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Now whenever Honoria and her husband, Oscar, popped by for a family dinner, there was always talk of Ernest—Honoria’s twin

who’d died at the age of four—and of Grandmother and Grandfather.

Of course, Thea understood that the stories and conversations were meant to soothe old wounds, and she was glad for it. Glad for them.

Therefore, it was with immense guilt that, while they had opened a door to healing, she felt like they’d closed a door on

her. She’d been cast outside, the stranger that didn’t belong to the family who shared a lifetime of memories without her.

The stark reality that the familiar home of her childhood was no longer there had hit her especially hard as she’d been nursing

the heart that Kellum had crushed. Not only had she lost the dream of writing a great play for the London stage, but she lost

a part of herself that she’d always thought unshakable.

But she didn’t want to think about that.

Instead, she lowered the cloche, took her seat at the table and looked squarely at Lady Broadbent. “Yes. I do wish to find

a husband.”

The countess issued a decisive nod.

“Now then,” she said as she spooned marmalade on a triangle of toasted bread. “I do believe that Viscount St. James would

make for an interesting prospect. He is nearly five and twenty and, although he has no estate of his own, he is the current

heir to an earldom. Unfortunately, his uncle is the Earl of Redcliffe and likely plans to take a third wife.”

Over the rim of a teacup, Thea saw the countess’s expression sour and assumed it was due to the number of wives. “What happened

to the earl’s other countesses?”

“A carriage accident took his second wife, along with her traveling companion. As for the first”—she paused to return the

unbitten toast to her plate and gestured for a footman to clear it away—“I seem to recall that she’d fallen ill after the

loss of her child and was sent to an asylum.”

“How dreadful.”

“Quite,” she said softly, carefully adjusting the gathered cuff of her pale gray morning dress. “Considering Redcliffe’s age, the likelihood that he will eventually produce an heir is greater than not. Therefore, perhaps it would behoove us to strike St. James from the list.”

Lady Broadbent looked across the table at her as if waiting for an answer.

Until that moment, Thea hadn’t been thinking along the lines of marrying St. James. She’d just enjoyed the unexpected pleasure

of conversing with him. But now, picturing him as a husband— her husband—she felt a sudden jump of nerves and her mouth went dry.

After gulping down the rest of her tea, she nodded. “Consider him stricken.”

“A pity, though. St. James reminds me so much of my husband. Pomeroy was also a kind, soft-spoken man, built on the larger

scale.” She emitted a dreamy sigh and added quietly to herself, “In every sense.”

Thea wasn’t a fool. She knew that look. With parents who were embarrassingly affectionate, she saw it often enough. And that

comment was precisely why she wouldn’t consider St. James as a potential husband.

Roxana Hartley had scarred her daughters by performing a play with puppets to explain what a woman was to expect on her wedding

night. The characters were Lord Flaccid, Lord Turgid, and Lady Content.

Thea had always had nightmares about Lord Turgid. The puppet was twice the size of Lady Content. He was even bigger than the

door of the box stage.

She shuddered at the memory.

Having been reared on plays, she’d seen dozens of battles, actors bathed in silk scarves of blood, and even a cabbage painted

to represent a decapitated head rolling across the stage. But nothing had ever frightened her more than Lord Turgid and the

way he made Lady Content tremble with fear.

If she had to marry to secure her future, then she would prefer a much smaller man than St. James.

Looking down at the sausage on her plate, she decided she wasn’t hungry anymore.

“If you’ve finished, let us repair to the morning room where our invitations await.” Lady Broadbent stood, leaning heavily

on her cane. “Come, come, my dear. Don’t dawdle and give me your arm. And remove that worry from your countenance. I’m old,

not dying.”

Thea couldn’t help but smile at the terseness, knowing she was all bark and no bite. “You are ageless.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” she chided as they left the room.

Turning the corner, they entered the cozy little room with hand-painted jonquils on the walls, a fringed violet shawl draped

over an upholstered settee, and a fat tufted hassock near a slender writing desk that overlooked the narrow side garden.

“Now then,” Lady Broadbent began as she sat in the fiddleback chair behind the desk and uncapped the inkwell. “I believe we

shall accept Lady Norris tomorrow, and the Biltons’ the day after. We’ll attend the musicale the following day, with the Leighton

Ball later in the week. You made quite the impression, my dear. Nevertheless”—she paused to look over at Thea who was sitting

on the hassock—“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the unfortunate events of last night should be of a private nature?”

“But it was the tale of the highwayman that earned those invitations.”

“Perhaps the make-believe story you invented didn’t call your reputation into question but, I can assure you, the truth of

our actual encounter surely would. We were quite fortunate to leave with our persons unmolested.”

Hearing the censure, Thea protested. “I could hardly stand by and let Abernathy throw us to the wolves. Fur thermore, he proved that we were more in danger of him than of the highwayman.”

“That may be true. And I’m certain that Abernathy deserved every ounce of humiliation he suffered. However, there would be

many who would leap to the wrong conclusion no matter what we claimed. Your reputation would be called into question,” she

warned, albeit with concern in her gaze.

Thea glanced down at the toes of her slippers peeking out from beneath her ruffled hem. “The thing is... I was able to

write last night, for the first time since... last Season. I haven’t told anyone because, frankly, it has been embarrassing,

especially when I’ve written all my life. But worse than that, I’m afraid that if I don’t continue to make up stories about

the dashing highwayman that I will... lose the ability again.”

The countess laid down her pen. “I had no idea, my dear. I knew that something between you and Sir Archer had—”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Her chaperone drew in a patient breath. “Very well. But I still have reservations, especially with involving us in the highwayman

narrative. After all, there are only so many times I can persuade people to believe that my driver is a crack shot. When we

both know that Mr. Dobbins is about as fierce as a titmouse, and his constitution causes him to pass wind whenever he’s nervous.”

“And he always blames the sound on the horses,” Thea added with a small grin, grateful that she wasn’t pressed for more details

about Kellum. It seemed only fair that she offer a compromise as well. “In regard to your reservations, I will refrain from

mentioning our encounter with the highwayman.”

“I believe that is the correct—”

“Instead, I will think of something far more clever.” She stood and, before the countess could caution her once more, she bussed a kiss to her cheek and added, “But only if the party is perilously dull and requires a modicum of excitement to keep everyone from perishing. Death by boredom is a grave matter, after all.”

Then she swept out of the room and went upstairs to plan her wardrobe. But only after she quickly returned to the breakfast

room for her paper flowers.

Her inner Greek chorus hummed with intrigue.

It didn’t mean anything, Thea silently told them. This bouquet was just more interesting than her usual gifts, nothing more.