“You keep telling me what I would not enjoy, and it is usually what puts me in Lord Ramsbury’s path.” Elizabeth swept to the mirror in a swirl of white satin and navy stitching. “I would remind you that I have more to recommend me than a love for horses.”

Given Ramsbury’s stables and account books, his chosen wife would need to share that passion, or at least understand it. “You have no desire to be nearer to a horse than a carriage ride. And if you’d ridden with the chaperones—”

“Where you should have been.” Elizabeth nodded to the maid. “This one.”

“It is a lovely choice, Elizabeth.” Annabel looked through the jewel chest for the pearls they’d packed specifically for this dress, using the distraction to cool her temper and soften her tongue. “And, as I have told you, Lord Ramsbury chose my mount and insisted I ride.” She put up her hand to stop the interruption. “I don’t know why, and I don’t care to argue about it any longer. He insisted, and I had no polite option but to accept.”

And thank goodness. That ride, that horse, would be the highlight of her year. She stepped behind Elizabeth and draped the necklace across her collarbone.

“These earbobs are far too small.” Elizabeth made a face in the mirror. “The diamonds catch the eye better.”

“The diamonds will look much better under the candles on the dance floor.” Annabel met Elizabeth’s frown in the mirror. “Ruth can add more curls near your temples and ears to give the illusion of more ornate jewelry.”

As the maid worked deftly with the curling rod, Annabel rehung all the discarded dresses in the wardrobe. There had been a time when she’d been careless with her clothing and left messes for others to clean. The behavior had embarrassed her long before this, but being the servant now hammered home a vow that, should she ever escape this fate, she would never take anything for granted again.

Chatter and laughter filled the hallway. “The other young ladies are going down, Elizabeth.” It was important to never be first, but one should never be last.

Elizabeth rose to leave, but Annabel kept the door closed and arched an eyebrow as a reminder to thank the young maid, who had earned her wages this evening. Elizabeth was not, as a rule, unkind. However, being surrounded by wealth and gossip this Season, and especially at this party—seeing other young ladies as competitors rather than people, if not friends—had sharpened her edges in an unattractive way.

That was one reason they never should have come.

Another was the quickening pace of Annabel’s heart as they descended the stairs. It was foolish. She had been below Jasper’s notice even before her father had used her dowry to fund his speculation schemes. Now, as a governess, he was even further from her reach.

There was no need for her heart to pound at the thought of seeing him, and there was certainly no need to take extra care with her appearance. It was a good thing she hadn’t packed the gray hair ribbon that matched her dress. It would only serve to make her more foolish and a subject of more hateful gossip.

But it was impossible to deny that her opinion of the marquess changed every time they spoke. He was irreverent, but his offhand manner hid a kindness she hadn’t expected.

Like his care over Fiona Allen, born of a lifelong friendship, and unflinching despite the gossip that shadowed her. It echoed, though faintly, in his treatment of Annabel herself.

It was also a lesson about ignoring gossip, because it was widely spread and only possibly true.

Or told to her by a man with a respectable position in the royal household.

Spencer’s suspicions didn’t make Lord Ramsbury a spy, but there was something going on in this house, beginning with the sharp-eyed Mr. Yarwood, who appeared to have no real position in the house. Still, everyone deferred to him. At times, even Lord Ramsbury bent to his friend’s will.

And she could not forget the conversation she’d overheard in the maze. Something was afoot in Wales, and she didn’t believe it had anything to do with buying another horse.

The marquess was intelligent enough to hide his intentions behind his charm and good looks. Not to mention that smile.

“I’m surprised to see you this evening, Miss Pearce. I thought the race might have tired you for the day.”

Charlotte Bainbridge wore a lovely maroon dress, no doubt meant to evoke an association with the Ramsbury crest. The lace was delicate, and the opals she wore sparkled like the galaxies Annabel had once seen through a telescope. It was too bad that her snide smile and hard glare ruined the effect.

“You’ll find I’m made of sterner stuff, Miss Bainbridge,” Annabel replied. Her chin went to the angle she always used with bullies.

“We chaperones must be,” said Mrs. Linden as she approached. “Miss Allen tells me you were good company today, Miss Pearce. Thank you for looking after her in my absence.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for staying in the garden with Miss Spencer.” Annabel was certain the older woman had gotten the worst end of the bargain.

“She is a talented artist, and I enjoyed watching her painting take shape—once she focused on where she was rather than where she wasn’t.” Mrs. Linden sighed as they entered the parlor. “Miss Allen has no patience for sketching and painting. Or needlework, for that matter. She refuses to sit still.”

All morning, Annabel had been impressed with Fiona’s lively nature and her unfailing resolve to be nothing but herself. She made no excuses for her past behavior, but she also held nothing back from her life. Many young ladies in her situation would have faded into the country and accepted the ton’s judgment for the balance of their lives. Fiona had struck back. It was an admirable decision.

“I don’t believe sitting is the virtue Society paints it to be.” Annabel heard the words in her own voice and felt her cheeks heat with shock. It was one thing to think something so contrary, but another to speak it aloud.

The chaperones turned to face her, eyes wide in their stark faces. Only Mrs. Linden was smiling. Annabel drew a deep breath. In for a penny…

“If a gentleman were to sit in the house and wait for the world to come to him, he would be considered a layabout or feeble-minded. But ladies of quality are judged by how little we—they—are heard or seen. We may move the world, or make a mark, but only where no one can see us do it.” She stood straighter. “We are led by a queen who is seen and heard every day in law and in custom—even in war. Why must we limit ourselves to silent decoration?”

The older women stared at her as though she’d sprouted horns and a tail. Beyond them, toward the other end of the table, Fiona raised her glass in a silent salute. Annabel wished she’d put that dratted ribbon through her hair after all.

The silence was broken by the marquess’s arrival and then the shocked inhale of every lady in the room. On his arm was a thin young lady in a violet gown. The color complemented her pale complexion and auburn hair, which was done simply. She was flanked by Yarwood, his expression hawklike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Hughes, the widow of an old school friend.” Jasper smirked as he talked, as though he understood the commotion he was causing. “Claudette could not be here for the beginning of our party because she was in Paris. I hope you will make her welcome.”

Everyone bowed, but no one approached. Fiona was the first to breach the divide. “Welcome, Mrs. Hughes. How was your journey? I crossed the channel in the summer and again in the fall, and while I enjoyed the scenery, the ship did pitch violently at times.”

The young widow’s reply was lost in the sea of whispers from chaperones and English diamonds alike. Charlotte Bainbridge might have had tears in her eyes.

“How dare he bring her here,” someone whispered. “To invite eligible, respectable young ladies to his home and raise their hopes about a match, only to flaunt his mistress as a late arrival.”

The hiss had a French lilt. There was only one other French lady in attendance—Madame Theodore, a dragon of a companion who had emigrated simply to terrorize young Society ladies with haughty sniffs, arched eyebrows, and lectures on what the Paris ladies do. Belinda Wallace was her current pupil.

“That seems an uncharitable assumption about your countrywoman,” Mrs. Linden whispered.

“Not all French ladies are reputable.” Madame Theodore arched an eyebrow. “Just as all English women cannot claim proper behavior.”

Mrs. Linden’s mouth hardened into a thin line and color dotted her cheeks, but she remained silent.

Annabel would have admired her restraint if she wasn’t focused on Claudette Hughes herself, though for a different reason. The marquess, his Welsh connection, and his Paris mistress were all under the same roof. Was this the opportunity to gather the information Spencer demanded and free herself from their ugly bargain?

You were wrong about Fiona’s position in his life. What if you are wrong again?

“I should have worn the blue. I’ll never stand out against that Frenchwoman if I look like a meringue.”

Annabel pulled Elizabeth away from the crowd. “The blue is for the dance at the end of the week,” she said. “And several of the young men in attendance have already cast you admiring glances.” She held up a hand to stop the petty argument she could see brewing in Elizabeth’s bright eyes and too-rosy cheeks. “There is more to life than a marquess who seems to be declaring what life with him will entail.”

It was advice she should heed herself. If Mrs. Hughes was Lord Ramsbury’s lover, her inclusion in the party was in poor taste. If she was part of a larger plot, it was treason.

“The best way for you to behave is to do exactly that—behave. Focus on the those to your left and right and keep the conversation away from gossip.” She tightened her hold on Elizabeth. “You are better than a man who has no qualms about ridiculing you in public. Remember that.”

“Shall we go into dinner?” Lord Ramsbury asked as he turned and led Mrs. Hughes from the room.

Left with no alternative, the party took their seats around the dinner table. Over the first course, the ladies stared daggers at Mrs. Hughes while the men watched her with open curiosity. By the second course, social etiquette prevailed. The dining room was full of conversation.

Since the other chaperones were ignoring Annabel, she stayed focused on the marquess, comparing his behavior with Mrs. Hughes to how he treated Fiona. They spoke quietly, but he didn’t ignore the guest to his left. Mrs. Hughes spent a great deal of time in conversation with Yarwood. Her smiles were soft, almost wistful—not the flirtatious masks used in ballrooms and beyond.

After the dessert course had been cleared, the ladies adjourned to the music room. All except Mrs. Hughes, who disappeared into the shadows.