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“Finding a husband after the banns have already begun for my match with Sir Josiah? Not likely.” She blew out her cheeks and accepted the cup.

“No, this calls for something more drastic than finding a husband.” She glanced at Charlotte.

“No offense to our dear duchess, but she was seeking a good match. I am seeking freedom.”

Charlotte finished pinning Vivienne’s hair into place and took a sip of her tea. “None taken. I do realize that not everyone is fortunate enough to find a handsome privateer turned duke for a husband as our Muriel Beau. What is your plan?”

“I shall remain the enigmatic Lady Larkby and stay single all my days to keep my secret safe.”

“But weren’t you raised in Bath until your father’s remarriage? Won’t people recognize you as Vivienne Poppy?”

“It’s been more than a dozen years since I’ve lived here. Since then I’ve grown a foot and have learned a thing or two about fashion, along with having help arranging my wiry curls. There should be precious little resemblance left.”

“Very good. And with your identity concealed, your living is secured and Sir Josiah will not be allowed to succeed in entrapping you in a loveless marriage.”

“Correct.” Vivienne reached for another of Muriel’s perfect scones and handed it to Charlotte.

“The last time Tess, Muriel, and I planned something this drastic, it ended quite successfully. And now that I have you, I have no doubt that the four of us can see this plan to a victorious end. As the latest member of our friendship society, I shall defer to you on our first order of business.”

Charlotte broke off a corner of the scone. “I believe our plan should begin with a trip to the Pump Room to stir curiosity from your readers, which I think will help the sales of your newest novel.”

Vivienne laughed and dusted her fingers free from the sugar. “To the Pump Room!”

A thump outside the door followed by a knock saw Brexton with a pile of trunks behind him.

“Perfect timing, Brexton.” Charlotte smiled up at him.

Vivienne caught the spark in the footman’s eyes at Charlotte’s praise, but she did not press her yet.

She had time enough to discover if a romance was brewing, with his mention of a sweetheart in Bath.

Together, the ladies readied themselves, which took longer than they would have wished, but it was diverting to sort through all that Muriel had sent, which ranged from sweet morning gowns to a masquerade costume, all in Vivienne’s tastes.

Charlotte cooed over the costume and sighed. “Heaven help me if we actually attend a masque … My costume is, to put it delicately, hideous, but as I didn’t want to spend my money on it and refused to allow Muriel to purchase a new one, Tess was kind enough to offer me an old mask of hers.”

“They truly are the kindest of friends.” She had never felt so seen as she had with her dear friends, and this wardrobe was proof that Muriel knew her better than anyone else.

Though Muriel had not been raised in high society, they’d been friends since girlhood.

Muriel now was well aware of all that was required from the ton …

a hard-won lesson, and Vivienne hoped to avoid a few lessons of her own.

In the end, she decided upon a lovely white muslin with a single ruffle on the collar, paired with a striking sapphire spencer with a white collar and lapels.

Charlotte assured her the result was simple but elegant when paired with the sapphire parasol and silk-trimmed bonnet with its white plume and her gold earrings with the golden pearl centers.

By the time they strolled through the Pump Room door, they were both eager for a cup of the curative waters.

The spacious Grand Pump Room hummed with conversations beneath a high-domed ceiling supported by decorative Corinthian columns.

A line of people awaited to take the waters in one corner of the room, where two servers handed out glasses of the warm mineral water from the fountain.

An orchestra played softly in another corner, adding to the opulence of the gathering.

At the end of the hall stood the statue of Beau Nash, the hall’s first master of ceremonies, with guests milling beneath him.

It was as stunning as Vivienne remembered from her visits here as a small child with her father before he had wed again.

It had been such a happy time. Vivienne’s father believed quite differently than other parents.

He wished to have his daughter at his side wherever he went, inviting her as one would a treasured friend.

He had valued her opinion and company. Because of him she’d learned how to manage a household with his supervision, how to balance the books, and most of all, she’d discovered the gift of story.

For it was through her father’s ardor of recounting the stories of her parents’ devotion that Vivienne had learned what true love looked like.

She had never known her mother … Her father had scarcely had time with her himself before she’d died giving birth to Vivienne, but the time her parents had spent together had been beautiful.

Their terrace home had been part of Mother’s dowry and had been Vivienne’s haven until Father had married the visiting Mrs. Hart, who’d been established in Chilham in a country manor.

It had been difficult leaving Bath for Chilham at the delicate age of ten.

She had been loath to leave it, but the idea of gaining a mother and a stepbrother seemed to be worth the sacrifice.

It was only by Father’s insistence and Vivienne’s begging that Mrs. Hart not sell their home in Bath, instead keeping it in Vivienne’s name, that Vivienne was able to have a home at all now.

Father had hired a local family to clean it every season, preparing it in the event they took a holiday.

Regardless of the drain of funds to see to its upkeep, Mrs. Hart had been a kind soul and never challenged her husband’s wish.

But they’d never seemed to have any time to take a holiday to Bath, and then he’d died and all talk of such a trip ceased. The house had remained closed.

Mrs. Hart had been kind. But based on the stories Vivienne’s father had told about her mother, it appeared the second marriage was more so one of companionship and need than one of those destined to be together.

But companionship isn’t so bad.

As much as she disliked admitting it to herself, Bash had filled her thoughts all week.

The memory of his lips on hers made her wish for his second appearance.

She still hadn’t found the time to walk to the constable’s office to give her witnessed account.

Well, if she were honest, she’d had more than enough time.

She just didn’t have the heart to report any more information on the thief who was mentioned in the newssheets by Sir Thomas.

The account was factual but lacked feeling.

A thief who cared for the poor and a lady’s honor was a conundrum.

Everything about him was manly, strong, and all she had ever written about in her heroes.

Never before had her head been so turned by a man, but she suspected it was because of the impossibility of anything coming from it that she allowed herself to dream.

She shook her head over her foolishness.

She had no time to dream about a man who’d stolen her funds.

She needed to ensure her future, and dwelling on the handsome highwayman was not beneficial.

Charlotte touched her arm. “Lady Larkby? Would you like me to fetch some curative water? You have a distant look in your eye. Is it the crowd?”

“I’m only deep in memories. A cup of mineral water would be lovely, with a couple of pastries to go along with it.

” She opened her reticule and handed Charlotte a coin.

She couldn’t buy treats every time she visited the Pump Room, but it had been so long since she had been here, and she needed to mark the occasion with the sweets that she and her father had so enjoyed.

“Of course, Lady Larkby.” Charlotte strode away.

Two ladies nearby had their heads bent together, whispering. One lady nodded to Vivienne, approaching with a tentative smile. “Pardon my breech of etiquette, but did I hear your companion address you as Lady Larkby? Are you the famed authoress?”

Vivienne inclined her head, ignoring the fact that she had never been recognized out in public before. She offered a smile, imagining that Lady Larkby would act far more gracefully and confident than Vivienne Poppy. “I am.”

“How fortuitous. I am Mrs. Pickering, and my friends and I meet every other Friday in Sydney Park and discuss our favorite novels over a picnic breakfast. We would be honored to have you join us, as we have only just completed A Knight and His Lady .” She fluttered her fan to beckon a friend who was arm in arm with a gentleman.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cheslyn are readers in our little book gathering as well!”

The feather in Mrs. Cheslyn’s hat stood at an impressive height, but it kept brushing against her husband’s nose.

He patiently swatted it away with a dazed expression directed at Vivienne.

“Lady Larkby, I cannot describe the joy I derive from reading your books. Pray tell, what is your next book about?”

“My next novel, The Privateer Takes a Bride, is already in with my publisher, but I’m now writing about a highwayman and a lady he robs at gunpoint, only to find that it is his heart that is stolen.”

The women clapped, giggling. “How daring, Lady Larkby. You simply must come this week and speak with our group.”