London society is a machine fueled by cruelty and silk. The rules are simple: punch down, kiss up, and never, ever make a scene.
Beatrice knew the rules perfectly well. She simply didn't care to follow them.When she stepped between a vicious, social-climbing debutante and an eccentric old woman in a crowded modiste shop, she thought she was just saving a pensioner from a bad afternoon. She didn't know she had just auditioned for the most terrifying role in England: daughter-in-law to a duke.The air inside Madame Valerius's shop tasted of heavily perfumed dust and desperate ambition. It was the height of the London season—a time when the city's elite crammed themselves into poorly ventilated rooms to judge one another's financial worth based entirely on the width of a ribbon.Beatrice Hastings stood near the back of the shop, nursing a quiet, pulsing headache. At twenty-six, she was firmly categorized by the ton as a spinster. It was a title she wore like a comfortable, well-worn coat. It granted her a certain invisibility: no one looked at a twenty-six-year-old woman with a modest dowry and sharp, observant eyes. They looked right through her, straight to the nineteen-year-old heiresses fluttering near the imported French silks.She ran a gloved thumb over a bolt of dark green velvet. It was beautiful, but heavy—too heavy for a summer gown. She was only here because her younger sister, Louisa, was currently hidden behind a changing screen, agonizing over the drape of a muslin bodice.Beatrice preferred the quiet corners. From here, she could watch the ecosystem of the shop.Near the front window, the afternoon light caught the golden curls of Miss Harriet Finch. Harriet was nineteen, possessed a dowry that could buy a small island, and had a voice like a silver spoon scraping the bottom of a china teacup. Beside her stood her mother, Mrs. Finch, a woman whose entire posture suggested she was perpetually smelling something rotten."I simply will not have it in blue, Madame!" Harriet's voice carried over the low hum of the shop, cutting through the rustle of fabric. "Blue is for country girls and second daughters. I require the gold. The Duke of Ashborne is returning to town this week, and I am told he favors gold."Beatrice stifled a sigh. The Duke of Ashborne—Leopold: a man famously reclusive, notoriously wealthy, and entirely sick of the London marriage mart. Every mother in Mayfair was currently treating his impending arrival like a military campaign.Beatrice tuned out Harriet's shrill demands and turned her attention to the small table of discarded remnants near the counter. It was a chaotic pile of offcuts: scraps of lace, ends of ribbon, slightly bruised silk flowers.Standing beside the table was a small, stooped figure.Beatrice paused, her brow furrowing. The woman did not belong in Madame Valerius's. She wore a heavy charcoal gray wool pelisse that was at least a decade out of fashion. The hem was frayed, meticulously darned, but unmistakably worn. Her bonnet was a structured, unadorned black thing that shadowed her face.The old woman had stripped off one of her gloves—the leather cracked and faded—to run a bare, wrinkled hand over a length of delicate, incredibly expensive Brussels lace. Her fingers moved with a slow, reverent gentleness. It was a quiet, private moment.Then Harriet Finch turned around.