’s eyes in the mirror. “If I were to… take a holiday… would you help me?”

Jenny was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You’re thinking of something dangerous, my lady.”

“Dangerous? Or necessary?”

“Perhaps both.”

Charlotte turned to face her maid directly. “I’m drowning, Jenny. Every day, a little more of me disappears. Soon there will be nothing left but the fortune. Is it so wrong to want to save myself?”

Jenny’s expression softened. “No, my lady. It’s not wrong at all.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“What is it that you require?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “I need you to help me become someone else. Someone unremarkable. A companion. The kind of woman who can walk through a ballroom without anyone calculating her worth.”

“That is a formidable undertaking, indeed, my lady. You’re rather… noticeable.”

“Then we’ll make me unnoticeable. Different hair, simple clothes, a believable story. I’ve been thinking, a clergyman’s daughter, orphaned, educated beyond her station but in need of employment. Respectable but forgettable.”

Jenny nodded slowly. “It could work. But your parents…”

“Will be told I’m in Bath, taking the waters. Lydia will support the story, I’m certain. And I’ll write letters, posted from Bath. Jenny, I know I’m asking a great deal…”

“You’re asking me to help you live, my lady. That’s no burden at all.”

Charlotte felt tears prick her eyes. “Thank you.”

“When?”

“After Sunday’s church service. Mama will insist we attend to show that we’re not retreating after the Duke’s snub. Monday morning, I’ll leave for ‘Bath.’ Only I’ll go to Mrs. Treadwell instead. She’ll help with the references, the placement with Lady Marchmont.”

“And your things?”

“I’ll need simple clothes. The kind a companion would wear. Nothing that could be traced back to Lady Charlotte Fairfax.”

Jenny nodded, already planning. “I know a seamstress in Cheapside who is quite discreet .She can have things ready by Monday.”

“And my hair…”

“A different style. Maybe some powder to dull the color. Spectacles wouldn’t hurt, they make people look serious and forgettable.”

Charlotte felt a bubble of something that might have been hysteria or joy rising in her chest.  “Then it is settled. We shall act accordingly.”

“It appears so, my lady.”

They spent another hour planning, working out details, anticipating problems. By the time Charlotte finally climbed into bed, the clock was chiming three. But she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was racing with possibilities, with the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of freedom.

Sunday came with typical English dreariness, as the rain spattered relentlessly upon the panes. Charlotte dressed carefully for church, demure but expensive, the perfect penitent heiress. Her mother approved, her father grunted his satisfaction, and together they made their way to St. George’s, where all of society would gather to pretend piety while calculating social advantages.

 The service having concluded, the inevitable succession of civil inquiries and the wearying performance of neighborhood etiquette followed. The Duke of Tarroway cut her again, which caused a delicious ripple of gossip. Lord Pemberton made another attempt at conversation, which Charlotte endured with saintly patience. The Wetherby twins made snide remarks about new money attempting to rise above its station, which Charlotte pretended not to hear.

“You are behaving with the utmost propriety.” Lydia murmured when they had a moment alone.

“I’m being strategic,” Charlotte corrected. “Lydia, I need to speak with you. Privately.”

They managed to slip away to a quiet corner of the churchyard, where Charlotte quickly outlined her plan. Lydia’s eyes grew progressively wider as she listened.

“You’re serious,” she said when Charlotte finished. “You’re actually going to do it.”

“Indeed I am. You will assist me?”

“To provide a discreet cover for you to your parents? To trifle with the truth to the Ton? Play an effective role in this ruse? Most assuredly I will be more than happy to assist you!”

“You must exercise the utmost discretion…”

“Charlotte, I’ve been living on the edge of social ruin for three years. I do believe I can manage a few harmless fabrications about your whereabouts. Besides, someone needs to give regular reports to keep your parents from investigating too closely.”

Charlotte hugged her cousin. “I shall cast all caution to the wind. I can never thank you enough dear cousin.” 

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen my acting skills. Though I must say, I do a credible concerned cousin worried about your delicate nerves.”

 

***

 

Monday morning dawned bright and clear, as if the universe had decided to cooperate with Charlotte’s plans. Her trunks were packed for Bath, Jenny would redirect them later. Her simple companion’s wardrobe was hidden in a plain valise. Her parents had been told she was leaving after breakfast.

“Three weeks,” her mother said over the breakfast table. “No more. And you’ll write every day.”

“Of course, Mama.”

“And you’ll think about what we discussed? About being more… amenable?”

“I’ll think of nothing else,” Charlotte said truthfully. She would think about amenability and then reject it entirely.

Her father barely looked up from his newspaper. “See that you do. The Duke might still come around if properly approached. His financial situation is more desperate than he lets on. He needs your dowry, Charlotte. Remember that. In any negotiation, the person who needs the deal most has the least power.”

“Wise words, Papa.” Words that applied to her own situation more than he knew. She needed freedom more than she needed forty thousand pounds. Which meant she had all the power, if she was brave enough to use it.

The goodbye was easier than expected. Her parents were already thinking ahead to her return, to the next phase of their campaign. They didn’t notice the finality in Charlotte’s embrace, the way she looked around the morning room as if memorising it.

Jenny had arranged for a hired carriage, which was fit for the country, neat and simple. Charlotte climbed in, waved goodbye, and rolled away from Grosvenor Square. But instead of heading toward the Bath road, the carriage turned toward Cheapside, toward Mrs. Treadwell’s school, toward a new life.

As London fell away behind her, Charlotte felt something she hadn’t experienced in months, hope. She was leaving Lady Charlotte behind, with all her fortune and frustrations. Ahead lay the unknown, disguised as Miss Lacey, a nobody from nowhere.

She was anxious to meet her.

The carriage rolled through parts of London Charlotte had never seen from her family’s pristine conveyances. Here, the streets narrowed, the buildings pressed closer together, and the people moved with purposeful efficiency rather than studied elegance. This was the London of workers and strivers, of people who couldn’t afford to waste time on elaborate social rituals.

Mrs. Treadwell’s school occupied a respectable if modest building on a quiet street. Charlotte had visited once before, secretly, to deliver her Christmas donation. But that had been Lady Charlotte, arriving in a fine carriage with footmen. Now she stood on the doorstep in a plain gray traveling dress, her hair already styled more simply, looking for all the world like what she pretended to be, a genteel young woman of reduced circumstances.

“My dear,” Mrs. Treadwell greeted her at the door, and if she was surprised by Charlotte’s transformation, she didn’t show it. “Come in, come in. We have much to discuss and not much time.”

The school was quiet as the children wouldn’t arrive until the afternoon. Mrs. Treadwell led her to a small parlor that smelled of chalk and cheap tea, so different from the perfumed drawing rooms Charlotte knew.

“Now then,” Mrs. Treadwell said, all business. “Your references.” She produced two letters, written on respectable but unremarkable paper. “The first is from myself, naturally, attesting to your character and education. The second is from a Reverend Mr. Lacey of Gloucestershire, a distant cousin of mine who passed away three years ago, conveniently enough. A silent grave offers no contradiction.”

Charlotte took the letters with hands that trembled slightly. “And my background?”

“Miss Emma Lacey, orphaned daughter of a clergyman. Educated beyond your station thanks to your father’s scholarly bent, but left with nothing upon his death. You’ve been living with a cousin in Gloucestershire, helping with her children, but the position became untenable when she re-wedded.You’rethree and twenty, reserved, accomplished but not showily so. You speak French and Italian, play the pianoforte adequately, and have a talent for reading aloud, all essential companion skills.”

“Emma,” Charlotte repeated, tasting the name. “Emma Lacey.”

“Can you remember to respond to it?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Charlotte, no, Emma, straightened her shoulders. “What about Lady Marchmont? What does she know?”

“Nothing of the truth, I assure you. I’ve written to her through my usual channels, I do occasionally recommend young women for positions. She’s expecting you Wednesday afternoon. The coach to Berkshire leaves from the Swan with Two Necks at noon. Here’s your ticket.”

Emma took the ticket, noting it was for an inside seat but not the most expensive one. The kind of ticket a respectable but poor young woman would purchase.

“Your clothes?” Mrs. Treadwell asked.

“Jenny had them made. Three day dresses, two evening gowns, nothing fancy, but well-made. The kind of things a clergyman’s daughter might have preserved from better days.”

“Wonderful, and Charlotte’s possessions?”

“Being redirected to storage. Jenny will manage it. My parents believe I’ve taken only what’s needed for Bath.”

Mrs. Treadwell studied her carefully. “You can still change your mind, you know. Once you leave here as Emma Lacey, returning to Charlotte Fairfax won’t be simple.”

“I don’t want it to be simple,” Emma said firmly. “I want it to be impossible. At least for a while. Long enough to remember who I am when I’m not worth forty thousand pounds.”

“And if Lady Marchmont discovers the truth?”

“Then I’ll face the consequences. At least I shall have made the attempt. I might claim a few months wherein I was esteemed for my character rather than traded for my charms.”

Mrs. Treadwell reached out and squeezed her hand. “You’re braver than you know, my dear.”

“Or more foolish.”

“Perhaps. But sometimes the two are indistinguishable.”

They spent the next hour reviewing details, practicing Emma’s history until Charlotte could recite it as naturally as her own. Her father had been a scholarly clergyman with a small living in Gloucestershire. Her mother died when she was young. Her education came from her father’s library and his belief that women’s minds were equal to men’s, a progressive view that explained her accomplishments while maintaining believability.

“Remember,” Mrs. Treadwell cautioned, “a companion exists in a peculiar space. You’re not a servant, but you’re not family. You’re educated enough to provide conversation, but you must never overshadow your employer. You’re visible when needed, invisible when not.”

“Rather like being an heiress,” Emma observed wryly, “except with less jewelry and more actual work.”

“Quite. Now, there’s one more thing.” Mrs. Treadwell produced a pair of spectacles. “Try these.”

Emma put them on, blinking at the slight distortion. “They’re not very strong.”

“Strong enough to change your appearance without impeding your vision. Look.” She held up a small mirror.

Emma stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was… different. Not dramatically so, but enough. The simpler hairstyle softened her features, the spectacles added a scholarly air, and the plain dress removed any hint of fashion. She looked like what she was pretending to be, a genteel nobody.

“Perfect,” she breathed.

A knock at the door interrupted them. Jenny entered, carrying another valise.

“My lady, I mean, miss,” she corrected herself quickly. “I’ve brought the last of your things. And this came for you this morning.” She held out a letter.

Emma recognized Lydia’s handwriting and quickly opened it.

Dearest Cousin, it read. Your parents have been informed of your safe arrival in Bath. I was appropriately concerned about your delicate nerves and promised to join you in a few days. Your mother is already planning your triumphant return to London and the autumn social season. Your father has begun a new ledger specifically for tracking potential autumn suitors. I thought you should know that the Duke of Tarroway has put it about that he rejected YOU, not the other way around. The Wetherby twins are beside themselves with glee. Lord Pemberton has declared his intention to visit Bath to ‘comfort you in your disappointment.’ I tell you this not to distress you but to remind you why you’re doing this. Be brave, my dear. Be free. All my love, L.

Emma folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. It was the last communication she would receive as Charlotte for quite some time.

“Thank you, Jenny. For everything.”

Jenny’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You be careful, miss. And if you need anything, at all please send word through Mrs. Treadwell.”

“I will.”

They embraced quickly, then Jenny left. Emma watched from the window as her loyal maid disappeared into the London crowd. Another tie cut, another step toward her new life.

“The coach station is a twenty-minute walk,” Mrs. Treadwell said gently. “Are you ready?”

Emma picked up her modest valise, so different from the trunks and cases that usually accompanied Lady Charlotte’s travels. “I’m ready.”

 

Chapter 3

 

The walk to the coaching inn was an education in itself. No one looked at her twice. Men didn’t tip their hats, women didn’t assess her dress, and shopkeepers didn’t suddenly become more attentive when she passed. She passed unobserved, a woman of no consequence, and utterly free.

The Swan with Two Necks was chaos incarnate. Coaches arriving and departing, passengers arguing about seats, luggage being thrown about with casual disregard. Emma clutched her valise and tried not to look as overwhelmed as she felt.

“First time on the public stage, miss?” a kindly-looking woman asked.

“Yes,” Emma admitted.

“Stay close to me, then. These coach drivers wait for no one, and the other passengers can be wolves if you’re not careful. Heading far?”

“Berkshire.”

“Ah, same as me, then. Visiting family?”

“Taking up a position,” Emma said carefully. “As a companion.”

The woman’s demeanor shifted slightly, not unfriendly, but more reserved. Emma had crossed an invisible line from potential equal to confirm inferior. It was fascinating and somewhat liberating.

“Well, good luck to you, miss. It’s honest work, at least.”

The coach, when it arrived, was nothing like the private carriages Emma knew. Six passengers all crammed inside, knees knocking, and the smell of too many bodies in such a confined space. She found herself wedged between a large man who smelled of onions and a thin woman with a crying baby.

As London gave way to countryside, Emma felt the last of Charlotte falling away. Each mile took her further from everything she’d known, everyone who’d known her. The other passengers talked around her, not expecting her to contribute. The man beside her actually fell asleep and began snoring on her shoulder. A month ago, such an indignity would have been unthinkable. Now, Emma simply shifted to accommodate him and watched England roll by outside the window.

They stopped to change horses at a posting inn, and Emma purchased a simple meal with carefully counted coins. The food was plain but filling, so different from the elaborate meals she was used to. She ate every bite and found herself oddly satisfied.

“You’re the one heading to Lady Marchmont’s,” the thin woman with the baby said suddenly.

Emma started. “How did you…?”

“Not much else out that way for a young lady seeking a position. She’s particular, Lady Marchmont. Had three companions in the last two years. None of them lasted more than six months.”

Emma’s heart sank slightly. “Why not?”

“Different reasons. One was too familiar, one was too retiring, and one couldn’t read well enough to satisfy. Like I said, particular. But fair, they say. Pays on time and doesn’t work you to death like some.”

“Do you know her?”

“Lord, no. But my sister’s husband’s cousin works in the village. Harcourt Hall is the big house, you understand. Everyone knows everyone’s business.”

Emma filed this information away. In London, she’d been insulated from servant gossip by layers of hierarchy. Here, she would be part of that network, subject to that scrutiny.

The coach rolled on through the afternoon, and Emma dozed fitfully, jerking awake each time they hit a particularly vicious rut. By the time they reached the posting inn closest to Harcourt Hall, she was stiff, sore, and covered in dust.

“There’ll be someone from the Hall to collect you, I expect,” the coach driver said, hefting her valise down. “They usually send a cart for new staff.”

Staff. She was staff now. The word should have stung, but instead, it felt like freedom.

The cart, when it arrived, was driven by a cheerful young man who introduced himself as Tom, the under-groom. “You’ll be the new companion, then? Mrs. Peters, that’s the housekeeper, she’s got your room all ready. Next to the schoolroom, though it’s not used anymore, not since Master Nathaniel grew up.”

“Master Nathaniel?”

“The nephew. Major Harcourt now, I suppose, though we all still call him Master Nathaniel when he’s not around. He’s off with his regiment, has been these two years. Her Ladyship misses him something terrible, though she’d never say.”

Emma stored this information carefully as the cart wound through increasingly rural lanes. The landscape was beautiful in its simplicity with rolling hills, neat hedgerows, the occasional cottage with smoke rising from its chimney.

Then Harcourt Hall came into view, and Emma’s breath caught. It wasn’t grand like the London mansions she knew, but it had a settled dignity, as if it had grown from the landscape rather than been imposed upon it. Warm brick and mellowed stone, windows that caught the late afternoon light, gardens that looked loved rather than merely maintained.

“It’s beautiful,” she said without thinking.

Tom grinned. “Aye, it is that. Been in the family for two hundred years. Her Ladyship loves every stone of it.”

As the cart pulled up to a side entrance, not the front door, Emma noted, understanding her place, a formidable woman emerged. This had to be Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper. She was the kind of woman who could freeze inappropriate behavior with a single look.

“Miss Lacey, I presume?” Her voice was crisp, professional. “Welcome to Harcourt Hall. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room. Her Ladyship will see you in the morning, she doesn’t receive in the evenings anymore. Tires easily, though she won’t admit it.”

Emma followed, her valise feeling heavier with each step. The servants’ stairs were narrow and steep, so different from the grand staircases she was used to. Her room, when they reached it, was small but clean. A single bed, a washstand, a small wardrobe, a desk by the window. It was perhaps a tenth the size of her bedroom in London.

“Dinner is at six in the servants’ hall,” Mrs. Peters informed her. “Breakfast at seven. Her Ladyship usually wants you from nine until one, then again from three until six. Sometimes evenings if she can’t sleep. Your half-day is Thursday. Church on Sunday is expected, Her Ladyship likes the household to make a good showing.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Peters studied her with sharp eyes. “You’re younger than the last one and much prettier. That won’t always be an advantage, Miss Lacey. Her Ladyship values intelligence and discretion above all else.”

“I understand.”

“We’ll see.” The housekeeper’s expression softened slightly. “You’ve good references, and Mrs. Treadwell doesn’t recommend just anyone. Do well here, and you’ll have a good position. Disappoint Her Ladyship, and you’ll be on the next coach back to London.”

After Mrs. Peters left, Emma sat on the narrow bed and looked around her new domain. No silk wallpaper, no Persian rugs, no maid to help her dress. Just a small, clean room that was hers alone, where she was Emma Lacey, companion, nobody special.

She walked to the window and looked out over the gardens, now gilded by sunset. Somewhere in London, Lady Charlotte Fairfax was taking the waters in Bath, nursing her wounded pride after the Duke’s rejection. But here in Berkshire, Emma Lacey was beginning a new chapter, one where her worth would be measured in service rather than sterling.

A bell rang somewhere below, and Emma realised it must be the dinner bell. She quickly washed her face, straightened her simple dress, and made her way to the servants’ hall.

The long table was already filling with the household staff. Emma hesitated in the doorway, unsure of where to sit, until a friendly-faced woman patted the bench beside her.

“You’ll be the new companion. I’m Mary, the upper housemaid. Sit here, companions rank above the housemaids but below Mrs. Peters and Mr. Jeffries, the butler.”

Even here, Emma realised, there were hierarchies, careful gradations of status. But it was based on position and merit, not birth and bank accounts. She could work with that.

Dinner was simple but plentiful, roast chicken, vegetables, good bread. The conversation flowed around her as the staff discussed the day’s events, local gossip, and the weather. No one asked about her forty thousand pounds because Emma Lacey didn’t have forty thousand pounds. No one calculated her worth because her worth was already established, she was the companion, useful for reading and conversation, nothing more or less.

“Her Ladyship’s particular about her companions,” Mary was saying. “But if she takes to you, you’ll find no kinder employer. She’s fair and decent, doesn’t hold with the airs some of the gentry put on.”

“What happened to the last companion?” Emma asked.

“Miss Whitfield? Oh, she left to wed a curate. Her Ladyship even gave her a wedding gift, though she wasn’t obliged to. That’s the kind of lady she is.”

Emma felt something ease in her chest. Perhaps this would work. Perhaps she could be Emma Lacey successfully, at least for a while.

 

***

 

The sun streaming through the tall windows of Harcourt Hall’s morning room possessed a particular quality that Emma had never noticed in London, it seemed cleaner somehow, less filtered through the coal smoke and ambition that hung over Mayfair like a persistent fog, and as she sat opposite Lady Marchmont for what would be their first proper interview, she found herself momentarily distracted by the way the light caught the dust motes dancing in the air, transforming them into something almost magical.

“You appear to be wool-gathering already, Miss Lacey, and we’ve barely begun our acquaintance,” Lady Marchmont observed, though her tone carried more amusement than censure, and Emma immediately straightened in her chair, reminding herself that she was no longer Charlotte Fairfax who could afford to let her mind wander during tedious social calls, but Emma Lacey, whose continued employment depended entirely upon her ability to be useful, attentive, and above all, unremarkable.

“I apologise, my lady, I was merely admiring the quality of light in your morning room,it’s quite different from what I’ve been accustomed to in Gloucestershire, where the parsonage windows were rather small and tended to look out onto the churchyard, which, while possessing its own somber charm, rarely offered such cheerful prospects as your gardens provide.”

Lady Marchmont studied her with eyes that, despite being somewhat dimmed by her seventy years, missed very little indeed, and Emma had the uncomfortable sensation of being thoroughly catalogued, assessed, and filed away for future reference. The older woman was not what Emma had expected, she possessed none of the vague, fluttery quality that so many elderly ladies of her acquaintance affected, as if age automatically required one to become increasingly insubstantial until one simply floated away on a cloud of lavender water and confused reminiscences. No, Lady Marchmont sat with the straight-backed precision of someone who had never in her life required a fainting couch, her grey hair arranged in a style that suggested efficiency rather than fashion, and her morning dress of deep purple wool chosen for warmth and durability rather than any attempt at youthful pretension.

“Gloucestershire parsonage, yes, so your references indicate, though I must confess that Mrs. Treadwell’s recommendation carries far more weight with me than your late father’s rather flowery testimonial, one can hardly expect the departed to provide accurate character references, after all, and relatives, even deceased ones, are notoriously unreliable when it comes to honest assessment.” Lady Marchmont’s lips twitched slightly, suggesting she found her own observation amusing. “Tell me, Miss Lacey, what precisely do you imagine a companion’s duties entail, because I’ve discovered through rather trying experiences that young women often arrive with the most remarkable misconceptions about what the position requires.”

Emma folded her hands carefully in her lap, a gesture she’d observed in countless governesses and companions over the years, suggesting both attentiveness and appropriate deference without descending into servility. “I understand that a companion’s primary duty is to provide company, naturally, but more specifically to offer conversation when desired, silence when preferred, assistance with correspondence, reading aloud when your eyes might be tired, accompanying you on walks or drives as needed, and generally making myself useful without becoming intrusive or forgetting my place in the household hierarchy.”

“Prettily said, and remarkably comprehensive for someone who claims no previous experience in such a position,” Lady Marchmont observed, and Emma felt a small flutter of alarm that she might have been too polished in her response, too knowledgeable about something Emma Lacey should only understand in theory. “Though I suppose a clergyman’s daughter would have observed such relationships in other households, even if she hadn’t experienced them directly herself.”

“Indeed, my lady, my father was often called upon to visit parishioners, and I frequently accompanied him, particularly to houses where there were elderly ladies who enjoyed discussing theological matters with him, though I suspect they enjoyed the company more than the theology, if I may be permitted such an observation.”

“You may be permitted any observation that demonstrates you possess both eyes and sense, Miss Lacey, as I’ve discovered that pretty faces might decorate a room adequately enough, but pretty never lasts, while sense, if properly cultivated, only improves with age, rather like wine or well-managed investments.” Lady Marchmont rose from her chair with only the slightest stiffness betraying her years. “Come, let me show you the house properly, as you’ll need to know your way about if you’re to be of any use whatsoever, and I’ve found that first impressions, while often misleading in regards to people, are remarkably accurate when it comes to houses, they’ll tell you everything you need to know if you’re paying attention.”

The tour that followed was both an education and an examination, Emma realised, as Lady Marchmont led her through rooms that spoke of generations of careful tending rather than ostentatious display. The furniture was good, some pieces genuinely fine, but chosen for comfort and longevity rather than fashion, and she noticed how everything was maintained with a sort of loving precision that suggested a household where things were valued for their history and utility rather than their ability to impress visitors. The library, when they reached it, made Emma’s heart simultaneously soar and sink, soar because it was exactly the sort of room she’d dreamed of, with leather-bound volumes reaching to the ceiling and deep window seats perfect for reading, and sink because Charlotte Fairfax would have immediately gravitated toward the French poetry on the upper shelves, while Emma Lacey must content herself with appearing appropriately impressed but not covetous.

“You may make use of the library, of course,” Lady Marchmont said, watching Emma’s face with those sharp eyes that seemed to catch every fleeting expression. “I’ve never held with the notion that servants should be kept ignorant, an educated companion is far more useful than one who can barely stumble through a newspaper, and I expect you to keep yourself informed about the world beyond Berkshire, as I have no intention of becoming one of those country relics who thinks the universe ends at the parish boundaries.”

“That’s most generous, my lady, and I assure you I shall make grateful use of such a privilege without, of course, neglecting my duties or presuming beyond what is appropriate to my station.”

“Oh, do stop talking as if you’re reciting from a manual on proper companion behavior, Miss Lacey, it’s exhausting and entirely unnecessary when we’re alone, though I appreciate the effort suggests you at least understand the proprieties, which is more than I can say for my last companion but two, who seemed to believe that employment entitled her to familiarity and called me ‘dear’ within a fortnight, as if we were bosom friends rather than employer and employee.”

They continued through the house, Lady Marchmont providing a running commentary that was part history lesson, part household management primer, and part subtle interrogation, as she would occasionally drop in questions about Emma’s background with the casual precision of someone laying traps for the unwary. Emma navigated these carefully, keeping her answers consistent with the story she’d memorized but adding small touches of authenticity, a mention of helping with parish accounts that explained her neat handwriting, a reference to nursing a cousin through scarlet fever that accounted for her ability to move quietly in a sickroom, an observation about the difficulty of removing wine stains from altar cloths that suggested practical experience with household management.

“Your duties,” Lady Marchmont explained as they returned to the morning room, “will be regular but not, I trust, onerous, as I have no patience with employers who treat companions as combination lady’s maids, secretaries, and whipping boys for their ill temper. You’ll attend me from nine until one, during which time we’ll deal with correspondence, receive any morning callers, though these are blessedly few since I discourage social climbing with remarkable efficiency, and perhaps take a turn in the garden if the weather permits. Afternoons from three until six will be similar, though often devoted more to reading or needlework, as I find the light better than for close work, and my eyes, while still serviceable, are not what they once were. Evenings after dinner you’re generally free unless I specifically request your company, which happens perhaps twice a week when I can’t sleep and find that being read to helps more than laudanum and considerably less than bourbon, though the latter is reserved for special occasions or particularly trying visits from my nephew.”

“Your nephew, my lady?” Emma inquired, remembering Tom the under-groom’s mention of Major Harcourt.

“Nathaniel, yes, though he’s gallivanting about with his regiment at present, doing whatever it is that military men do when they’re not actively shooting at Frenchmen, a great deal of marching about and polishing things, I suspect, though he assures me it’s far more complicated than that.” Lady Marchmont’s expression softened noticeably when speaking of her nephew. “He’s a good boy, though I suppose I can hardly call him that when he’s two and thirty, has spent the last decade making himself useful in His Majesty’s service rather than living the life of idle dissipation that seems to be the primary occupation of most young men of his class. He writes when he can, visits when he’s on leave, and worries about me far more than necessary, though I suppose that’s preferable to the alternative I have acquaintances whose relatives only remember their existence when there’s an inheritance to be considered.”

The rest of the day passed in establishing routines and understanding expectations, and Emma found herself settling into the rhythm of the household with surprising ease. The servants, she discovered, operated with the sort of quiet efficiency that suggested good management and fair treatment, and while Mr. Beaumont the butler regarded her with barely concealed suspicion, his eyes lingering particularly on her hands, which despite her efforts still showed too little evidence of hard work, the others seemed willing to accept her without any further inquiry particularly after she helped Mary the housemaid carry linens without being asked and complimented Cook’s apple tart with gusto rather than calculated enthusiasm.

The first week passed in what Emma would later think of as a sort of golden suspension, where the novelty of her situation hadn’t yet worn off and the reality of her deception hadn’t fully set in. She rose each morning to the sound of birds rather than street vendors, dressed herself in simple gowns that required no assistance and certainly no jewels, and spent her days in useful occupation rather than ornamental display. Lady Marchmont proved to be an employer both demanding and fair, she expected competence and received it, offered respect and commanded it in return, and maintained the sort of clear boundaries that made the relationship comfortable rather than constraining.

Emma’s duties were varied enough to be interesting without being overwhelming, she read aloud from newspapers and novels, her voice steady and clear as Lady Marchmont worked at her embroidery, wrote letters taking dictation in her neat hand that drew approving nods, and accompanied her employer on walks through gardens that were beautiful in their careful wildness, so different from the manicured precision of London parks. She learned Lady Marchmont’s preferences quickly, tea with milk but no sugar, a cushion for her lower back after lunch, spectacles cleaned with a specific soft cloth kept in the library drawer, and a tendency to worry about her nephew that manifested in frequent re-readings of his letters, though she would never admit to such concern directly.

“You’re settling in remarkably well, Miss Lacey,” Mrs. Peters the housekeeper observed one evening as Emma took her dinner in the servants’ hall, having established herself as someone who didn’t put on airs despite her position being somewhat above the other servants. “Her ladyship seems quite pleased, which I don’t mind telling you is something of a relief, as the last girl barely lasted a month before she was sent packing for inappropriate familiarity as seemed to think that being a companion meant being a friend, which as anyone with sense knows, it certainly does not.”

“I endeavor to be useful without forgetting my place,” Emma replied carefully, helping herself to the excellent stew Cook had prepared, so different from the elaborate but often tepid courses she’d been accustomed to in London. “Lady Marchmont has been most kind in her patience with my initial ignorance of household routines, and I hope to prove worthy of her trust through consistent service rather than presumption.”

Mr. Beaumont, seated at the head of the servants’ table as befitted his position, regarded her with those watchful eyes that seemed to note every gesture, every inflection. “Your manner of speech is remarkably refined for a country parson’s daughter, Miss Lacey, if you don’t mind my observing,one might almost think you’d been educated alongside the gentry rather than in a modest parsonage.”

Emma had been expecting this observation, indeed, she’d been preparing for it and so she was able to respond with apparent ease even as her heart rate quickened slightly. “My father was a scholar before he took orders, Mr. Beaumont, and he believed quite firmly that education should not be limited by gender or station, which I’m afraid made him somewhat unusual among his clerical brethren but provided me with advantages I might not otherwise have enjoyed, though I confess such advantages have proven somewhat double-edged, as they fitted me for a life I could not afford to maintain after his death while making me perhaps overqualified for positions I might otherwise have been grateful to obtain.”

It was a good answer, she thought, complex enough to be believable while explaining away any unusual refinement in her manner or education, and Mr. Beaumont seemed to accept it, though she noticed he continued to watch her with what she could only describe as professional interest, as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved but wasn’t yet prepared to actively investigate.

The days developed their own rhythm ,breakfast in the servants’ hall where gossip was exchanged with the same efficiency as the passing of toast and marmalade, mornings with Lady Marchmont dealing with the business of running an estate with far more complexity than Emma had expected, afternoons of reading and correspondence, evenings either free or spent in quiet companionship, and then the peaceful nights in her small room where she would write in her journal, careful entries that maintained the fiction of Emma Lacey even in private, because she’d learned that the best way to maintain a deception was to live it completely.

Miss Lacey is content, she wrote one evening after a particularly pleasant day spent helping Lady Marchmont sort through old correspondence, finding letters from her late husband that had brought tears to the older woman’s eyes and stories to her lips about a matrimony that had been both arranged and genuinely loving. The work suits her temperament, being neither so menial as to be degrading nor so elevated as to be stressful, and she finds in Lady Marchmont an employer who values competence over appearance, intelligence over charm, and steady service over flashy accomplishment. If there are moments when she remembers another life, they grow fewer each day, and she begins to believe that she might actually succeed in this transformation, and might actually become the person she pretends to be.

It was on the eighth day, when Emma had begun to truly fit into her new identity that everything changed with the arrival of a mud-splattered carriage on an afternoon when rain had been falling steadily since dawn turning the drive into a river of mud and the gardens into something resembling a medieval bog.

Emma was reading to Lady Marchmont from Richardson’s Clarissa, a choice that had surprised her, as she wouldn’t have expected her employer to have patience for such melodrama, but Lady Marchmont had confessed to a weakness for “overwrought romantic nonsense” as she called it, provided it was well-written overwrought romantic nonsense when Mr. Beaumont entered the drawing room with an expression that managed to convey both surprise and something approaching alarm.

“Major Nathaniel Harcourt, my lady,” he announced, and Emma watched as Lady Marchmont’s face transformed from polite attention to genuine joy, the years seeming to fall away as she rose from her chair with more alacrity than she’d shown all week.

“Nathaniel! But you weren’t expected…your last letter said you wouldn’t have leave until Christmas at the earliest, not that I’m complaining, mind you, merely surprised, is everything well? You’re not injured, are you? Or in some sort of trouble with your commanding officers? You know how these military men can be about the smallest infractions…”

The man who entered the drawing room cut off Lady Marchmont’s increasingly worried speculation simply by crossing to her and embracing her with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his otherwise austere appearance. He was tall and lean in the way of men who’ve known hard travel and harder battles, his dark hair somewhat longer than fashion dictated and showing early silver at the temples .His face ,all angles and shadows with eyes the color of winter slate , seemed to take in everything while revealing nothing. He moved with a slight stiffness that suggested injury not fully healed, and Emma noticed he carried a walking stick that was clearly functional rather than fashionable, its handle worn smooth from use.

“I’m perfectly well, Aunt Honoria, merely in need of a rest cure according to the physicians, who seem to believe that a ball in the leg requires months of recuperation despite my assurances that I’m perfectly capable of returning to duty.” His voice was educated but without the drawling affectation so many gentlemen adopted, each word precise and considered as if he’d learned to ration speech along with ammunition. “I apologise for arriving unannounced, but the decision to grant leave was made rather suddenly, and I thought surprise might be preferable to the fuss you’d have made if you’d known I was coming.”

“Fuss? I never fuss, I simply ensure that things are properly arranged, which is entirely different and considerably more practical.” Lady Marchmont stepped back to examine him more thoroughly, her hands still on his arms as if she needed to assure herself of his solid presence. “You’re too thin, naturally, as I doubt the army troubles itself with proper nutrition, and you look as if you haven’t slept properly in months, which knowing you is probably accurate, and that leg is clearly bothering you more than you’re admitting, but otherwise you’ll do, I suppose.”

It was then that his gaze found Emma, who had risen from her chair when he entered but remained quietly by the window, understanding that this reunion was not for her to intrude upon. His eyes assessed her with the quick, comprehensive glance of someone trained to evaluate threats and situations instantly, and she saw him catalog her simple dress, her neat appearance, her position in the room that suggested neither servant nor family, and draw the obvious conclusion.

“You’ve acquired a new companion, I see,” he said, his tone neutral but his gaze sharp, and Emma had the uncomfortable sensation of being examined by someone who was accustomed to seeing through facades and detecting deception.

“Oh yes, forgive me,Miss Lacey, may I present my nephew, Major Harcourt, who has apparently decided that surprising elderly aunts is an acceptable form of entertainment.” Lady Marchmont’s tone was tart but her expression remained delighted. “Nathaniel, this is Miss Lacey, who has been with me just over a week and has already proven herself quite indispensable, unlike her predecessor who seemed to believe that companionship consisted primarily of agreeing with everything I said, which as you know is both impossible and inadvisable.”

Emma dropped a curtsey that was precisely attuned, respectful but not servile, acknowledging his superior rank while maintaining her own dignity as a gentlewoman, albeit one in reduced circumstances. “Major Harcourt, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Lady Marchmont speaks of you often and with great affection.”

“Miss Lacey,” he acknowledged with a slight bow that managed to be both polite and somehow distant, as if he were acknowledging her existence without necessarily approving of it. “I trust my aunt hasn’t been too demanding in her requirements, she has rather exacting standards, though I suppose that’s preferable to no standards at all.”

“On the contrary, I’ve found Lady Marchmont to be both fair and patient with my initial ignorance of household routines, and if her standards are exacting, they’re also clear, which makes meeting them a matter of diligence rather than guesswork.”

Something flickered in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, or interest at her response, which had been more articulate than he’d expected from a companion. “You speak like someone with education beyond what one might expect from…forgive me, but my aunt mentioned you’re a clergyman’s daughter?”

“My father was indeed a clergyman, though he’d been intended for an academic career before circumstances required him to take orders,” Emma replied, keeping her voice steady despite the subtle interrogation she sensed beginning. “He believed quite firmly in the value of education regardless of gender or ultimate station in life, which has proven both a blessing and something of a complication, as it fitted me for a life I could not afford while making me perhaps overqualified for positions I might otherwise have been grateful to obtain without question.”

“An unusual perspective for a country parson,” he observed, and there was something in his tone that suggested he was filing away information for future consideration.

“My father was an unusual man,” Emma said simply, which had the advantage of being true,the fictional Reverend Lacey she’d created in her mind had taken on a life of his own, becoming a composite of every admirable clergyman she’d ever encountered mixed with the father she wished she’d had rather than the one focused entirely on financial advancement.

“Well, now that you’ve subjected poor Miss Lacey to interrogation before she’s even had time to adjust to your unexpected presence, perhaps you’d like to sit down and tell me why you’re really here,” Lady Marchmont interjected, her tone suggesting that further questioning of her companion would not be appreciated. “And don’t pretend it’s simply for the pleasure of my company, delightful though I undoubtedly am, because you have that look about you that suggests you’re either in trouble or trying to avoid it, and I’d prefer to know which before dinner so I can prepare accordingly.”

Major Harcourt’s expression shifted slightly, showing what might have been amusement or possibly affection, and he allowed his aunt to guide him to a chair near the fire, though Emma noticed he positioned himself where he could see both the door and the windows, a habit that spoke of battlefield experience and hard-won caution.

“The physicians insisted I needed rest and quiet to properly recover from what they dramatically refer to as my ‘war wounds’ but which are actually just a rather inconvenient hole in my leg that’s taking longer to heal than anticipated,” he explained, stretching the aforementioned leg with a barely perceptible wince. “Apparently, walking through Spain with a partially healed injury is inadvisable, though I maintain it was entirely necessary at the time, and now I’m paying for that necessity with enforced inactivity, which as you know is very nearly my definition of hell.”

“How long?” Lady Marchmont asked, and Emma heard layers of meaning in the simple question, how long would he stay, how long must he rest, how long before he threw himself back into danger?

“Six weeks minimum, possibly longer depending on how cooperative my leg decides to be, though I warn you that I make an abominable patient and you will likely find me a great bore before two weeks are out.” 

“Nonsense, I shall be delighted to have you here regardless of your temperament, and if you become too difficult, I’ll simply have Miss Lacey read to you from improving sermons until you either behave or flee back to your regiment in self-defense.”

“A fate worse than French artillery,” he murmured, then glanced at Emma with what might have been apology. “No offense intended to your late father’s profession, Miss Lacey.”

“I am not in the least offended, Major Harcourt, as even my father would admit that sermons, while spiritually beneficial, could indeed be weaponised in the wrong hands, and he was fond of jesting that his own sermons were a more certain cure for sleeplessness than even a bottle of laudanum, though with fewer side effects and considerably less expense.”

Again that flicker of something…interest? Suspicion?… in his grey eyes. “Your father sounds as if he was a man of humor as well as education.”

Lady Marchmont interjected suddenly, “you look as if you haven’t eaten properly in weeks, Nathaniel, and dinner won’t be for another two hours. Miss Lacey, would you be so good as to ring for tea? And tell Mrs. Peters that the prodigal has returned and requires feeding, she’ll know what to do.”

Emma rose to comply, grateful for the excuse to escape Major Harcourt’s increasingly intense scrutiny, but as she reached for the bell pull, his voice stopped her.

“Actually, Aunt, I should clean up first, I’m hardly fit for the drawing room in all my travel dirt, and I suspect I smell rather strongly of horse and wet wool, neither of which improves with proximity.”

“You smell of home and safety,” Lady Marchmont said firmly, but she released him nonetheless. “Your room is prepared, of course I always keep it ready despite your insistence that it’s unnecessary, because mothers and aunts have the prerogative of irrational hope, and Mr. Beaumont will have hot water sent up immediately. We dine at seven, though I suspect Cook will revise the menu now that you’re here, Nothing would please her more than to ply a guest with a good meal as I eat like a bird and Miss Lacey, while appropriately appreciative, hardly challenges her culinary skills.”

Major Harcourt rose with that same slight stiffness, leaning on his walking stick just enough to suggest necessity rather than affectation. “Then I’ll leave you ladies to your afternoon occupations and try to make myself presentable enough for dinner. Miss Lacey, I look forward to becoming better acquainted, my aunt’s companions tend to be interesting characters, one way or another.”

There was something in the way he said it that made Emma’s pulse quicken, It was not quite a threat, nor entirely a promise, but a distinct intimation that he meant to ascertain the true nature of her character. She managed another appropriate curtsey and murmured something suitable about the pleasure being mutual, but she was acutely aware of his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than strictly necessary before he left the room, his footsteps uneven but determined on the stairs.

“Well,” Lady Marchmont said once he was safely out of earshot, settling back in her chair with a satisfaction that seemed to warm the entire room, “Things have become remarkably more spirited all of a sudden. I do hope you’re not easily frightened, Miss Lacey, because Nathaniel can be rather intense when he takes an interest in something, and unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s decided you’re worth investigating, though whether that’s because he’s protective of me or because you’re not quite what you seem remains to be determined.”

Emma felt her heart skip but kept her voice steady. “I can’t imagine what there would be to investigate, my lady, I’m exactly what I appear to be, a gentlewoman in reduced circumstances grateful for honest employment.”

“Oh, my dear girl, nobody is exactly what they appear to be, that would be frightfully boring and leave no room for growth or surprise.” Lady Marchmont’s eyes held a shrewdness that reminded Emma not to underestimate her employer. “The question is whether what lies beneath the appearance is better or worse than the surface suggests, and in my experience, it’s usually a bit of both, human nature being what it is.”