Diana, like Violet, made no effort to mask her spirit or her sharp intelligence or, additionally, her frustration with the position of a woman of good background but not especially large fortune who was flung upon the marriage mart. Emily, though her frustrations were similar to Diana’s (for Violet was the only one of the three whose dowry had been considered truly impressive), was so good at adopting an air of meek agreeability that men seemed unable to resist.

Until, of course, they learned precisely how little blunt Emily’s father, the Marquess of Rowanbridge, had to his name. Then Emily became somewhat more resistible.

“He still has not returned from his trip to New York,” Emily said in response to Violet’s question about Mr. Cartham. “Apparently his mother’s health was not so dire as he thought when he departed, and her decline was a lengthier event than he anticipated.” She seemed to inject the level of concern appropriate for a lady speaking of her suitor’s dying mother, but Violet was not fooled. “In any case, I received a letter from him yesterday noting his soon departure from America, so I expect he should return within a matter of days.”

“Bother,” Diana muttered, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “That means your reprieve will soon be over, then.”

“Indeed,” Emily murmured.

Silence momentarily descended upon the room, each of the three ladies reflecting on the unwelcome return of Mr. Oswald Cartham, an American by birth, owner these ten years past of Cartham’s, one of the most notorious gaming hells in London. Cartham was in his mid-thirties, rich as Croesus, and, for the past three years, Emily’s most persistent suitor.

He was also utterly odious.

It was rather absurd, Violet thought idly, staring into her teacup at the cloudy liquid it contained. Three ladies, all considered among the prettier girls to be presented at court upon their debut five years earlier, all from old aristocratic families of impeccable lineage and respectability.

And all utterly miserable in love.

There was Emily, whose father’s debts at Cartham’s meant that he had no choice but to allow the man’s unwelcome attentions toward his daughter until he could scrape together the funds he owed.

There was Diana, who had been so desperate to flee the home of her aunt and uncle, where she had resided since her parents died—her mother in childbirth, and her father of apoplexy soon after—when she had been only five years old. She’d held no illusions about marrying for love; all she wanted was freedom, and she had seized it by marrying a man thirty years her senior, who had left her a widow at the age of twenty-one.

And then there was Violet. Violet of the impetuous love match. Violet, who had married James Audley a mere four weeks into their acquaintance, thoroughly scandalizing polite society. Violet, who in those four weeks had fallen head over heels in love with the man who had proposed to her—in front of her mother!—on that darkened balcony. Violet, who had been eighteen, infatuated, swept up by her young, dashing, impossibly handsome husband. Violet, who now . . . well.

The less said about Violet and James, the better.

It was uncanny timing, then, that at the precise moment that Violet was occupied with these utterly gloomy thoughts—about her husband, Diana’s late one, and Emily’s lack of one—that her butler, Wooton, appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, a platter balanced on his hands and a single letter placed in the center of the platter.

“My lady,” he said, bowing without allowing the tray to drop so much as a millimeter. Even Violet’s mother would have found no fault. “A note just arrived for you from Viscount Penvale.”

“For me?” Violet asked, startled. “Not for Lady Templeton?”

“No, my lady,” Wooton said. “It is very plainly addressed to you.”

“Thank you, Wooton,” Violet said, rising from the settee and taking the note from him. “That will be all.”

“My lady.” Another bow, and he was gone.

“Why on earth would my brother be writing to you?” Diana asked idly.

“I don’t know,” Violet replied, opening the missive, which appeared to have been hastily scrawled—Penvale’s handwriting was barely legible.

15 July

Audley House

Lady James,

I write to inform you that your husband was thrown from his horse this morning whilst attempting to ride a particularly feisty stallion. The fall knocked him unconscious, and he has yet to regain his senses. A physician has been sent for, and Willingham and I remain by his side, anxiously awaiting his recovery. I will, of course, continue to keep you apprised of his condition, but I felt that you would wish to learn of this incident as soon as possible, and thought your husband would wish the same.

Yours, etc.

Penvale

Unconscious. The word echoed in Violet’s mind as she stared down at Penvale’s missive. She flipped the paper over, desperately hoping for more information than the scant few sentences that had been provided to her, but there was nothing.

“Violet?” Emily asked, and Violet looked up, startled; for a moment, she had forgotten that she was not alone. “Is everything quite all right?”

“No,” Violet said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “That is, I don’t quite know. James was thrown from his horse yesterday and knocked unconscious.”