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Michaels stepped inside, impassive as ever. “Lady Saunton is here.”

Richard froze, startled, his eyes cutting to the entrance.

Sophia entered with quiet elegance, gliding into the room like moonlight through heavy curtains. Her eyes settled on her husband, and the anger drained from him.

“Sophia! What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a shade of the tempest it had been.

The countess tilted her head, offering him a serene smile that belied the steel beneath it. “I am here to speak with Mr. Ridley about Lily, of course.”

Chapter

Eight

“There has never been a protracted war from which a country has benefited.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

JULY 24, 1821

Sheer exhaustion from several days of insomnia had at last carried Lily off to the land of sleep. Her dreams were mercifully blank, a welcome balm after so many nights haunted by doubt and disgrace. It was the first true rest she had known since the night of the baron’s murder, and the relief of it seemed stitched into her very bones.

By the time her eyes fluttered open, it was midmorning. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting softened stripes across the coverlet. Sitting up slowly, she stretched her arms overhead and inhaled deeply, her limbs loose and unburdened for the first time in days. Her toes wiggled beneath the linens, and a small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. The dull aches and tight muscles brought on by fatigue had disappeared, replaced by a buoyancy of spirit. Her usual optimism crept back in—quietly, cautiously—filling her thoughts with possibility.

“Lily! You have a visitor!”

Spinning toward the door, now fully open, Lily blinked in surprise. There stood Mama, smiling broadly, her cheeks tinged with unmistakable delight.

“My abigail is here to assist you in dressing.”

Lily’s gaze shifted to the hallway, where her lady’s maid stood behind her mother.

What on earth?

The last few days replayed in Lily’s mind with sudden clarity. When news of her ruination had first broken, Mama had wept bitterly, her tone despairing as she lamented the death of Lily’s future. Then, after Mr. Ridley’s appalling accusation—dressed as a proposal—Mama had burned with indignation, storming about the drawing room in a fit of moral fury over the poor conduct of young men in modern society. Dinner afterward had been an ordeal, with Lily’s brother seated like a statue, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on his untouched plate, lost in guilt. Papa had not even returned, summoned away on urgent business.

And now … joy?

She stared at her mother, bewildered.

Now she is joyful?

What could cause such a drastic shift in mood? “Who is it?”

“It is not for me to say. Quickly, we must get you ready.” Mama clapped her hands together, and her lady’s maid bustled into the room.

Lily was still groggy from sleep, her thoughts thick and sluggish, but she reluctantly slipped from the warm cocoon of her bed. She had hoped to rise at her leisure and perhaps enjoy a cup of tea before facing the world, but clearly, that was not to be.

Mama swept toward the wardrobe, rifling through the gowns and muttering under her breath. At last, she emerged with a creamy confection of lace and cotton. Lily pulled a face. It was the most unflattering choice for her complexion, but Mama had always insisted it was perfection.

With its profusion of bows and flounces, the gown made Lily feel like a child about to sit for a formal portrait, the sort where wealthy families donned antiquated costumes for the sake of posterity. Perhaps, if Sophia failed to bring Mr. Ridley up to scratch and Lily was indeed sent abroad, Aidan might help her replace the entirety of her wardrobe, well away from Mama’s discerning eye.

Lawks, these clothes are hideous for me!

Her whispered prayer was cut short as the maid descended upon her with a hairbrush and vigorous purpose, drawing tears with each sharp stroke.

Twenty minutes later, she was ready, her hair arranged in the dreaded ringlets, and Mama was already pulling her by the hand into the hallway. Lily stumbled slightly, catching up with her mother’s longer stride.

“Mama, I am short!”