“I wasn’t toying,” Claire said, serenely reclaiming her seat. “Merely appreciating. He’s rather lovely, in an absent-minded, scholarly sort of way.”
“Lovely?” I echoed, incredulous. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t notice as you’re his sister. But he is. Quite striking, really. Those curls like velvet, the shade of aged wine. And those eyes—stormy and distant, like the sea just before it breaks.” She paused, then added with a dreamy sigh, “And he hides a surprisingly fit physique beneath all that tweed. Like a Grecian statue who got lost in an herbarium.”
“Honestly, Claire,” I muttered. “Where do you come up with these notions? He’s not like other men. He’s quiet. Gentle. Entirely uninterested in romantic pursuits.”
Claire raised one perfect brow. “You mean he’s uninterested in women.”
“I mean, he’s uninterested in anyone who doesn’t photosynthesize.”
She gave a soft hum of amusement, clearly unconvinced. “You misjudge him.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, the edge easing from my voice. “A woman like you would turn him inside out.”
Claire exhaled through her nose, then nodded solemnly. “Very well. I shan’t flirt. I’ll be a sister. Or a cousin. Second cousin, perhaps. Third, if that’s less threatening. You have my word.”
“Thank you.”
With the awkward moment passed, Claire’s attention returned to the task at hand with mercurial enthusiasm. “Now then, this salon. We’ll hold it, let’s see.” She tapped a delicate finger against her lips. “Tuesday afternoon. You’ll introduce the theme—The Role of Women in Financial Autonomy: A Civilized Discussion—and I shall supply the sherry and the sparkle.”
“I can already hear my grandmother’s cane striking the floorboards in protest.”
“All the more reason to make it unforgettable,” Claire said, eyes alight. “We’ll fill the room with ladies who have something to say and no one who dares tell them not to say it. We’ll give Mrs. Greystone the spotlight—then watch what shadows she casts.”
I lifted my teacup in salute. “To schemes and salons.”
Claire clinked hers against mine. “And to uncovering whatever secrets bloom in the shade.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
VELVET AND VENEER
Lady Claire’s drawing room had been transformed into a showcase of genteel rebellion—velvet cushions in sapphire and garnet scattered across chaise lounges, sherry gleaming in cut-crystal decanters, and a fire crackling in the hearth as if in support of the cause. The scent of lilies and bergamot perfumed the air, mingling with the sharper, unspoken notes of rivalry and ambition.
I arrived early, as agreed, wearing violet silk with a high collar and jet buttons—subdued, but striking enough to suggest purpose. Today was not about fashion, but message. I was here to speak, to persuade, to rattle the gilded cage just enough to make the occupants notice the bars.
The guest list had been chosen with care—and, in some cases, cunning. Ladies Danforth, Finch, and Farnsworth arrived in a tight cluster, all curious glances and thin smiles. Mrs. Greystone entered shortly thereafter, wrapped in dove-grey satin with silver trim, her every movement deliberate. She chose a seat near the hearth, observing the room with the detachment of someone assessing a business opportunity.
From the Society for the Advancement of Women came our strongest voices: Lady Whitworth, upright and sharp-eyed; Lady Sheffield, whose wry remarks often disguised deeper strategies; and Miss Moore, the young heiress with a mind like a forge and a bank account to match. She settled into her chair with an eagerness that was encouraging and dangerous.
Claire, a vision in peacock silk and sapphires, presided over the affair with her usual mix of practiced charm and barely veiled delight in the possibility of scandal. She moved through the room like a conductor, guiding everyone with a raised brow, a light touch, or a well-timed quip. Once everyone had been seated and offered refreshments, she clapped her hands with gentle finality.
“Ladies,” she began, her voice warm and lilting, “thank you for braving the weather, your calendars, and—dare I say—the weight of public expectation to join us. This afternoon’s salon is held under the auspices of the Society for the Advancement of Women, and it is my great pleasure to introduce our guest speaker—Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven. She has, as many of you know, been delightfully persistent in her advocacy for women’s rights, and I, for one, cannot wait to be provoked.”
Laughter followed—some genuine, some politely restrained.
I rose, smoothing my notes more from habit than necessity. My words were already with me.
“I thank Lady Claire for the invitation and the generous introduction. Today’s subject is one that touches every woman in this room, whether directly or through those we care for—financial independence.”
A subtle hush fell, curiosity sharpening into attention.
“We speak often of virtue and duty, and somewhat less of marriage’s true cost. Rarely do we discuss income or investment, though these are the levers by which lives are shaped—or ruined. Dependence on a father, brother, or husband is not simplyinconvenient. It’s a gamble. And far too often, we are left to pay the price.”
Lady Danforth gave a soft snort and set down her teacup with a clink. “But what are we to do about it, Lady Rosalynd? The law does not grant us financial independence. We cannot open a bank account, we cannot sign a contract, we cannot even run a business without pretending some man is behind it.”
