Chapter 1
There were only so many minutes a person could spend admiring a wall sconce before it became conspicuous.
Estella Hale was rapidly approaching that limit.
She'd already catalogued the sconce's every feature. Brass, shaped like a lion's head, one ear slightly crooked. She’d moved on to composing an imagined history of its life in this ballroom.
It had probably witnessed decades of glittering events. Proposals. Scandals. And scores of hopeful young women with better connections than hers.
None of whom, she suspected, had ever studied it this closely.
She kept her expression pleasant. That was the key.
Maintain the appearance of a woman who was perfectly content, simply taking in the magnificent décor of Lord and Lady Tidewaters’ ballroom, and not at all a woman who'd been standing alone for the better part of twenty minutes while the entire ton swirled around her like a river parting around a particularly unremarkable stone.
But she was fine. Indeed, she was perfectly content. She'd smile at the next person who glanced her way, and they'd smile back, and a conversation would begin, and she'd say something reasonably clever, and the evening would proceed exactly as planned.
Any moment now.
Against her better judgment, her eyes darted over to the clock near the entrance. Watching the minutes pass by was hardly helpful. All it told her was she still had many hours ahead of her and that shockingly little time had passed since she’d arrived.
This clock was also how she knew that her father had vanished into the card room precisely twelve minutes after their arrival. A new record, even for Papa. Usually he managed at least a quarter hour of social pleasantries before the lure of the tables proved too strong.
She'd watched him go with weary resignation. He wasn't a bad man, merely a broken one. And she could not fix him any more than she could fix the leaking roof on the east wing, or the dwindling accounts, or any of the other things that kept her awake at night.
What she could do was find a husband. The thought sat in her stomach like a lump of cold porridge, and she fought the urge to slump against the wall. Maybe bang her head against this ridiculous, crooked-eared wall sconce.
Instead, she straightened her spine and drew in a deep breath. This is all for Charlotte.
The reminder helped to fortify her, as it always did. Because Charlotte deserved a Season of her own someday. Not to mention a future that didn't consist of leaky roofs and good intentions.
Movement caught her eye. Across the room, a woman in primrose silk was smiling in her direction. Not just smiling—beckoning, with a little wave that seemed to say come, join us.
Estella's spirits lifted. She smiled back and took a step forward—
"Harriet! There you are, darling!"
The call came from directly behind Estella. The woman in primrose waved more vigorously and swept past without so much as a glance at Estella, who was left mid-step with her smile still fixed on her face and heat rushing into her cheeks.
Right. Of course. She hadn't been beckoning her. Why would she? Estella didn’t even know her.
In fact, Estella knew no one here.
Well, she supposed her father counted. And her chaperone, though heaven knew where she’d gone off to.
So no, she wasn’t totally alone. It just…felt that way.
She pivoted smoothly. Or, at least, she hoped it looked smooth. And then she continued walking as though she'd always intended to go in this direction. Toward what, she wasn't certain. Another wall sconce, perhaps. She was becoming quite the connoisseur.
Back home, it hadn't been like this. She'd had callers. Potential suitors, even. She hadn’t been entirely without prospects. In fact, the squire's son had come around twice last winter, and a young clergyman had shown a flattering interest in the spring. And then Mr. Phelps, who’d seemed quite smitten with her until he’d abruptly left town.
Actually, now that she thought about it, a suspicious number of her admirers had developed pressing business elsewhere.
Mr. Ashby had received an unexpected inheritance requiring his immediate presence in Scotland. The squire's son had simply stopped calling, and she’d heard he had business elsewhere.
And then there was Mr. Phelps. Dear, dull Mr. Phelps, who'd been working up the courage to speak to Papa for a month. But then he’d left for Cornwall overnight with no good explanation, and she hadn’t heard a word since.
Her smile faltered. Was she really that forgettable? Or perhaps just… uninspiring?
She resisted the urge to look down at her pale green gown. She knew what she’d find, and uninspiring was the kindest word for it. In truth, the gown had been altered and refitted so many times, it was difficult to say from what Season it had originally hailed.
Neither the color nor the fit were particularly flattering. But she’d done the best she could with her blonde locks, and she’d even taken a bit of pride in her pink cheeks and bright blue eyes when she’d cast one last look at her reflection.
She might not be a diamond of the first water, but several callers had told her she had a pretty smile. So…there was that.
She forced her smile even brighter. It was, after all, her best—and only—accessory.
But London was a fresh start. New gentlemen, new possibilities. Surely they could not all develop urgent business in distant counties.
She scanned the room and tried to assess the field with a pragmatic eye. There were men everywhere, which was encouraging in theory. Though in practice they were clustered in impenetrable groups that seemed designed to prevent exactly the sort of approach she was contemplating.
She drew in a deep breath and studied her options.
You are Estella Hale. You have run a household since you were seventeen. You have negotiated with creditors and once talked a horse out of a ditch. You can certainly make conversation with a stranger at a ball.
The horse had been easier, truth be told. If only she could wave an apple in front of these men to gain their attention. Or perhaps, take out a riding crop and—
"You look as though you're forming a battle plan."
Estella gave a little start at the low voice so close to her ear. Her gaze snapped to the gentleman who'd appeared at her side.
He seemed not much older than her, perhaps five and twenty, with warm brown eyes, an easy smile, and the kind of open, pleasant features that immediately put one at ease.
He looked, in short, like the answer to a very specific prayer that went: Please, God, let someone in this room be nice to me.
"Not a battle plan," she said, pleased to hear her voice come out steady and almost playful. "More of a strategic assessment."
The gentleman laughed, warm and surprised, as if she'd genuinely delighted him.
"Well then, allow me to offer my services as an intelligence officer.
I know nearly everyone here, and I'm an excellent gossip.
" He bowed with a flourish that managed to be charming without tipping into ridiculous. "Mr. John Fairchild, at your service."
A small voice in the back of her mind pointed out that they hadn't been properly introduced. He'd simply…appeared.
She knew she ought to care about that. A well-bred young lady would demur, or at the very least acknowledge the irregularity. But he was smiling at her. And no one else in this ballroom had so much as glanced her way all evening. Surely desperate times warranted a slight breach of decorum?
"Miss Hale," she finally said. "Estella Hale."
"Miss Hale," he said. "And is this your first Season?"
"Is it that obvious?"
He smiled. “Only in the most charming way. You seem to be taking everything in as if for the first time. It's refreshing."
Heat crept into her cheeks, but for once it was the pleasant kind. "I'm not certain 'refreshing' is the word most people would use. I suspect 'hopelessly provincial' is more accurate."
"Then most people are fools." He offered his arm. "Shall I give you the tour? I can promise at least three scandalous anecdotes and one story involving a goose that you'll think I invented but which is entirely true."
"Well…" She took his arm. "I cannot resist a goose story."
And just like that, the evening transformed. Mr. Fairchild steered her through the crush with easy confidence, pointing out notable people and sharing tidbits of gossip that were just scandalous enough to be entertaining.
"And that," he said, nodding toward a red-faced gentleman mopping his brow near the punch bowl, "is Lord Pemberton, who once wagered his horse against a goose in a game of vingt-et-un and lost both. Don't ask me how one loses a goose. The details remain murky."
Estella bit her lip against a grin. "You're making that up."
"See? I knew you’d think that," he said. "I am not. The goose was later recovered in Cheapside, wearing what witnesses described as a small hat."
She laughed. "Now I know you're inventing things."
"The hat was fabricated," he admitted. "But the rest is gospel truth."
It was easy, being with him. Easy and pleasant, and so unlike the stilted isolation of the past twenty minutes that she felt something like hope. Maybe this was how it worked. Maybe you met someone kind, and they made you laugh, and you didn't have to be terribly clever or pretty, and—
And don't be foolish, the practical voice in her head cautioned. You've known him for ten minutes.
But the practical voice was hard to hear over the relief of being smiled at.
"Your father couldn't join you this evening?" Mr. Fairchild asked.
"He's been claimed by the card room, I'm afraid."
"Ah." His expression was sympathetic. “Card rooms do tend to be more compelling than ballrooms for some men."
Especially for my father. She swallowed the words and let him lead her around the room. They'd nearly made a full circuit of the ballroom when it happened.