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Lavinia, Lady Thornfalcon, sat in her blue and silver bedchamber that fine morning, busily writing notes.

She had told the household in the strictest of terms that she must not be disturbed, and they were all of them accustomed to obey her without question, with one exception.

She could hear that exception, her lovely daughter, shrieking energetically in the distance, but it did not disturb her in the least. The house was full of people, one of whom would no doubt deal with her, probably by bribing her with sweetmeats.

Lavinia had more important matters to concern herself with.

These matters, after all, concerned Priscilla’s future as well as her own.

There was a great deal to organise in a short time, and her Friends must be mobilised in her aid.

Most of them had been waiting for such an opportunity, and would ask nothing better than to help their idol to achieve the happiness that they all agreed she so richly deserved.

As she now had Rosanna Wyverne’s vital co-operation – for a price, naturally – she could set her plan fully in motion.

The Wyverne girl would soon be ruined – her notorious stepmother would make quite sure of that.

She would never be received in society again, nor would the rest of her family.

Their reputation had been precarious enough already.

All it needed to destroy it once and for all was – she tittered to herself genteelly at the thought – a little push. Perfect.

It seemed to Lavinia most unlikely that Marcus would wish to marry the chit when her good name lay in tatters, since it was ridiculous to imagine that he cared for her in the slightest, but it really didn’t matter one jot.

That was the beauty of it; people were so easy to manipulate for one of her intelligence and insight.

She had taken the silly girl’s measure in an instant, and was almost positive that she was the sort of idiot who would nobly insist on ending her engagement once she was ruined, rather than dragging the man she loved down into the dirt with her.

Lady Amelia would cry off, and since Marcus didn’t give a damn about her, he would hardly insist on leading her, unwilling, to the altar.

He couldn’t – he was a gentleman, and must accept her rejection without argument.

Gentlemen were so restricted by their ridiculous honour, which was wonderful as it left a large field open to those who were constrained by no such considerations.

To those who were prepared to be utterly ruthless to get what they wanted.

He’d then be free, and Lavinia would redouble her own efforts at seduction, and eventually, she could not doubt that she would be successful.

If Marcus found her warm and naked in his bed one night, she thought, with the Wyverne girl lost to him forever, he would not have the strength to resist her.

She had not failed to notice that he dared not lay a hand on her now, not so much as a finger, and not, she thought complacently, because he found her repulsive.

That was a preposterous idea. The reverse was true: if once he touched her, desire would overwhelm him and he would be hers entirely again.

He was hers, and always would be. She would give him a son, as quickly as possible, and there would be no more ridiculous talk about the marriage being voided; Papa was an influential man, and had promised he would make certain of that, no matter how many bribes he might have to pay.

She would be the Lady Thornfalcon again, with all the status of a wife and not a poor, sad widow, and this time she would remain so.

There would be no more need for accidents; she and Marcus would be blissfully happy, as they always should have been, the last eight years forgotten.

Ambrose had loved her – worshipped her – as was her right, but he had been so dull, loving the country, never wanting to spend the Season in London.

She had warned him that he shouldn’t oppose her, because people who opposed her never prospered, but he had ignored her warning and now he was dead. Really, it had been his own fault.

And if she and Marcus weren’t blissfully happy, after a year or two and a son or two, well…

she had rid herself of an inconvenient husband before and got away with it.

If necessary, she would do so again. But this time, only once her position was entirely secure.

No more mistakes. If his mother and sister stood in her way, they too might find themselves unexpectedly unwell.

The girl Helena was irrelevant and could easily be married off to somebody or other, preferably somebody who lived a good long way away in some tumbledown castle in Scotland – she would see to that as soon as possible.

And the old lady was quite feeble enough already, which would make it even easier.

A slip on the stairs – well, perhaps not that, but she would think of something.

She was so clever and resourceful. And nobody in the world had the slightest suspicion of it.

She had run rings round that bumbling Bow Street Runner; she ran rings round everyone.

She was writing what was effectively the same note a score of times, pressing hard with her pen to underline significant parts, and would have her maid or one of the other servants deliver them – discreetly, of course.

She wasn’t so foolish as to put her name to the missive, and was disguising her hand as she wrote.

If she should later be charged with responsibility, though she was sure she wouldn’t be, she would be able to deny it without blinking.

And really, even if she had to admit authorship, there was nothing criminal in what she proposed.

There would be a touching family reunion in a very public place – again, she smiled at the thought – and all she was doing was inviting a few friends to witness it.

The notes said:

Supporters of Lavinia! You have spoken fine words in praise of your Persecuted Heroine, but it has not been enough.

It is time for her suffering to be put to an end.

If you attend the Opera House Masquerade on Saturday, you will be present to witness a shocking event that will change everything for the better.

An Unworthy, Base Wretch of a Female will receive her just desserts, and you shall see it happen.

All the Poor Unfortunate Lady you so love could ask of you is that you tell the world of what you have seen. To bear witness will be enough. Victory is near, and you may, if you have the courage, play a part in it that will never be forgotten.

I am confident that She may depend on your enduring affection.

A Friend