The musicale.

Heath had almost forgotten.

He placed the elegant parchment summoning him to his mother’s salon across from his morning tea and returned his attention to the urgent matter of breaking his fast while his eggs were still hot. Today could require his strength.

Some would opine that the seasonal Grenville musicales afforded the eponymous Grenvilles significantly more social status than their barony. Theirs was a title, yes, and not the lowest possible, but his family could not enter a garden or a ballroom without bumping into half a dozen viscounts or earls or marquises or dukes who outranked a paltry barony.

At the Grenville musicales, all of that changed.

No one outranked shy Camellia’s powerful singing voice. No one outclassed Bryony’s astonishing skill at the violin.

At least half the audience could trounce Heath’s talents at the pianoforte, but the Grenville musicales were not about him. They were his mother’s Colosseum. Her daughters were gladiators among pawns, showcasing fearless strength to prove themselves worthy of knighthood.

Rather, duchesshood, if Mother had her way.

Heath held no illusions that the current summons, ostensibly to discuss the upcoming musicale, was anything other than a pretense to cover her true objective: marrying off her children. The only mystery was whether today’s strategizing summit would center on himself, on one of his sisters, or on all four stubbornly unwed offspring.

He had never been able to resist a mystery.

After dispensing with the rest of his meal, he presented himself in his dressing chambers where his valet awaited him with this morning’s freshly starched and pressed neckcloth.

Most gentlemen would not have left their quarters in the first place without a perfectly tied cravat billowing about their necks like a flower in bloom. Although Heath did not usually flaunt Society’s customs, he deeply appreciated the one hour each day when he needn’t worry about keeping up appearances.

After all, years of dedicated personal research had taught him there was nothing more inviting to marmalade stains than crisp, white folds of starched linen.

As his valet worked his magic, Heath’s gaze tracked across the framed paintings he’d chosen for his private chambers. Contentment filled him at the familiar, pleasing sight.

He loved his town house. It didn’t contain a single musical instrument, and was all but wallpapered with canvases featuring his favorite works of art. Each evoked a strong emotion, transporting him into the artist’s imagination.

It had taken years to amass the perfect collection. He liked to believe his objets d’art rivaled any art gallery in London.

Heath straightened. Nothing to get maudlin about. Silly thoughts like these accomplished naught. His role was clearly defined. He had only to walk into it.

The moment his valet pronounced him a pink of the ton, Heath quit his cozy, bachelor-sized town house and steered his landau to his parents’ much larger home. He would have much preferred to drive his barouche, but neither the damp air nor his freshly styled coiffure would do him well in an open carriage.

When he arrived, he handed the reins to a footman and strode briskly up the manicured walk to the austere entranceway.

Although his parents’ town house was devoid of meaningful art, it was home to all of Heath’s favorite people.

Camellia, who sang like an angel. Dahlia, who was an angel to the orphans she rescued. Bryony, the wild one. Their proud mama.

Their absent father.

Heath’s chest tightened as the door swung open to reveal the family butler. Prate’s years of “Good morning, sir,” and “Good evening, sir,” amounted to far more hours of conversation than Heath had ever shared with his sire.

After he and Prate had exchanged their customary pleasantries, Heath made his way to the private “family” parlor. His lips twisted in irony. As far as Heath knew, he was the only male member of the family who had ever entered the room.

He doubted today would be any different.

The old familiar resentment crawled along his skin. “Today” was never a day during which Lord Grenville had time for his son. Or his wife. Or his daughters. Merely being first in line to inherit the title afforded Heath no particular advantage.

He had been trying his entire life to carve a place for himself in the baron’s busy schedule. To be spoken to. To be noticed.

As things stood, the best chance at securing a brief moment of his father’s attention would be at Heath’s wedding. And even then, only if he secured exactly the right type of bride.

Which was likely the cause for his mother’s summons, after his failures to select a wife among several Seasons of debutantes. Finding a woman was simple. Finding the right one…

Once again, an image of Miss Winfield fluttered to mind.

Seeing her again had not extinguished the simmering desire for her company that had plagued him ever since their first meeting. Their conversation had proven what they’d both already acknowledged; the distance between them was too wide to cross. There could be no future between them. No romantical future, at least.

And yet that spark, that persistent damnable spark, had fueled the undercurrent behind every word, every gesture, every stolen glance. It was as if something crackled between them, something that did not care about station or propriety or duty. An ignited flame that brought both light and warmth to secret yearnings he could never acknowledge.

Although he liked to believe he was not as superficial as others of his class, Heath was well aware that dallying with someone’s paid companion in any capacity, from courtship to stolen kisses, was completely out of the question.

Ms. Winfield wasn’t just below his station and in a peer’s employ. She was an innocent country girl who lived on a bloody sheep farm, which she willingly intended to return to. Heath could no more picture himself in her world than he could imagine her fitting into his.

Yet he could not keep her from infiltrating his every thought.

“There you are!” came a sharp voice from the corridor.

Although his mother did not precisely rush into the family parlor—a well-bred lady never rushed—the heightened rustling of her intricately embroidered gown betrayed her urgency.

Heath bowed. “I am, as always, at your service.”

“If that were true, you’d be wed by now. Which you have promised to take care of,” she added quickly, as if confirming that portion of her worries would soon resolve itself. She reclined on a chaise longue and gestured for him to take the wingback chair opposite. “I’ve called you here today to discuss what’s to be done with your sister.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “How odd. I distinctly recall your summons mentioned the family musicale.”

Mother threw up her hands in despair. “Dahlia refuses to perform in the musicale!”

“She hasn’t any musical ability,” Heath reminded his mother gently. “Surely you wouldn’t wish for your daughter to become the laughingstock of the ton.”

“She’s doing that on her own,” Mother insisted with a sniff. “She could develop a skill as accomplished as her sisters if she devoted half as much time to proper feminine talents as she does to that ridiculous orphanage.”

“You know it’s not an orphanage. It’s a boarding school for indigent girls, and a very lovely cause. Dahlia has the biggest heart of anyone I know.”

“And the emptiest dance card.” Mother scowled at him. “You must stop encouraging her. I know you’ve been giving dancing lessons to those urchins. Things are dire. Dahlia’s association with that rookery has already begun to affect the quality of her Society invitations. If she keeps treating every ballroom like a golden opportunity to raise funds for some charity—”

“Any aristocratic gathering is a golden opportunity to raise funds for a charity,” Heath pointed out.

Mother ignored him. “—then she will soon find herself with no invitations at all. Camellia may soon be wed, but I despair of finding anyone to take Dahlia!”

“Camellia has a beau?” Heath leaned forward with interest. If a wallflower as quiet as his sister had ensnared some young buck, he must be a very special gentleman indeed. “I had no idea.”

“Of course she hasn’t a beau. Do be serious. Your father will select one for her and have done.” Mother frowned. “If only it were that easy with Dahlia! Even with the size of her dowry, she is nothing but a—”

“—fine young woman,” Heath finished firmly. “There is nothing wrong with Camellia or Dahlia, Mother. Have you considered just letting them live their lives?”

She recoiled in repugnance. “I suppose next you’ll tell me that there’s nothing wrong with Bryony either, and we should all just let her run wild?”

“Bryony is completely and utterly mad,” Heath agreed cheerfully. “It’s one of her best qualities. One is never bored in her company. Or in any of the others’. I suggest you leave them be for a little while longer. They’re still young.”

“They may be younger than you, but they’re far from young.” Mother pursed her lips. “Camellia’s so high on the shelf that potential suitors don’t notice her presence, and Dahlia’s so far out to pasture she can’t even find her way home.”

Heath sighed. “What is it you wish for me to do, Mother?”

“I wish for you to fix it!” She glared at him. “Is that not what you do for everyone else under the sun? Don’t make a sour face; I’m quite proud of you. There cannot be a nobler hobby than upholding the beau monde’s image.”

Amusing. His mother knew quite well that his efforts were far more than a mere hobby, but she would never allow a word like profession to pass her lips in relation to her own children.

“Mother—”

“No, no. Don’t you start.” She arched a thin brow. “While your activities are unconventional to say the least, I heartily approve of any and all efforts to make the upper classes outshine themselves. My son is famous for fixing untidy little problems. I could die happy if he would only turn his efforts to fixing his own siblings.”

Heath’s temples pounded at the return of the same circular discussion.

He had no wish to “fix” his siblings. To change his strong, intelligent sisters into completely different people. He preferred them to pursue the lives they chose for themselves.

Although his mother had never understood such reasoning, women like Heath’s sisters were the reason he had become a problem-solver in the first place. Not out of affinity for the veneer of ton perfection, but to allow people the opportunity to live the lives they wished without being judged for their choices.

As far as he was concerned, gossip helped no one. He was happy to do his part to make scandals disappear. Quashing his sisters’ personalities, however, was going too far.

This argument had gone on long enough.

“I understand your concerns,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I know you love your children and wish the best for them. I presume the girls are in Camellia’s sitting room?”

“Where else?” his mother replied with a disgruntled sigh.

He hesitated. “While I’m here… Is Father in?”

“Oh, darling…” His mother’s eyes filled with something painfully close to pity. “I’m afraid the baron is too busy with important matters to grant any of us an audience today.”

Heath shrugged his tight shoulders. He’d asked about Father because he always asked about Father, not because he’d expected the answer to be any different. Heath’s feelings weren’t wounded. The baron’s absence didn’t even hurt anymore.

There was certainly no reason for the pleading apology in his mother’s eyes. It wasn’t as if Father had time for her, either.

Perhaps that was why she obsessed about raising perfect children.

“Stay here and relax,” he told her gently. “I’ll go speak with the girls.”

Mother lifted one of the hands from her hips. “Focus your efforts on Dahlia. I beg you to talk sense into her.”

Rather than make any promises, Heath bowed and strode from the room.

A single flight of stairs separated the family parlor from Camellia’s sitting room. Heath took the steps in twos, his heart lightening with each leap up the stairs.

The door to the sitting room was open, spilling daylight and warmth from a crackling fire into the corridor. Bryony and Camellia’s voices could be heard bickering. Dahlia’s voice was missing. Either she was being uncharacteristically silent… or she had heard him coming.

Heath grinned to himself as his muscles tensed in anticipation.

Years earlier, when he had taught Dahlia self-defense, they had quickly developed the habit of ambushing one another to keep their skills sharp.

Although they were no longer adolescents, they had kept up the game. Heath was proud of his fearless sister, and glad he could help keep her safe even when he was not present to watch over her.

No doubt she would wish to prove herself as nimble and capable as ever.

Rather than edge closer and expose himself to a potential attack, he lowered his head and rushed into the room at full speed.

Dahlia was ready. Instead of lying in wait, she somersaulted in front of him the moment he crossed the threshold, catching him at the knees and quickly rolling out of the way as he tumbled forward off-balance.

Rather than land on his face, Heath turned his rapid fall into a somersault and sprang fluidly to his feet before she could attack again.

Dahlia was already standing upright with her fists in the air.

“A tie!” Bryony exclaimed in delight. “How long has it been since you’ve had a tie?”

“It’s not a tie,” Dahlia protested. “Heath wasn’t ready. He went down!”

“Down into a somersault, which he quickly leapt out of. He didn’t stay down.” Bryony pointed out, to her sister’s exasperation.

Camellia’s eyes twinkled. “If we’re being picky, you were the first to go down. You were flying boots over bonnet before Heath even entered the room.”

“My somersault was tactical,” Dahlia said with high offense. “His was reactionary!”

“Do I have a voice in this discussion?” Heath asked drolly.

“No,” all three sisters chorused at once.

Laughing, he threw himself onto one of the chaise longues. “Mother would like to know why you three unmarriageable wretches are still spinsters.”

“Mother would never say such a thing,” Bryony replied primly. “She knows precisely why we’re all unmarriageable spinsters.”

Camellia threw a pillow at her sister’s head. “Speak for yourself. Mother has said that if I fail to bring some sap up to scratch before the end of the Season, Father will select my future husband.”

“Poppycock.” Dahlia settled herself on the floor next to Heath’s chaise. “Father is too busy to wish us well on our birthdays. He’ll never take the time to comb through eligible bachelors in search of a perfect match for his daughter.”

“Exactly.” Bryony’s voice was dark. “He’ll pack her off with the first wily roué who asks. Cam, you cannot let him do it. You must find a husband first.”

Heath suddenly realized he had hoped all his sisters would find love matches. They deserved happiness. One person in the family taking a bride for the barony rather than for love was more than enough. He would do his duty so that his sisters could follow their hearts.

Duty meant choosing a chit based on bloodlines and good stock and impeccable comportment. Selecting from a limited pool of debutantes the way one might deliberate horseflesh at Tattersall’s. One didn’t expect to speak with the horse, to experience some sort of otherworldly connection with the horse. One simply did one’s best to procure a creature that would not embarrass him in front of his peers.

Just because Heath knew these things did not mean he must like them. If he was shocked to discover he had always taken such strict protocol for granted, he was even more shocked at the tiny part of him that wished exceptions could be made. Not forever; he was heir to a barony that he would one day pass down to his own son, and could not in good faith do anything to tarnish that gift.

No, not forever… but perhaps for a single moment. If he could freeze everyone else in time for a single, reckless hour, he really could ask a woman like Miss Winfield to dance. They would be the only two whirling amongst the frozen dance floor. They would not require an orchestra to find the rhythm to waltz.

For that hour, he would not be Mr. Grenville, first in line to a title, upholder of all that is proper and good ton. For that hour, Miss Winfield would not be a sheep maid or a paid companion or off-limits at all. They would simply be a gentleman enjoying a waltz with a pretty woman.

And perhaps a kiss or three, if the lady were amenable. No need for promises, or apologies, or regrets. Just two people without a care or worry, finally allowing the spark between them full rein before the wheels of time came crashing down again to separate them for good.

“Pay close attention, Dahlia.” Bryony stabbed a plume in her sister’s direction. “As soon as Cam’s married, then it’ll be your turn.”

Dahlia blanched at the realization. “I refuse. There’s no time for such nonsense when I’ve a demanding schedule as headmistress of a school. How can Mother expect me to waltz through every dinner party in Town and still manage an overcrowded, underfunded boarding school?”

“She does not wish for you to do both,” Bryony pointed out dryly. “You would make her the happiest of creatures if you would stop caring about other people and focus your talents on flirting with painted fans.”

“Mother isn’t evil,” Heath reminded them all. “She’s this way because she loves all of you. In the world we live in, a daughter’s duty is to be wed, and a successful mother ensures that happens. She doesn’t view you as unworthy. She views herself as a failure.”

“To be fair, she also views us as failures,” Camellia said with a sigh. “I’m likely the worst of the lot. Unlike my hoyden sisters, I’m not ‘on the shelf’ on purpose.”

“I’m not against husbands,” Dahlia protested. “If I could find a man who didn’t mind that his wife’s priority was taking care of—”

“Stop right there,” Heath interrupted, miming taking written notes on the conversation. “If I report back to Mother that you are open to the idea of marriage, that will settle her nerves considerably.”

“What about you?” Camellia asked. “Are you truly going to find a bride this Season?”

“I promised Mother I would,” he replied. For better or for worse.

“One couldn’t ask for a firmer ‘yes.’” Bryony shook her head. “Heath has never broken his word in his life.”

“True.” Dahlia tossed him a saucy grin over her shoulder. “That’s how I tricked him into giving me self-defense lessons all those years ago.”

“You didn’t trick me,” he protested. “You said you wanted to know how to defend yourself if you encountered a situation that required it, and I found that a quite reasonable request.”

She leaned her head against his arm. “And I thank you, dear brother. You’re my favorite for a reason.”

Camellia’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “No favorites allowed!”

She and Bryony showered him and Dahlia with every pillow cushion within arm’s reach.

Heath let the pillows fall where they may. He couldn’t have been more content.

He’d often wished that instead of the stodgy portrait Mother had commissioned of the four siblings when they were young, that they’d opted for an irreverent moment-in-time painting instead.

Days like today. Camellia and Bryony showering the room with bright satin cushions. Heath, sprawled on an elegant chaise. Dahlia, her prim coiffure resting against his shoulder while the telltale cuffs of boys’ breeches poked out from beneath the hem of her day dress.

A niggle of doubt cracked his happiness. He had taught Dahlia to defend herself because he never wanted any woman to feel helpless. And those were his castoff trousers that allowed her to tumble across the floor without fear of indecent exposure.

Dear Lord. Why would Mother believe he was in any way the right person to talk “sense” into Dahlia? Heath was the one to blame for her turning out strong and capable and stubborn.

For all intents and purposes, he’d been the only male figure present for most of his siblings’ lives. What if he’d conveyed the wrong message?

He sat up abruptly. “Listen, all of you.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly.

Camellia did not require his impending words of wisdom. She had never once gone against Society’s expectations or their parents’ wishes. Bryony and Dahlia, however…

He took a deep breath. As their elder brother, it was important to do and say the right thing.

“I love all of you. I love who you are, I love how you are, and I cannot wait to see what you’ll become.”

Bryony narrowed one eye. “But?”

“But I’m just me,” he said simply. “One man. Your big brother. And much as I wish I could control how you’re treated by the rest of Society, I cannot change their views, or their rules, or their expectations. In this room, you can be whoever and however you want. But for the rest of the world, what others think about who and how you are carries more weight than how and who you actually are. Do you understand?”

Bryony scoffed. “No.”

“I understand.” Dahlia leaned away from him and crossed her arms. “But I disagree. It isn’t the rest of the world that cares more about appearances than souls. It’s the peerage. Do you think the girls at my school gave a fig when I lost my subscription to Almack’s?”

“Your girls might not know what Almack’s is,” Camellia said, her voice soft. “But it’s naïve to say they don’t care about what others think. Why else would they be in a boarding school?”

“To prevent their fathers from beating them? If indeed they are ‘lucky’ enough to have one?” Dahlia’s face darkened with anger. “To finally end night after night of shame and agony when some drunken toff catches them in the street and decides to—”

“You’re both right,” Bryony interrupted quickly. “Almost everyone is driven more by how others perceive them than by their own passions. But we can choose to be the same or to be different. I, for one, choose not to give a button what anyone thinks.”

Heath groaned. This conversation had taken a sharp detour. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“They know what you’re trying to say,” Camellia said gently. “You’ve made a career of helping Society keep up appearances. People pay you to stop them from becoming other people’s gossip fodder. The impact of one’s reputation is an indisputable, obvious fact.”

It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “…but?”

“But it’s not the whole story. I happen to agree with you. Bryony does not. And Dahlia…” Camellia gazed sympathetically at their sister. “Dahlia knows you’re right, and has chosen to follow her heart anyway.”

“What Cam means,” Bryony began with a toss of her head, “is that we received your message. Just don’t expect us to change a thing. We are not your paying customers.”

No, they were not. Heath gazed at his sisters. They had become his responsibilities the moment of their births. Nor would he have it any other way.

When Camellia had been too shy to attract dance partners, Heath had made it fashionable to ensure no wallflower’s dance card went empty. When Dahlia had opened her boarding school, Heath had personally assuaged the concerns of Society matrons suddenly unsure about extending their invitations to all members of the Grenville clan.

His sisters had always been Heath’s top priority clients.

They just never realized it.

“While you’re here…” Camellia rustled some papers atop her writing desk in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Can we discuss the score for the next musicale?”

Dahlia lay back, resting her head against the plush carpet. “What’s to discuss? The songs haven’t changed since Mother created the first arrangement. You all sound perfectly lovely each time, and everyone returns home deservedly astonished by your talent.”

“By Camellia’s and Bryony’s talent,” Heath corrected. “Mother is far more accomplished at the pianoforte than I am.”

Bryony glanced over at him in alarm. “You cannot let her replace you. It would no longer be the Grenville sibling musicale!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her. “My semi-competent fingers are yours for as long as they can be of middling service.”

Dahlia turned toward him. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t go on stage, and lightning hasn’t struck me yet.”

“Yet,” Heath teased back.

He didn’t participate in the musicales because he loved the pianoforte, but because he loved his family. Camellia’s voice was unparalleled; her passion for singing was present in every note. He was awestruck of her.

Bryony might not feel passionate toward the violin, but she found the exercise amusing. Watching his sister have fun with four strings and a bow was just as much fun for Heath as it was for her. That Bryony had been a child prodigy with the violin and had only grown more skillful as she matured made sharing the stage with her an honor, not a duty.

He was just as proud of “unmusical” Dahlia, who never missed a performance and still managed to find the time to manage a growing boarding school that required round-the-clock administration. Family came first to Dahlia, which now meant the Grenville clan and two dozen indigent dependents who looked up to her like a mother.

Of the four, Heath was the only one not following his true passion. Not that he was meant to have any passions. From the moment of his conception, he had been destined to inherit the barony one day. That was to be his sole and defining duty: become as competent and successful a baron as his father.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to dream of making a name for himself in his own right. No one else expected him to be anything more than heir to his father’s title. That was enough for his mother. Enough for Society. So why wasn’t it enough for Heath?

More importantly, why should his sisters feel any different? He rubbed his pounding temples. Shouldn’t he and his mother “let” Dahlia ruin her standing if that was what she chose to do? Were lifelong passions not worth the risk?

A footman entered the sitting room with the morning post.

Dahlia and Bryony pounced upon the pile of folded missives as if awaiting a personal note from the Prince Regent himself. Camellia never glanced up from her sheets of music.

“Eighty pounds.” Dahlia rifled through her post with a happy sigh. “Not as much as I’d hoped, but any donation is better than no donation.”

Camellia nodded approvingly. “Excellent work. The post will come again this afternoon. Bry, how did you do with your correspondence?”

“My investment report still hasn’t arrived,” Bryony answered with obvious disappointment. She slid Heath a frustrated look.

“Something I can help with?” he inquired in a low voice.

Bryony sighed and shook her head. “It’ll come eventually.”

Because most men balked at the idea of doing business with a female, Heath had helped his sister invest anonymously. It had begun on a dare. Bryony had thought it would be great fun to purchase shares in projects owned by men who would never open their books to a woman.

To Heath’s surprise and Bryony’s delight, she had been brilliant at it. She quickly got out of the three percents and into the riskier but far more lucrative business of funding private ventures.

Because of his fame as a secret-keeper, her marks never bothered to ask where the money came from. They already knew Heath would never betray a confidence, and besides, the business owners and project managers needed the money too much to concern themselves with minor details.

Bryony had tried to pull out of all her investments some months ago in order to divert her capital gains toward her sister’s school. When Dahlia had refused to siphon money from her sister’s dream to fund her own, Bryony had gone through Heath to make as many small, anonymous donations as she could.

The majority of her earnings, however, were contractually tied up in fixed-timeline investments. The letter she was waiting on was likely a quarterly report detailing the progress-to-date of one of her speculative ventures. Bryony’s gift with numbers enabled her to draw accurate conclusions from such reports that even the financiers who wrote them had been unable to anticipate.

His mouth twitched. If she’d been born a different gender, she’d own half of London by now. She was probably still on that path anyway, one pseudonymous investment at a time.

And if Heath had been born a second son, or a third, or a fourth, there would be little chance of him inheriting the title. He could not wish away the barony, but nor could he shake his longing for a freedom he could never have. To make decisions for himself, rather than duty.

What would he do with freedom such as that? Would he give into his desire to sweep Miss Winfield into his arms? Lower his mouth to hers and plunder—

“What are you smiling at so wolfishly?” Camellia asked.

He glanced over at her with a guilty start, then realized her words were not directed at him, but to Bryony.

“Gossip columns.” Bryony held up a sketch with a caption beneath. “Have you seen today’s caricature?”

“Ugh, I despise them.” Camellia pulled a face. “Why do you insist on having them delivered?”

Bryony grinned back. “To see if I’m in them.”

Heath’s heart stopped. Bryony’s flippant words might be in jest, but he wasn’t so certain the idea was far-fetched.

Having a beloved family member appear in some mocking caricature was his worst nightmare. Not just as the problem-solver famed for quieting ton scandals, but as elder brother to three unwed sisters. How was he supposed to protect them from the damage a printing press could do?

He reached out a palm. “Give it to me.”

Bryony handed it over without comment and turned her attention to the rest of her mail.

Good God. Heath could not look away from the ghastly caricature. That this rubbish was sketched with a deft hand did not signify. Every visage was instantly recognizable. Not just the poor saps being mocked in the foreground. All the faces. The footman in the background was just as familiar as the salon in the sketch.

His breath caught. This wasn’t some outsider’s biting commentary on the perceived iniquities of aristocratic life. This was Lady Carlisle’s ballroom. A real place. A real moment in time. Real quotes emanating from jauntily drawn mouths.

Worse, Heath didn’t just recognize the room. He recognized the exact soirée. He had been there. And if London’s newest critic had been there as well…

Heath crumpled the drawing into a tight ball. Small wonder these savage works of “art” were unsigned. The mystery caricaturist was a member of their class. Shamelessly betraying his peers for a penny. Too cowardly to spew his poison to their faces.

Heath tossed the crumpled sketch into the fire and watched it burn.

When Lady Caroline Lamb had written Glenarvon last year as a thinly veiled attempt to exact romantical revenge after being jilted by Lord Byron, the viscountess had lost far more than permission to attend Almack’s. She had been ostracized from Society completely.

The caricaturist deserved no less harsh a fate.