Chapter 1
“Mother?” Sophia pressed her palm against the bedchamber door, her heart hammering beneath her nightgown.
The floorboards had creaked moments ago.
A voice, low and male, had rumbled through the walls. At half past two in the morning, no voice should be sounding in this household.
“It is all right, darling.” Her mother’s reply came muffled through the wood. “Go back to bed.”
The tremor in those words said everything her mother’s assurances did not.
Sophia turned the handle and pushed inside.
The scene before her turned her blood to ice. Her mother stood backed against the window, her wrapper clutched at her throat, her honey-blonde hair tumbling loose around shoulders that shook with each breath.
And there, blocking the path to the door, stood Lord Drakeston.
He turned at Sophia’s entrance, irritation flashing across features that the ton considered distinguished.
At sixty, the Marquess of Drakeston maintained the polished appearance of a gentleman.
His silver hair swept back from a high forehead.
He wore a tailored coat even at this ungodly hour, gloves still on his hands.
But his eyes betrayed him. They glittered with something that made Sophia’s stomach clench.
She crossed the room in three strides and positioned herself between her mother and the marquess.
Her pulse roared in her ears, but she kept her voice level. “What are you doing here, my lord?”
“Sophia.” Her mother’s hand found her shoulder, fingers digging in. “Please, go back to your room.”
“I will not.” Sophia held Drakeston’s gaze. “Answer me.”
The marquess’s jaw tightened. For a moment, fury blazed across his face, raw and unguarded. Then he smoothed his expression into something resembling civility, though the effort cost him.
“I came to collect an installment on your family’s debt. Your mother was explaining the household’s financial situation.”
“At half past two in the morning?” Sophia felt her hands curl into fists at her sides. She forced them to relax. “You receive payments at your residence, my lord. That has been the arrangement. You aren’t permitted to come to our home at this hour.”
Drakeston stepped closer. Sophia held her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to retreat.
“Permitted?” His lips curved into something that was not quite a smile.
“Your father owes me four thousand pounds, Lady Sophia. Four thousand. At this point, I own this house, these furnishings, the clothes on your backs.” His gaze traveled down her nightgown and wrapper, deliberate, violating.
“I may come and go as I please. Particularly when it concerns your mother’s bedchamber. ”
Behind her, her mother made a small, wounded sound.
Sophia’s vision blurred red at the edges. She wanted to strike him. Wanted to claw that satisfied expression off his face. Her nails bit into her palms as she fought to maintain control.
“Wait here.” The words emerged calm, measured, and betrayed nothing of the fury churning inside her. “I will return in a moment.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She swept past him, down the corridor to her own chamber, her bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. Inside, she went straight to her writing desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and retrieved the leather pouch hidden beneath a stack of correspondence.
Her fingers trembled as she counted the notes. This was supposed to last another fortnight. This was meant to buy them breathing room, time to find another client, another match, another lifeline.
But some things mattered more than money.
She returned to her mother’s room and thrust the pile of banknotes toward Drakeston. He raised an eyebrow, took them, then counted them with infuriating precision.
“Where did you come by this sum?” His eyes narrowed as he tucked the notes into his coat. “A young lady of your circumstances shouldn’t have access to such funds.”
“My aunt has been generous.” Sophia met his gaze without flinching. “She sends what she can from her travels with my sister.”
Drakeston eyed her for a long moment. Sophia kept her expression blank, her breathing even, even though her heart threatened to crack through her ribs.
“Very well.” He adjusted his gloves. “You have bought yourself another month, Lady Sophia. I suggest you use it wisely.”
“You have your money.” Sophia moved to stand by the door, holding it open. “Now leave.”
Drakeston paused at the threshold. He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear, carrying the sour tang of wine.
“Your father’s debt grows larger by the day, my dear.
Interest, you understand. One day, your aunt’s generosity will not be enough.
And when that day comes…” His gloved finger traced the curve of her jaw. “I shall be waiting.”
Sophia didn’t breathe until his footsteps faded down the stairs, until the front door opened and closed, until long after the carriage wheels rattled away into the night.
Then she shut the door and turned to find her mother collapsed on the edge of the bed, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
“Mama.” Sophia crossed to her, kneeled before her and took her trembling hands. “It’s over. He’s gone.”
“I am so sorry.” Her mother’s voice broke. Tears streamed down cheeks that had grown thinner these past months. “I should have been stronger. I should have refused to let him in. But he said if I did not—”
“Shh.” Sophia gathered her mother into her arms, stroking the honey-blonde hair so like her sister Lily’s, so unlike her own light brown. “You have nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault.”
“If your father knew—”
“Father must never know.” Sophia pulled back, holding her mother’s gaze. “It would worsen his condition. We’ll handle this ourselves, Mama. We will find a way.”
Her mother’s green eyes, so like her own, searched her face. “How? The debts only grow. And Drakeston—” Her voice caught on his name.
“One day, we will pay him off completely.” Sophia squeezed her mother’s hands. “I promise you. One day, he will have no hold over us, and we will never have to speak his name again.”
She stayed until her mother’s breathing steadied, until exhaustion claimed her and pulled her into fitful sleep. Then Sophia rose, tucked the blankets around her, and slipped from the room.
She had work to do.
The printing office of Mr. George Colborne occupied the second floor of a narrow building in a working-class district of London. Sophia climbed the creaking stairs an hour before dawn, her dark cloak pulled tight around her shoulders with her hood shadowing her features.
She knocked twice, paused, then knocked three more times.
The door swung open to reveal a lean, bespectacled man with ink-stained fingers and the permanent expression of someone who had expected to be far more important by now. Mr. Colborne’s face brightened at the sight of her.
“Lady Sophia!” He ushered her inside, peering down the stairs before shutting the door. “You will not believe what arrived this evening. Another application. This one is most intriguing.” He pressed his hand to his chest.
Sophia pushed back her hood and surveyed the cramped office. Stacks of paper towered on every surface. The printing press dominated one corner, silent now but ready to churn out the next edition of the gossip sheet that had made Lady Fairhart famous. The air smelled of ink and candle wax.
“Show me.”
Mr. Colborne handed her a letter. Sophia scanned the contents: a young widow seeking companionship, recently emerged from mourning, possessed of a modest fortune and a reputation for charitable works. She desired a husband of steady temperament, one who valued kindness over social climbing.
Sophia pressed a finger to her lower lip, studying the list of names before her.
Her mind sorted through possibilities. Names and faces flickered through her memory, a catalogue built over five years of careful observation.
Lord Collingsworth had lost his wife two years past and remained devoted to her memory, but loneliness had shadowed his eyes at every ball.
He volunteered at the same foundling hospital as the widow.
“Lord Collingsworth,” she said.
Mr. Colborne blinked. “The viscount? But he never attends social functions. How would they—”
“They share a passion for charity work.” Sophia moved to the writing desk and pulled out parchment and ink. “She does not want a man who lives for ballrooms. She wants someone who understands loss and has emerged from it with his heart intact. Lord Collingsworth is that man.”
She composed two letters. The first, to the widow, encouraged her to attend the upcoming charity auction at St. George’s and to seek out Lord Collingsworth during the refreshment hour.
The second letter, to Lord Collingsworth, spoke of a lady whose quiet grace and generous spirit might ease the solitude that oppressed him.
Perhaps, my lord, it is time to allow your heart to hope again, she wrote, then signed with the flourish that had become famous across London: Lady Fairhart.
She sanded the ink, folded the letters, and handed them to Mr. Colborne.
“Mr. Colborne.” Sophia met his gaze. “I wish to discuss our rates.”
His eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “Our rates?”
“We should raise them.”
Mr. Colborne’s face contorted through several expressions before settling on dismay. “I would like that as well, truly I would. But the members of the ton have complained. They say our services, though effective, are becoming too expensive.”
“The members of the ton spend more on a single ball gown than we charge for an entire consultation.” Sophia kept her voice even, even though frustration simmered beneath her skin. “They have plenty of money to spare. What they lack is taste, which is why they require our help.”
Mr. Colborne winced. “Be that as it may…”
“Consider this.” Sophia leaned forward. “By raising Lady Fairhart’s rates, we make the service more exclusive. And what does the ton covet more than anything?”
Mr. Colborne frowned. “Titles? Wealth? Invitations to Almack’s?”
“Exclusivity.” Sophia smiled. “They will pay double for something they believe only the select few can afford. It is not about the money. It is about the perception of prestige.”
Understanding dawned in Mr. Colborne’s eyes. He stroked his chin, nodding. “There is merit in your reasoning. We’ll try a higher rate and see how the applications fare.”
Relief washed through Sophia, though she kept her expression composed. “Thank you.”
Mr. Colborne peered at her over his spectacles. “This is the first time you have asked for such a change, Lady Sophia. Is everything all right?”
The memory of Drakeston’s finger tracing her jaw flashed through her mind. She banished it.
“Everything is fine.” She rose, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “I should return before the household wakes.”
“Let me arrange a carriage for you.” Mr. Colborne moved toward the door. “These streets are not safe at this hour.”
“I’ll catch a hackney and walk the last stretch.” Sophia pulled up her hood. “Less conspicuous that way. A private carriage stopping at Brimsey House before dawn would invite questions I cannot answer.”
Mr. Colborne’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Be careful, my lady.”
“Always.”
She descended the stairs and slipped into the predawn darkness.
The streets held a unique quality at night. During the day, they bustled with working men and women, carts and cries and honest chaos. Now, in the gray hour before sunrise, they lay still and watchful. Shadows pooled in the doorways.
Sophia walked with purpose, her boots quiet on the cobblestones. She had made this journey dozens of times. She knew which corners to avoid, which alleys offered shortcuts.
Tonight, something felt different.
She realized it between one step and the next. The prickle at the back of her neck. The sense of being watched.
She didn’t turn. She adjusted her route, and headed toward a more populated thoroughfare.
Behind her, footsteps echoed.
More than one set.
Sophia’s pulse quickened. She cut through an alley she knew opened onto a wider street, one where hackney carriages sometimes lingered waiting for early-morning fares.
Her boots splashed through a puddle. The walls rose close on either side, brick slick with moisture, the sky a narrow ribbon of gray above.
She emerged from the alley and stopped.
Three men blocked her path.
They spread across the street, their postures speaking of violence barely held in check. One was tall and broad, with a face that had seen too many fists. Another was wiry and quick-eyed with a blade glinting at his belt. The third smiled and revealed teeth that had rotted.
“Well, well.” The smiling one stepped forward, tilting his head as his gaze traveled over her cloaked form. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing wandering these streets alone?”
Behind her, the footsteps from the alley drew closer.
She was surrounded.