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“His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast / To catch a lover’s look, but look’d his last;

For, instant dying, she again descends, / While he to empty air his arms extends.”

—Book the Tenth of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

T he Atholl family carriage rolled forward, nearly at the front of the line. Inside, Charity leaned her head against the carriage seat back and squeezed her eyes shut.

A year ago she had dreamt of attending an opera. She had imagined going with her family, with Grace, or maybe even on the arm of her betrothed. Yet here she sat, entirely alone, in a situation of her own making.

You wanted this.

And she had. This is what she had asked for on the fateful day when she begged the Queen to arrange marriage with a man half in the grave. After having her future ripped away by Lady Fitzroy, any control of her life snatched victory from the jaws of defeat .

Ironic. It was not really control she had gained, but isolation. She was alone on the stage, like a puppet, her strings jerked by the Queen of England. Why else would Charity make an appearance on a night she preferred to hide away in her room?

Stop wasting your time worrying about Peregrine Fitzroy! her mother’s imagined voice chastised. If only that were so easy.

Charity had assumed—or maybe just hoped, really—that a few nights of sleep and healing would cool his temper.

That she would find another chance to apologise about her deal with the Queen.

But from what she had heard, a bed was the farthest thing from his mind.

If he was not out carousing at White’s, he was nowhere respectable.

His prolonged silence had made it abundantly clear; he was not yet ready to discuss any of it. Maybe it would be a cold day in hell before he forgave her for her betrayal. Which was understandable, as she could not quite find the wherewithal to completely forgive herself either.

After their last bitter conversation, she had spent time imagining how she would have felt in his shoes. The raw conclusion was that she would feel much the same as he did.

Her decision to appeal to the Queen for help when Perry had lain there, gravely injured, was still the only choice she could have made.

But her larger mistake was holding her tongue.

She should have told him the moment he woke, but she hadn’t, and all the wishing in the world could not undo this error.

Charity’s vision shrank, the familiar tightness in her chest stealing her breath. With a trembling hand, she reached out and flicked aside the curtain to allow light in, pushing back that feeling of suffocating impotence.

The impressive facade of the Theatre Royal was visible in the lamplight. It had been rebuilt after fire destroyed it five years earlier. Though the evening’s production of Orphée et Eurydice was well underway, the line of people waiting to get inside showed no signs of thinning.

Only a fool attended the Royal Opera to watch the performers, despite the voices performing on stage.

The real show took place in the boxes lining the cavernous theatre.

Lord and ladies, dukes and duchesses, donned their finest attire and raised their opera glasses, not to see the Italian soprano, but to get a closer look at the jewels sparkling in people’s ears and around necks.

And on this particular evening, even the Queen was to be there with her diamond. The mouths of the aristocracy must be positively watering.

Eyes turned to watch the Duchess Atholl make her way through the theatre doors.

Charity pasted a hint of a smile on her face, willing her beauty to match the famed Atholl sapphire necklace hanging from her neck.

Her gown, royal blue silk with hand-stitched Belgian lace covering the bodice and capped sleeves, drew gasps of envy.

She imagined herself Venus rising from the frothing seas, personified.

Few would count silk and lace as appropriate gear for battle, but Charity’s choice of gown proved worth every pound. Admiring the priceless vision kept them from noticing that her eyes may have lacked their usual sparkle.

No sooner did she set foot in the vestibule than a horde of titled young men stepped forward to surround her.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I hope you will not think me too forward, but I find I cannot contain my words. Tonight, you are more stunning than the fields of bluebells at my country home,” one man purred, reaching for her hand.

“Cut line, Mathers,” another said, blocking the first. He clasped Charity’s gloved hand in his without so much as a by-your-leave and pressed such a sloppy kiss on her knuckles that it left a damp mark on her white gloves.

“You will have to excuse young Mathers here, Your Grace, for he does not understand that a woman of your refinement has little use for wildflowers. With your permission, I would be delighted to bring you a bouquet worthy of a diamond. Tomorrow, perhaps? Around four in the afternoon?”

Charity knew the names, titles, and net worth of the men around her. Each of them was in the market for a bride this season. They had given her nothing more than a cursory nod up until tonight, likely assuming her either out of reach or too soon out of mourning.

Yet, somehow, things had changed. For some reason, they seemed to be under the impression that she was in the market and desperate for a new husband.

Charity had far too much on her plate to dally with young bucks, even if she were so inclined. And she most definitely was not. If only someone else were here—Grace, or even Perry—they could have a good laugh over the antics of the spoiled beaus falling at her feet.

But Grace was up in Northumberland, likely with a newborn demanding her attention. And Perry?—

Peregrine Fitzroy was not available for her, not even when the Queen herself was the one making the demands.

Charity pulled her hand free of the man’s hold, nearly losing her glove in the process, and levelled her haughtiest gaze on the horde. “My social calendar is fully booked, Mr Adams. Now, if you will please make way, Her Majesty is expecting me.”

The man’s jaw tightened as her cut hit home, but he shifted over to make room for her to go. However, he pitched his voice just loud enough to allow her to hear his passing remark. “I wonder if our good Queen knows about her carriage rides with the traitor’s son?”

Her mother’s voice hissed for her to hurry off, without a backward glance. To allow the insult to go unchallenged. But Charity was done turning the other cheek. She swung around, her eyes sparking for the first time in weeks, this time with fury. “What did you say?”

Adams blatantly avoided meeting her gaze, instead smirking at the rest of his group of friends.

“My sister spotted them leaving St James’s together, if you can believe it.

Instead of being grateful that such esteemed gentlemen as ourselves are willing to come calling, she snubs us in favour of a man with a reputation as black as his boots.

And even he has thrown her over, it seems.”

The voice of Charity’s mother begged her to apologise to the young man, if for no other reason than to save the family name from further scandal.

But the newer speaker in her head—the calm, collected voice of reason—kept her head held high and her tone sharp.

“Mr Adams, I have as little interest in covering your gambling debts as I do in subjecting myself to your juvenile pawing. As for Lord Fitzroy, do not call him a traitor. The only blood on his hands comes from the sacrifices he made at the Nive for our country.”

Adams rocked back. The rest of his set found a hundred other places to set their gaze, anywhere but in Charity’s direction.

The thrill of victory put a spring into Charity’s step.

Mr Adams and the rest of the money-hungry ne’er-do-wells would think twice before accosting her in the future.

Far too soon, however, triumph faded away, leaving behind a familiar sick churn.

Peregrine wanted to break free of his mother’s legacy, and incidents like tonight reminded her how difficult that path would be.

She had been eschewing alcohol this season, afraid to cede control to intoxication. But Charity took a glass of champagne from a footman to calm her spirits before she curtseyed to the Queen. She raised the glass, but before her lips touched the rim, someone stepped on the back of her train .

The precious silk ripped under the careless heel, throwing her off balance. Champagne sloshed, spilling down her chin and onto her glove. She pressed the side of her wrist against her mouth to mop up the sticky liquid, heedless of the stain.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, I did not see you there,” a woman’s voice purred, no hint of apology in her words.

Charity swung around to meet the eyes of Lady Pelham, whose face was lit in unholy delight as she took in the results of her rear attack.

“Far be it for me to question your modiste, but tell her to take greater care when measuring the length of your train. I nearly slipped!” The woman dared to smooth her own skirt and then pat her coiffure, feigning a near injury. “This is your first opera? You will know better next time.”

“I will be sure to discuss the issue with the Queen, as soon as I arrive at the royal box.” Charity gathered the side of her gown. With a flick of her fingers, the silk folded over, concealing the damage to the train. “Shall I tell the Queen you send your regards?”

At that, the viperous Lady Pelham lost the satisfaction gained from her petty prank. Charity swept off, leaving behind the woman pinch-faced with jealousy.

Despite her bravado, the back-to-back challenges left Charity shaken.

She asked the way to the retiring room and begged an attendant to fetch a seamstress from backstage.

Ten minutes was lost waiting for the only available costumer to repair her train.

The stained glove would have to wait for her lady’s maid.