Prologue
April 19, 1873
Lady Sophronia Bremerton glanced toward the ballroom doors, calculating her chances of a discreet exit. Her Ladyship the Marchioness of Molyneaux’s invitation to her annual ball held the Saturday after Easter was the most coveted of the Season; therefore, Sophie could hardly claim boredom as her reason for wishing to leave.
The Viscount of Kensington and Lord Hawthorne had already claimed a waltz, and three separate countesses had offered to accompany Sophie to A Private View at the Royal Academy. But Sophie didn’t flatter herself that her charms or others’ desire for her company were to be credited for the attention. Rather, her position as a society reporter for the Illustrated London News made the members of England’s upper class either seek her out or deliberately avoid her.
The grand clock echoed through the ballroom, chiming eleven. She’d arrived just after nine. Two hours of dancing and socializing should sufficiently please her parents. She looked across the room, trying to catch a glimpse of the feathers in her mother’s hair. Truth be told, her parents would likely not notice her absence—not when her sister had waltzed with the future Duke of Norwood.
Moving at a quick pace, Sophie made her escape. She hurried along the edge of the crowded ballroom toward the entrance, giving only polite nods and avoiding direct eye contact with anyone who might hope to bend her ear with a whisper of gossip.
Reporting rumors, scandals, and on-dits of the upper class was her occupation, but tonight she had no interest in discovering a story. She already knew what her next report would be, and it was hardly news. She smirked, certain the young lady involved would feign adequate surprise when the announcement was made, as would the other guests. London Society kept a secret as effectively as a wicker basket held water.
Tonight the Marquess of Molyneaux was to announce the engagement of his son and heir, Lord Ruben. The identity of the lucky young lady who would one day become the marchioness was, of course, taken for granted. Lord Ruben and Miss Dahlia Lancaster had carried on the most intentionally visible and highly gossiped-about courtship in decades. Sophie had written so many articles and created enough illustrations of the pair that she was relieved the nonsense would finally come to an end. She would, however, need to endure a conspicuous engagement . . . and then the wedding.
Sophie blew out a breath as she neared the doorway. How she longed to move away from the society columns and turn her skills to uncovering a real story—an important story about something that mattered, not just which member of high Society wore the most extravagant gown or had deliberately avoided a particular soiree to spite a rival. Unfortunately, Mr. Leonard, the editor of the broadsheet paper, valued Sophie’s artistic ability and access to high-Society events above her investigative skills.
“Lady Sophronia?”
Drat. The voice was too near for Sophie to pretend she hadn’t heard. She masked her irritation with a pleasant smile and turned.
Lord Everleigh stepped around a group of matrons. When he reached Sophie, he took her hand and bowed stiffly. “Good evening.”
As usual, the man’s clothing was impeccable. Slender and pale-skinned, he wore his fair hair short, parted smartly on the side. A waxed mustache graced his upper lip. Sophie inclined her head. “Lord Everleigh.”
“I’d hoped to engage your sister for the next waltz.” He released her hand and clasped his own behind his back, glancing toward the dancers. “Have you an idea where I might find her?”
Sophie should have guessed his reason for stopping her. She and the future Earl of Kirkham had only exchanged the briefest greetings in the past, and although they moved in the same social circles, she would hardly call the man more than a very remote acquaintance.
“I believe she is there, near the west windows.” Sophie lifted her chin toward the far side of the ballroom, where a cluster of young ladies gossiped and preened. Her younger sister, Priscilla, was no doubt the very center of the group. “At least, that is where I last saw her.”
“Very good. Thank you.” He moved as if to leave but stopped, perhaps thinking it rude not to bestow a compliment or at least engage in some conversation.
For her part, Sophie was perfectly happy to forego niceties and hasten her departure.
“I, ah, enjoyed your latest article, my lady.” Lord Everleigh ran a finger over his mustache and glanced across the ballroom again. “Something about spring fashions on the Brighton Palace Pier, wasn’t it?” He looked down at her and nodded. “Very cute.”
Sophie bowed her head so he couldn’t see her nostrils flare. She was so tired of patronizing tones when it came to her work. I am beyond ready to move on to something real. “Thank you, my lord.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” He straightened his neckcloth, making the large ruby of his tiepin gleam in the light of the gas lamps, gave another bow, and then strode away.
That ruby tiepin, given to him by Lord Ruben—who thought the gem a clever play on his name—identified Lord Everleigh as a member of an elite group: the West End Casanovas. Sophie had first used the appellation in an article, intending it as sarcasm, but the group had been delighted by the moniker and had adopted it as their own. The five Casanovas were extremely handsome and tremendously wealthy young men, each coming from old and established families and each an heir apparent to a high-ranking title. The men had attended school together at Eton and university at Oxford and were considered by all of London to be the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom. They were the future leaders of the country, and nearly every unattached young lady and her mother aspired to catch the attention of one of them.
Sophie suspected Lord Ruben, as self-appointed leader of the group, had delayed his engagement for just that reason. Though he had courted Dahlia Lancaster for two Seasons, his attentions had by no means been exclusively to her. He enjoyed the role of flirt, and Sophie thought he must be reluctant to give up the game and commit to matrimony.
Before anyone else could approach her, she quickly made her way through the entrance and down the wide passageway of the grand London home, passing sculptures and paintings but giving them hardly a look as she walked on the thick carpet of a side passage. Surely there was a quiet room where she could find respite from false smiles, petty gossip, and backhanded compliments.
Ahead a band of light glowed beneath a door. When she pulled it open and peeked inside, wooden shelves, heavy with leather books, glowed in the light of gas lamps. Before the lit hearth was a deep sofa and plush leather chairs that implored her to set herself at ease, forget her insecurities and frustrations, and pretend the ball was far away.
Stepping across the threshold, Sophie felt lighter already. She lowered herself into a soft armchair, rested her head back, and closed her eyes. Even before the newspaper had employed her, she’d dreaded situations in which she was expected to play the games of Society. Acting one way and thinking another was contrary to her nature, a trait that did little to win friends or the approval of her parents.