By time she and her mother were announced at their fourth Sunday evening soirée, Dahlia’s cheeks were sore from the effort of keeping up a constantly smiling façade. She was here to raise funds for her school—and her mother was here to interest eligible gentlemen to her daughter. Both goals were easier to achieve with a cheerful disposition.

And both of them were failing miserably.

The stream of insipid gentlemen her mother forced into Dahlia’s path did little to arouse her passion. Too flawless on the outside, too empty on the inside. Padded tailoring to feign musculature, boots without a single scratch, pale cheeks that saw a razor more often than they saw the sun, cravats that must have required the entirety of the afternoon to fold into multilayered starched confection.

Nothing at all like Simon.

His imperfections were what Dahlia appreciated most. He had no need for padded shoulders or false calves. Her skin heated in remembrance.

A shadowed jaw meant he dropped by after work because he was thinking about her, not because he’d spent an idle afternoon obsessed with the size of his cravat. And if his boots were dusty, it was because he’d ridden hell for leather to see her.

This time, her smile was genuine. It always was when she thought about Simon.

Her mother would swoon to discover her daughter had a fancy for a working-class gentleman. Like as not, her parents wouldn’t consider Simon a gentleman at all. He had no title. No father. No carriage. He had a profession—the horror!

But her parents would be wrong. Even now, after learning the story of Simon’s birth, Dahlia could not think less of him simply for being born on the wrong side of the blanket.

To be sure, he would never fit into society. But that would be true no matter who his mother might’ve married. High society was high society. Working class was not. And orphan girls who lived on the streets… Well. They weren’t faring too well tonight, either.

“You Grenvilles had so much potential.” Lady Pettibone stared down her nose at Dahlia with the signature hellish disdain that had earned her the Old Dragon nickname among those reckless enough to whisper about a duke’s sister behind her back. “Why on earth wouldn’t you sponsor a school for young ladies more worthy of our attention?”

Dahlia ground her teeth. The question was not for her, but for the giggling social climbers who wouldn’t have a thought in their heads if Lady Pettibone hadn’t put it there first. The old dragon knew full well why Dahlia’s school was worthy of merit. She simply enjoyed using her wealth and influence to destroy those around her.

So far, only a handful of women had agreed to spare a few pounds out of the following month’s pin money to support a noble cause like Dahlia’s. Any help was wonderful. Every farthing counted. But it wasn’t enough.

With a sinking heart, Dahlia realized she would have to attend these weekly whirlwinds with her mother for the rest of her life if she wished to have a prayer of keeping her school afloat. Which meant maintaining her precarious position in society at all costs.

“Why, Miss Grenville,” came a low, familiar voice. “Did I hear you’ve opened a boarding school?”

Dahlia’s jaw tightened as she turned to face Lord Hawkridge. He had lost her good favor years ago, when he had hurt Faith Digby. Dahlia had to witness enough injustices in the world. She would not abide poor treatment of her best friend.

Now that she knew the handsome marquess was secretly the ill-mannered younger brother of her favorite Bow Street Runner, she liked Hawkridge’s company even less. Yet she could not cut him. Both slights had been confessed to her in secret.

Even if Hawkridge would have caused offense to Dahlia directly, he was still a marquess—and thus a very eligible bachelor. With the slightest murmur of disapproval from his lips, Dahlia’s invitations to all future society functions would disappear in a heartbeat. No marriage-minded mama would risk alienating a titled lord in want of a bride due to having the “wrong element” on the guest list.

She would simply have to play the game.

“I did indeed open a charitable school,” she answered with an ingratiating flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you’d like to contribute to the cause?”

His smile faltered.

Dahlia tried hide her pleasure that her barb had struck true. Of course he couldn’t contribute. Hawkridge was at this party for a similar reason to her own. He needed to drum up an heiress to refill his family coffers.

By phrasing her question as to whether he’d like to contribute, she had placed him in an even tighter spot. If he said no, he’d be a heartless cad. And if he said yes, he’d have to explain why it was that he could not. A perfect question that no reputation-minded gentleman could possibly answer.

Hawkridge’s only recourse would be to feign catching a glimpse of an old friend across the room, and beg his leave before the conversation could go any further.

Precisely what Dahlia wanted.

His eyes met hers.

“I would like to,” he said quietly. “Current circumstances do not allow me to make an immediate gift, but please trust that the moment my resources improve, your boarding school will be the first and greatest recipient of any funds I can spare.”

Dahlia’s throat grew thick. Blast Hawkridge’s self-effacing sincerity. No wonder Faith still held a tendre for the man after twelve long years.

“Thank you,” she said grudgingly. “You are all that is generous and kind.”

What she really wished to ask was where the devil his kind, generous spirit had been when his brother had displayed the courage to introduce himself.

She hadn’t told Simon that she had known Hawkridge since the day of her come-out eight years earlier. The way Simon felt about people living double lives, she hadn’t wanted to admit there was more to hers than met the eyes, too.

If Simon found out she was of the same social ilk as his brother, one of two things would happen. He would walk away in disgust over the subterfuge—or he would realize their class differences were too great to overcome, and cease his attentions altogether.

Either way, she would lose him. She hoped to put off that day for as long as she could. Their romance had always been doomed. The best she could aspire for was enjoying their stolen moments to the fullest while she still had him.

“Out of curiosity, you haven’t seen Miss Di…” Hawkridge coughed into his gloved fist and shifted his weight.

Dahlia narrowed her eyes. “Have I seen who?”

“No one. Nothing,” he said quickly, with only the slightest flush to give lie to his words. “I am monopolizing too much of your time. Please excuse me.”

Wind nearly blew from his heels, so swift was his exit.

Had he almost asked her about Faith? Dahlia stared after the fleeing marquess with a mix of disbelief and joy. “No one.” Ha! She could not have devised a worse punishment.

If the tendre was mutual, that meant Hawkridge wanted Faith and couldn’t have her. A perfect reversal of the situation in their youth.

Good. He deserved it. Even if Faith did not.

Dahlia wished she could tell her best friend about the conversation that had just transpired. But she had promised years ago not only that she wouldn’t interfere in the private matters between Faith and Hawkridge, but also swore never to mention Faith’s name to him, or report anything he might have said. To do so simply hurt Faith too much.

If Hawkridge wished to patch their past differences, she had said firmly the last time Dahlia dared broach the topic, then he knew where to find her. And if he did not, then Faith was much better off without him crossing her mind.

“Is he going to pay you a call?” squealed a hushed voice from behind Dahlia’s shoulder.

“Mother, no.” Dahlia turned to face her in exasperation. “I’m not interested in Hawkridge and he’s not interested in me.”

“How can you think that?” Mother whispered with obvious delight. “He spoke to you completely on his own, without a single subtle hint from my lips.”

Dahlia could only imagine how not-subtly her mother had been prodded eligible bachelors all evening.

“I am not interested,” she repeated. “I’m surprised you are. You must know he’s penniless.”

“I know he’s a marquess,” Mother replied primly. “I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed if my second daughter became a marchioness.”

“What if I just became a Mrs.?” Dahlia asked. “Or a perfectly happy old maid?”

Mother blanched. “Don’t even say such horrid things. There’s still plenty of time for you to find a promising match.”

“Is there?” Dahlia asked. “I’m five-and-twenty. Some would say I’m already an old maid.”

“This may well be your last viable season,” her mother admitted. “That is why we must make it count. If you are to be a mere ‘Mrs.,’ then by God, it will be with the finest gentleman I can beg you an introduction to. I want you to be happy, darling.”

Dahlia’s smile softened. She and her mother rarely saw eye-to-eye, but through the years, she had never doubted that she was loved. “I think we’ve exhausted the supply of single men at this gathering. Should we not be flitting to the next?”

Mother’s expression brightened. “Almost. You’ve not yet spoken to the host of this soirée. Go bid well wishes to Mr. Mapleton, and we can be on our way. Unless he invites you for a romantic stroll in the back garden.”

Dahlia valiantly refrained from gagging. Phineas Mapleton was her least favorite acquaintance of the entire Beau Monde. She would rather throw herself from Blackfriars Bridge than spend a moment alone with him. But if thanking him for tonight’s party meant she could leave it all the sooner, then there was no choice but to face him and have done.

Girding her loins against what was certain to be an infuriating encounter, she rolled back her shoulders and strode toward the refreshment table where Mapleton was currently regaling a group of young dandies with one of his interminable stories.

“—which is how I began to collect globes!” Mapleton was saying, his voice rising with obvious merriment. “All the poor bastard had to say was that he had the finest collection in all of London, and I was determined to have the largest set in England. I have big globes, small globes, colored globes, black and white globes, free standing globes, globes that spin…”

Did the man even know anything about globes other than their size and color? It was all Dahlia could do not to bury her face in secondhand embarrassment.

If her girls had access to even a single globe, Dahlia had no doubt they would dedicate themselves to memorizing every sea and landmass represented on its surface.

For months, she had been looking for secondhand globes in pawnshops. He had probably purchased all of those, too.

Science was wasted on a fool like Mapleton.

“When he found out I had two copies of the very pocket globe he’d been searching for,” Mapleton continued with a laugh, “he had the nerve to ask me to sell him one of mine. The fool! The only reason I found the globe is because he was looking for it. Naturally, I bought them all. The last thing I’d do is sell one to him. It’s not my duty to increase someone else’s collection, is it?”

“You could give one to charity,” Dahlia found herself blurting.

“Charity!” Mapleton chortled. “Now, that’s a good laugh. If I wouldn’t sell one for profit, why on earth would I give any away?”

“You said there were duplicates,” she insisted, ignoring the wide-eyed faces of her host’s sycophants. “If you’ve already multiple copies, surely you wouldn’t notice the loss.”

“Of course I wouldn’t notice.” Mapleton stared at her as if she were mad. “I don’t even like globes. I never look at them at all. They’re in boxes in one of my guest chambers.” He paused to cast a can you believe this? glance to his friends. “As a woman, you naturally wouldn’t understand. How can I make it clearer? The point of a collection isn’t to have one of everything, it’s to have the most of everything.”

Dahlia didn’t bother to hide the fury in her voice. “Thank you very much for that elucidating explanation. I am certain I shall have to ruminate over your wisdom for many hours before my female brain can fully comprehend the masculine joy of collecting something one isn’t intelligent enough to value, just to ensure it doesn’t fall into the hands of someone who might appreciate it.”

Mapleton blinked, then shrugged. “There, you see? You worry about hems and bonnets, and leave the collecting to men like me.”

Dahlia’s answering smile was sharp enough to break glass.

But now, she had a plan.

Up until this moment, she had only pilfered small items of value out of desperation. When there wasn’t enough food to fill her girls’ stomachs, or the debt collectors were pointing out that debtor’s gaol offered prison cells for ladies.

After that exchange, however, she wouldn’t feel the slightest hint of remorse if a few of Mapleton’s pocket globes were mysteriously diverted to an impoverished schoolroom in the heart of the St. Giles rookery.

The only question was how.