Dahlia sat in the front parlor of the Grenville family townhouse and hoped that coming home hadn’t been a mistake.

Within these walls, she’d learned to walk, to talk, to read, to dance, to tumble, to embroider, to perform sums…everything except the one thing she needed most.

Permission to speak with her father.

She set down her teacup and leaned forward. “Please, Mother. It is urgent that I speak with him. Can you not ask him for a moment of his time?”

“Absolutely not.” Mother added another cube of sugar to her tea. “Your father is frightfully busy, darling. Barons are very important people. He hasn’t time for daughters. That’s what mothers are for. Aren’t you enjoying this tea?”

Dahlia was not enjoying this tea.

The one she’d shared yesterday with two dozen delighted students had been infinitely more satisfying. Better yet, none of the girls had repeated the same well-worn platitudes Dahlia had heard since childhood.

Your father is frightfully busy, darling. Barons are very important people. He hasn’t time for daughters.

Folderol. He was a baron, not a duke. Father held no seat in the House of Lords. He didn’t even belong to a gentlemen’s club.

If he could not make time in his schedule for a word with his daughter, then he was either too heartless to care about two dozen other girls…or else he had no idea that his daughters had spent the last five-and-twenty years begging for an audience with him.

“He should make time for his daughter,” she bit out through clenched teeth, even though such an opinion would alienate her further from her mother. Dahlia slumped back against her wingback chair in defeat. Oh, why had she even bothered?

“None of your impertinence,” Mother chided with a shake of her finger. “You were always the most headstrong of the litter, but it is now time to grow up.”

Dahlia counted to twelve before responding. “Mother, I am grown. To your eyes, I may be the black sheep of this family, but to the students at my school, I am headmistress—and, frankly, nothing short of a miracle to them. They were good girls in bad situations. I am trying to give them a better one. How do you expect me to keep clothing and feeding them without the aid of donations?”

“I don’t expect you to continue with that silly project at all. It is past time you do your duty and get married. Just think how much happier you’ll be when you’re settled. A husband might be talked into taking you, but no reasonable man can be expected to take on the debt of a school of unsavories.”

“A school of—” Dahlia choked rather than repeat the phrase. “Ignoring every other offensive remark in that speech, can we please agree that the girls themselves are innocent?”

“Fine, if it will calm you down. Even those who live on the streets can be innocent. That does not mean I or anyone else is required to pay for them. The government funds hospitals and orphanages, Dahlia. That’s where those children would be if they truly required care.”

“Mother…” Dahlia rubbed her face with her hands. “Have you ever even seen an orphanage? Inside, where the children are?”

Her mother flashed her a baffled look before selecting another teacake. “Of course not. Why would anyone want to go there?”

“That’s the point! No one would want to go there. Not you, not me, not any children I have ever met. And yet, I am not sneaking in the windows at night to whisk them away. The girls at my school weren’t even fortunate enough to have a bowl of gruel and a lice-ridden mat on an orphanage floor. All they have is me. And to keep the school running—”

“I will not plague your father with a single word of this fancy. And that’s final. Your father’s portion is the precise amount this family needs, and I will not beggar my other children just to put bread in the mouths of your wards. Think about your sister. She also needs to make a fine match.”

“My dowry, then,” Dahlia suggested. With that, she could buy books for a library, pencils for doing sums, globes to practice geography. Food for the larder. “No one else is using my dowry money. Father could donate the funds to the school. It would pay for several months’ expenses. Lives could depend on it.”

“Over my dead body.” Mother set down her tea plate. “You will use that money to attract a husband, and so help me, that poor man will take you as far from that ridiculous school as humanly possible.”

Dahlia clenched her fingers. “It’s not ridiculous at all. I’m teaching them things they need to know. Giving them skills they never had.”

“Why on earth would ragamuffins require a finishing school? Does it matter if they can paint a watercolor or walk without slouching?”

“Absolutely not at all, Mother. You’re exactly right. That’s why I’m showing them practical skills. For example, there are no maids at the school. The girls not only tidy their own chambers, but are responsible for cleaning the entire abbey. Every week, they rotate to a new shift: chambermaid, scullery maid, lady’s maid, downstairs maid. The eldest even take turns as head housekeeper.”

“What is the point, Dahlia? That your little project is failing so badly you cannot even afford a maid-of-all-work?”

“The point is that many of those girls are now qualified to be a maid-of-all-work. They entered with no marketable skills, and they’ll leave with a signed reference affirming them capable of a paid position. It may not sound like much to you, but believe me when I say it is life-changing for them.”

Mother sighed and poured herself another spot of tea. “You wouldn’t have to worry about money at all if your school were in a better neighborhood. I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed when the topic comes up at dinner parties. If you started a proper finishing school, you could charge a self-sustaining tuition and attract a far better quality of girl. Wouldn’t that be the best of all worlds?”

Dahlia clenched her fingers and counted to thirty. It was comments like these that most infuriated her about her mother. As much as Mother liked to play the role of henwitted baroness who left all the money and business thoughts to her husband, it was more than clear that she had a very sound idea indeed of how one might make money managing an upper crust boarding school.

Her objection wasn’t to Dahlia’s work ethic, but to her audience. Unfortunately for Dahlia’s girls, such prejudice was often the case. For every duchess or viscountess who donated a stack of pound notes, ten other wealthy wives couldn’t be bothered to part with a single guinea.

Their reasons for avoiding charity projects ran the gamut from ladies don’t talk about such things to not my problem. Was it any wonder Dahlia had occasionally had to resort to desperate measures to make ends meet?

“Fine,” she said, defeated. “If you won’t let me speak to Father, I’ll fund the school some other way.”

Mother narrowed her eyes over her teacup. “If I hear one peep about you stealing half-eaten food from my friends’ rubbish bins…”

“I was twelve years old when that happened,” Dahlia reminded her without heat. “Far too young to understand propriety dictates we toss out perfectly good scraps of food and cloth and paper, rather than donate them to poor families who cannot afford them. Obviously we should toss our remnants into the slop bin, rather than feed the hungry.”

“At least you’ve learned something,” her mother said with a sniff. “Honestly, darling, I just want you to be happy. Won’t you consider finding a nice man? I can help, if you like. If you marry a man with deep pockets, you won’t ever have to worry about money again.”

“I don’t want a man with deep pockets,” Dahlia snapped. “Not unless he wants to donate the majority of it to the poor. Otherwise, what good is he for the school? I’d rather a man with the time and heart to work beside me, than some rich nob who cannot part with a single ha’penny.”

The inspector’s handsome face came to mind. He would understand these arguments. Mr. Spaulding was as kind to her girls as if they were wards of his own. If he could spare a few moments in his busy day, why couldn’t the wealthy part with a few farthings?

Mother sighed. “This would be so much easier if all you wanted was a viscountcy to manage. I am at least acquainted with a few of those. Why do you care so much about children you don’t even know?”

“I want them to have options!” Dahlia burst out. “I want their futures to be up to them.”

“Oh, darling.” Mother set down her saucer with a sad smile. “I am not the enemy. When will you learn that none of us have ever had choices?”

Rather than respond, Dahlia pushed to her feet. “Don’t wait up for me, Mother. I’ll be spending the night at the school until I can be sure if its security.”

“Please consider marriage,” her mother replied without standing up. “And soon. Bryony cannot wed until you have done so. Now that Camellia has nabbed an earl, a precedent has been set. If you would just close the school and try to get back into Almack’s, you might do as well as your sister.”

“Goodbye, Mother. Enjoy the rest of your tea.”

Dahlia made her way out of the parlor and up the familiar steps to the sisters’ shared sitting room. Until recently, all three sisters were usually found within its sunny yellow walls. Dahlia, perched on the bay window. Bryony, either at the violin or attempting to curl her uncurlable hair. Camellia, practicing her scales or playing the unflappably calm intermediary between her two younger sisters.

Today, the room was empty. Bryony was God-knew-where, and Cam no longer lived at home. She had indeed married an earl, albeit a scandalous one. Although he and Dahlia had not started off on the right foot, her brother-in-law had recently pledged an eye-popping donation that was more money than any headmistress could hope to raise in six months.

But it still wasn’t close to enough. The girls didn’t need six months’ respite. They needed years. They needed a childhood. They needed time to grow up and mature and learn. What was she going to do?

Dahlia plopped down onto the window seat and leaned her head against the glass.

Her sister had become even more scandalous than her infamous husband the day she’d joined the opera. Cam had promised to donate every cent of her earnings to Dahlia’s school for as long as necessary, but she had to move up the ranks like every other incredible soprano.

Until she was a household name for reasons other than scandal, Camellia’s salary wasn’t enough for one person to live on, much less two dozen. Someday, she might earn enough to match her husband’s generous donation. But that day was not yet here.

Dahlia slid down against the window cushion and wished Cam was there. Not because she needed money, but because she missed her big sister. Camellia had always been as cherished a sounding board as Dahlia’s best friend Faith.

A smile tugged at Dahlia’s lips. She was fortunate to be surrounded by so many strong, smart women. With luck, Faith might even have time to help with the school. The trick would be convincing her to try.

The sitting room door banged open and a whirlwind spun into the room, violin in hand.

Bryony squealed in disbelief. “Dahlia?”

At the sight of her youngest sister, Dahlia’s melancholy vanished. She sprang to her feet.

Bryony tossed her violin case onto the closest chaise as if the Stradivarius inside hadn’t cost as much as their townhouse and enveloped Dahlia in a breath-stealing embrace. “How are you? How’s your school? What are you doing here?”

“I’m fine,” Dahlia said, laughing as her sister danced her about the room. “The school is about the same. I came to ask Father for money.”

Bryony stopped dancing, her eyes huge. “Did he give it to you?”

“I didn’t even get to ask,” Dahlia said with a sigh. “A two-hour tea with Mother and the closest I got was, ‘Your father is frightfully busy.’”

Bryony rolled her eyes. “Did she give you the ‘Barons are important people’ speech, too?”

Dahlia laughed humorlessly. “Why else would we be asking to speak to him?”

“I don’t know how you stand it.” Bryony flung herself onto the chaise opposite her violin. “I’ve never lasted for more than twenty minutes at one of Mother’s insufferable teas. Too much speechifying.”

“She means well. Or at least, she thinks she does.” Dahlia sat on the floor and wrapped her arms about her knees. “Her arguments drive me positively mad, but as long as they mirror the views of half her friends…”

Bryony lifted a shoulder in commiseration. “Mother is Mother.”

Dahlia nodded. “Mother is Mother. How about you? What were you out doing?”

“Lessons.” Bryony grinned. “Now that Camellia’s on her way to being a household name, I cannot bear to be thought of as the least talented Grenville offspring.”

“No,” Dahlia reminded her. “That would be me. The only unmusical Grenville. You’ve got your violin, Cam has her voice, Heath acquits himself well at the pianoforte, and I… What do I have to offer? I don’t even have good enough handwriting to pen the invitations to the family musicales.”

“It’s because you’re left-handed,” Bryony said, reaching out to pat Dahlia on the shoulder. “You smear the ink as fast as you write it. I can see bits on your sleeve even now.”

Dahlia inspected her ink-splattered sleeve and grinned. Aha. That was how Mr. Spaulding had guessed her terrible penmanship.

“What did you learn at your lesson?” she asked.

Bryony bolted upright with a smile. “Do you want me to play it for you?”

“More than anything.”

Bryony sprang up from the chaise and readied her violin. In minutes, the sitting room was filled with a soaring, haunting melody that rose to a crescendo before dashing itself into minor chords and back again.

Of course it was incredible. Bryony was incredible. Dahlia’s entire family was comprised of individuals who stood out from the crowd in meaningful ways.

As Mother had pointed out, barons were indeed important people. As were baronesses. And operatic sopranos. And phenomenal violinists, who could play an entire piece from memory after listening to it one time. Her brother Heath’s skills weren’t limited to the pianoforte.

And then there was Dahlia. A headmistress who couldn’t write her own name without smearing it. Whose school was on the brink of financial disaster. Whose own mother believed her best hope for the future was to wed any man willing to take her.

Dahlia didn’t just want her school to succeed. She needed it to. She knew what it felt like to feel talentless and useless and dependent only on the whims of others, and she never wanted her students to have to feel that way ever again.

When the music ended, Bryony lowered her bow. “Well? What did you think?”

“It was hideous,” Dahlia lied, earning a pillow cushion to the face. “Positively undanceable.”

Bryony bounced in delight. “Speaking of dancing… Are Heath and I coming back this Saturday?”

“Absolutely. I promised the girls an hour lessons every week. Don’t you dare make a liar of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bryony slid her violin back into its case. “It’s too bad there’s no pianoforte. Heath is splendid with minuets.”

“I need him to be splendid on the dance floor,” Dahlia reminded her. “He’s the only gentleman I trust to stand up with them. If I could afford a real dance-master…”

Bryony’s face fell. “I spoke to my solicitor. You know I would give you every single penny I could, but the terms of my current long-term investment are immutable.”

Dahlia had no idea what any of Bryony’s mysterious investments were, but it was a relief that she couldn’t get her hands on the money. Unlike Camellia, Bryony wasn’t married to an earl who would take care of her, even if she donated all her money to her sister’s barmy project.

Bryony would hand over every penny out of love for her sister, but Dahlia didn’t need a loan. She couldn’t pay anyone back. The donations weren’t financial investments—they were personal investments. Into the futures of two dozen little girls who, without the school, would either die on the streets…or wish they were dead.

Dahlia would never have started her school if she’d thought her wards’ futures would be in jeopardy. Before the school first opened, she’d had a full year’s expenses in her account, plus hundreds of pounds of promised donations on the way.

Unfortunately, the careless words of a fashionable earl made her project suddenly unfashionable. What had once seemed like a more than adequate financial buffer had slowly drained through her fingers until there was nothing left. Her outrage at the earl’s casual destruction was the only emotion that outweighed her panic.

In desperation, she had pilfered one of his meaningless baubles during a dinner party and pawned it to buy food for her wards.

Was stealing right? It was not. But she wasn’t sorry. He had nearly cost two dozen girls their homes. If nicking a cufflink here and there stopped that from happening while she frantically worked to come up with a better plan… Well, Dahlia would have to do what she had to do.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll find a way.”

“I could sell my shoes,” Bryony suggested. “And my fur muff. You’re welcome to anything in my wardrobe you could exchange for a shilling.”

Dahlia shook her head. She had already raided her siblings’ wardrobes. And their old nursery. And the rag bin. If she sold much else, the entire family would be barefoot. And Dahlia’s mother would cut her off for good.

Years ago, it had been Bryony who had begged for an audience with their father. She wanted to invest. To buy and sell stocks.

Mother had all but slapped her face for such an appalling suggestion. Bryony’s talent for mathematics was both a curse and an embarrassment to the family.

Rather than lose her temper as Dahlia would likely have done, Bryony had simply begun pawning anything she owned of value. The jewelry went first, followed by any number of “useless baubles” that came her way for her birthday and other holidays.

At one point, Bryony had claimed to have “riches.” Both Cam and Dahlia had doubted that very much—what were “riches” to a young girl who had no expenses?—but shortly thereafter, Bryony’s investments became large enough that they could not be performed without a solicitor. Months later, the entirety of her funds was tied up in a project so mysterious she refused to breathe a word to her own sisters.

Worst case scenario, Bryony was being taken advantage of. Best case scenario, there was no project, and Bryony had fallen in love. Dahlia would be not at all surprised if Bryony were to announce she intended to run away with her solicitor or some East India magnate.

She would just be sad to say goodbye to another sister so quickly after losing Cam.

A knock sounded on the sitting room door.

Dahlia frowned.

A servant would have entered. A guest would have been announced.

She stood and made her way to the door. “Who is it?”

No one answered.

She narrowed her eyes. Ha. There was only one person who could have come to call. In one fluid movement, she flung open the door and leapt out of reach.

Her brother Heath barreled into the room, shoulder forward in a tackle that would have taken her down—if she’d been foolish enough to be standing in the way.

Instead, Dahlia hooked her foot under his ankle and gave him a sharp push to skew his forward trajectory sideways.

Rather than splat to the floor, Heath dropped in a single smooth somersault, springing to his feet with his palms facing her direction. She had less than a second to adjust her stance before his arms caught her right in the midsection, spinning her up and over his shoulder like pirate claiming his prize.

Quickly, she hooked her arms about his neck in a headlock and let herself fall backward, deadweight, until he was forced to his knees.

“Good one,” Heath choked out with obvious pride. “It’s been months since I’ve bested you.”

Dahlia loosened her hold on her brother’s neck in exchange for a heartfelt embrace. “Years, puppy. I should be giving you lessons in self-defense.”

Bryony glanced up from buffing her fingernails. “Why can’t you ever just shake hands? Normal people shake hands.”

“Nobody shakes hands,” Heath protested in mock offense. “Smart people bow or curtsey. Shaking hands is the quickest way to getting flipped arse over teakettle.”

“Normal people don’t flip other normal people arse over teakettle,” Bryony pointed out. “Why don’t you two join the circus where you belong?”

“Actually,” Dahlia interrupted, taking her brother’s hands. “I was hoping you could stay after dance class on Saturday and show the girls better self-defense techniques. I’ve been teaching them all that I can, but it’s hard to illustrate proper moves without two people to demonstrate.”

Heath’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, that’s why I’m here. Something has come up. I’m no longer free on Saturdays.”

“What about Sundays?” Dahlia asked. “There really isn’t a set schedule. Any time you can squeeze in a few hours at the school, the girls will be more than happy to—”

“I can’t,” he said firmly. “Not right now. I promise to let you know if that changes.”

Dahlia’s spirits fell. Her brother always had time for her. Whatever had come up must be important, indeed. She forced herself to nod her acceptance.

Perhaps this was good news. Only a churlish wretch would worry she was about to lose her brother so soon after losing a sister.

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I’ll figure something out.”

Bryony frowned. “Do you still want me to drop by the school?”

“Please,” Dahlia said. “The girls deserve a little music in their lives. They love it when you play for them.”

But it wouldn’t last forever, she realized suddenly. Bryony had dreams of her own. And the day she stopped coming…

The music would be gone.