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M rs. Right dropped the letter she’d just read.

The letter sent to the duke that outlined who Lord Thorpe really was.

The rogue! The scoundrel! The unprincipled rake!

She’d heard all about Lord Thorpe’s supposedly noble actions regarding this Clara and all along he’d been the author of the poor girl’s troubles!

Mrs. Right could see it all in lurid detail—the powerful marquess catching the defenseless girl in a dark corridor and overpowering her.

Or perhaps he’d sweet-talked and promised things that could never be.

And then, though she was the victim of the lord’s depraved needs, she’d been accused, found guilty, and thrown from the house.

Poor foolish Serenity. She was quite besotted with Lord Thorpe.

Or, at least who she thought Lord Thorpe to be.

Mrs. Right reminded herself that the duke would not put up with such an outrage.

She would not be at all surprised if he were to order the trunks packed and take his daughter home to remove her from the danger.

That would be the right course, she was sure.

She could not be against it. It would remove her dear Serenity from what could be her undoing.

It would also solve a little problem involving a bishop.

After all, a bishop could not come storming into the house when nobody was at home.

The churchman was likely to have forgotten all about it by next season.

Yes, certainly, she would just wait for the duke’s orders that they were to go back to the Dales. In the meantime, she did not countenance the idea of Lord Thorpe getting away with this outrage to one of her girls.

He must be made to pay for it.

Mrs. Right had the smallest moment of hesitation when she reflected on what had occurred over the past three seasons.

She had been mistaken when she’d meddled with Mr. Stratton’s laundry, grocery order, and wine merchant.

And then, it had turned out to be unnecessary to convince Lord Dashlend’s hysterical valet that he was being let go.

And then, perhaps she ought not to have infested Lord Stanford’s house with case moths.

She was perfectly sanguine about recognizing her mistakes, as anybody with a maturity of spirit would be.

In any case, all of those missteps were water under the bridge and no harm done.

Or at least, not an insurmountable amount of harm done.

She could not be wrong every time though, could she?

Here it was written out on paper what had happened to poor Clara.

Lord Thorpe was a villain who imagined he would lure innocent Serenity Nicolet into his web of immorality.

A man like that would not stop at one housemaid.

Oh no, there would be other housemaids to come.

Lord Thorpe’s wife would be shamed again and again.

She would not stand for it. Lord Thorpe must pay. He would pay.

Mrs. Right drummed her fingers on the desk as she considered how Lord Thorpe could pay.

She might set his house alight, but it was too close to their own.

He seemed to be fond of his dog but she could do nothing there either, as she was fond of dogs herself and would not hurt a single hair on their heads.

Then she recalled an idea she’d had when she’d considered her revenge on Lord Stanford. She’d only tossed aside the idea because of the logistics. But Lord Thorpe was just two doors down, making the whole thing much more feasible.

She imagined she would find the right tools in the shed in the back garden. It would only be a matter of slipping over there under cover of darkness. She could wear her dark cloak and go on a moonless night. Certainly, it could be done.

It all hinged on what her father had done all those years ago.

A gentleman had stopped at the local inn and had strolled round the village with his head held high.

That would have been nothing. But then, the fellow had the audacity to make a lewd comment to Mrs. Right’s mother.

Her father could not do anything outright.

It was one of the injustices of England—a powerful lord could not have his ears boxed on a public road without dire consequences.

However, something could be done under cover of darkness.

Her father paid for the grooms in the stable to buy themselves some ale, which they took to the far back of the inn’s garden.

Meanwhile, her father loosened the bolts on the springs of the lord’s carriage.

He loosened them just enough that they would hold for a bit, but not forever.

Mrs. Right knew the tale as she’d grown up hearing it.

Her father had a hundred times described it step by step as he liked to spin it out in a long story when he was in his cups.

Everyone in the village had been delighted when the gentleman’s carriage left the inn, made it thirty feet, and then tipped to one side.

That the lord ended with a black eye from the tipping was the icing on that cake.

Perhaps Mrs. Right had a few more details to be worked out, like how to get rid of Lord Thorpe’s stablemaster and grooms while she worked on the springs, but certainly it could be done.

*

Serenity thought the weather was somehow against her.

It had poured buckets all morning, meaning her walk with Lord Thorpe was off.

Then, it had the gall to clear up at the end of the day.

The sun had even peeked out from the clouds.

Still, there was always tomorrow and she would see Lord Thorpe at the masque soon enough.

Just as Patience had done before her, Serenity had been visited by Madame LaFray in the Dales for the months leading up to the season. The modiste had designed an exquisite wardrobe, though she found her customer far more interested in the design of a masque costume than anything else.

Upon consideration of what she wished for, Serenity had instantly seen that she ought to honor the bees. Once the idea had arrived in her head, it had seemed almost traitorous to think of any other idea.

Madame LaFray had at first been perplexed by how to go about it. Or why she was to go about it. But, as Serenity was so insistent, a notion finally arrived.

The final result was just what Serenity had imagined.

She would wear a half mask painted in a gold honeycomb pattern with a matching honeycomb patterned fan.

The dress itself was made from heavy flannel that had been brushed and roughed to replicate the fuzziness of a honeybee.

The top of the costume was a brownish yellow and below the waist it alternated with black horizontal bands.

Madame LaFray had even constructed light organza wings held up with wire for the back of the dress.

It was not that the dress was beautiful, as it was not, it was that it honored the bees.

Serenity Nicolet, bee killer, must honor the bees.

Though there was the rational part of her that knew perfectly well it was absurd, her feelings would not be swayed on the matter.

As far as her family was concerned, it seemed to make sense to them.

She’d always been fixated on bees and they did not give much thought as to why.

Mrs. Right had dressed her and, while it was not the most attractive costume, their dear housekeeper had seemed very out of sorts over it.

She had several times mentioned that Serenity ought to be wary of false flattery.

Serenity had pointed out that any high-flown compliments over the attractiveness of the dress certainly would be false.

It had not seemed to soothe the lady.

Since then, she’d gone downstairs and met her father in the costume he’d worn last year.

A white domino with flames painted round the hem of it.

It was meant to represent the two times her papa had set a lady’s curtains on fire, though most people who viewed it, including her aunt, took it to be a churchman’s white surplice going up in flames.

Serenity supposed her father decided to wear it again this year as it had taken so many people aback last year.

Serenity found herself leaning forward in her carriage seat so as not to crush her organza wings. She had been startled when her father said, “I believe Lord Charles is a troublemaker and ought to be avoided.”

“Goodness,” Serenity said. “Because he brought up that story about poor Clara, the housemaid?”

“That was just brotherly one-upmanship in which Lord Charles misjudged his audience. No, I have other reasons to think he might make more trouble for his brother if he can manage it. I’ll have a word with Thorpe about it.”

Serenity could not imagine what her father had discovered.

Though, she did trust her father’s judgment.

People might think him eccentric, but he was never wrong about people.

At least, usually. Or at least, eventually.

There had, of course, been those moments when he’d been mistaken.

He’d been the author of the pile of chains left on Mr. Stratton’s doorstep, and he’d filled Lord Dashlend’s front hall with flowers that all carried a terrible meaning, and then he’d sent Lord Stanford a jar of molasses to comment on his lack of speed regarding his courtship of Patience.

However, he always came to the right conclusion at the end.

What conclusion had he come to about Lord Charles?

“Papa, I am a grown lady. Do not you think I should know what has caused you to think badly of Lord Charles?”

“I do not,” the duke said. “I know how to stop trouble in its tracks and that’s what I am doing.”

It was all very mysterious. However, she ought not fret over it. After all, she did not have an interest in Lord Charles. Her interest was all in for Lord Thorpe. Really, she had at times found Lord Charles a bit off-putting. If her father thought Lord Charles should be avoided…