No one would blame you. Hannah looked back at the closed drawing room doors. She heard the muffled, frantic voices inside. She thought of the cold winters at St. Judes, the knowing ache of real hunger, the feeling of being entirely utterly disposable.

I am not leaving, Hannah said. But you should tell your mother to cancel the order for the new silver polish. Samuel frowned in confusion. Why?

Because, Hannah said, finally looking up at him. We are going to need the money for the tailor. If I am to be a duchess, I refuse to look like a victim.

The three weeks leading up to the wedding were a masterclass in psychological warfare. Dowager Duchess Augusta did not scream. She did not throw vases. She weaponized etiquette.

She took complete control of Hannah's bridal trousseau, citing it as her duty to prevent the Holly name from looking completely destitute. Hannah endured hours standing on a wooden pedestal in the dowager duchess's private sitting room, surrounded by hovering modistes and yards of fabric. Augusta sat in an armchair, sipping tea, directing the assault. No, Madame Deloqua, not the emerald silk.

Augusta drawled, waving a dismissive hand. Miss Hayes has such a shallow complexion. It washes her out completely. Let us use the mustard velvet.

Yes, the heavy one and lace. Lots of it. We must distract the eye from her shoulders. They are terribly broad.

Peasant stock, one assumes. Hannah stared straight ahead at the flocked wallpaper. The mustard velvet was hideous. It was stiff, heavy, and undeniably garish.

It would make her look like an oversized upholstered footstool. That was the point. Augusta wanted her to look ridiculous. She wanted society to point and laugh.

Madame Deloqua, the French seamstress, looked apologetically at Hannah through the mirror. Hannah simply blinked slowly in response, a silent command to proceed. Let Augusta buy the ugly silk. Hannah had other plans.

She spent her evenings not in her assigned bed chamber, but in the bowels of Holly House, the servants quarters. The aristocracy believed servants were invisible. Han knew they were the blood pumping through the veins of the estate. On her fourth night, she walked into the kitchens.

The room went dead silent. Kitchen maids froze, their hands submerged in sudsy water. The cook, a terrifyingly large woman named Mrs. Higgins, dropped her meat cleaver onto the butcher's block with a heavy thud.

Ladies did not enter the kitchen. Future duchesses certainly did not.

Mrs. Higgins wiped her floury hands on her apron, her eyes narrowed with deep suspicion. “Miss Hayes, are you lost?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Higgins,” Hannah said.

She walked over to the massive iron stove, absorbing the heat. I came to look at the ledger. Mrs. Higgins bristled. The Duke manages the household accounts.

Or the steward. The Duke is busy managing the tenant farms, and the steward is overpaying for flour by nearly 4 p a sack, Hannah said mildly. She pulled a small worn notebook from her pocket. I noticed the bread tasted slightly of sawdust yesterday.

You are using the miller in Cheapside. He cuts his grain. If you switch to the miller on Blackfriars Road, you get a finer grind for less coin, and you won't have to over-knead the dough to get a proper rise. Mrs. Higgins stared at her.

The kitchen maid stopped breathing. Hannah looked up. And I noticed the scullery maids are using cold water to scrub the grease traps. That takes twice as long.

If you siphon the runoff from the laundry boilers, you'll save time and firewood. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the hearth. Mrs. Higgins slowly crossed her arms over her chest. “You know about grease traps, do you? I scrubbed them for 10 years,” Hannah said.

Her voice held no shame, just fact. I know that lye burns your knuckles, and I know that a good cook is the only thing keeping a massive house from rioting. Your roasts are excellent, Mrs. Higgins, but your supplier is cheating you. Let me fix it.

The rigid posture of the cook slowly melted. A grudging respect dawned in her eyes. The aristocracy treated servants like machinery. This girl treated them like soldiers in a shared trench.

I'll fetch the kitchen accounts, Miss Mrs. Higgins said softly. By the end of the second week, Hannah had quietly won the war below stairs. The servants didn't just respect her. They became fiercely protective of her.

They saw how Lady Clara conveniently forgot to pass the salt to Hannah at dinner. They heard Lord Colin drunken mockery in the hallways. The staff retaliated in the only ways they could. Clara's tea was always lukewarm.

Colin's boots were polished but oddly stiff, giving him blisters. Augusta remained oblivious to the quiet rebellion. She was too focused on her final trap. 2 days before the wedding, Augusta hosted an intimate dinner party. “Just family and a few close acquaintances,” she told Samuel smoothly. Hannah knew exactly what it was, an ambush.

She walked into the dining room wearing a simple dark blue gown, one she had altered herself from a castoff given to her by Samuel's aunt. It lacked lace or jewels, but it fit her perfectly. Seated at the long mahogany table were 10 guests, lords, ladies, and a visiting French diplomat, the Marquis de Lafayette's nephew, Monsieur Rousseau. Augusta deliberately placed Hannah between Rousseau and an elderly deaf earl. “I do hope you can converse with Monsieur Rousseau, Hannah,” Augusta said loudly from the head of the table.

The crystal clinked as the room grew quiet, waiting for the slaughter. He speaks very little English. Such a pity, Augusta smiled. It was a vicious, triumphant thing.

She fully expected Hannah to sit in agonizing silence for two hours, proving her utter lack of refinement to the cream of society. Muruso turned to Hannah, offering a polite but strained smile. He braced himself for the awkwardness. Hannah picked up her soup spoon.

She looked at Rousseau and smiled. “It is a bit cold in London, is it not, sir?” Hannah said. Her accent was flawless. Not the stiff textbook French of a debutant, but the fluid, elegant phrasing of a native speaker. Rousseau's eyebrows shot up.