Chapter 1

1

Millicent Whittenburg was in quite a pickle.

First, the potted palm she hid behind was far too short and woefully bereft of foliage.

Second, Viscount Tread, a man smelling of mouldy paper and dusty mothballs – and only two years younger than her father – doddered ever closer to her inadequate hiding spot. His watery blue eyes wildly searched the crush of lords and ladies for his betrothed.

Third and most troubling, Millie was his betrothed.

Tonight’s ball was in their honour, officially announcing an engagement arranged by her horrid stepmother.

‘Shall I make some kind of scene?’ Millie’s best friend, Ivy Cavendale, leaned close. ‘You can slip out the back. I’ll meet you in the gardens.’ Her light floral scent reminded Millie of wildflowers after a spring rain. Ivy shifted in her icy-blue satin gown, trying to shield Millie further from view with her body. Which was laughable. Millie towered over her friend and was about three times Ivy in width.

‘It’s no use. He’d smell me out like one of Father’s pointers. And the last thing you need is more scandal.’ Millie smiled at her oldest friend. Poor Ivy had experienced her share of gossip when her father and brother died a few months prior under highly suspicious circumstances. Ivy became a social pariah overnight. Not that either of them enjoyed warming the walls of London’s finest ballrooms, but it was still nice to receive invitations. Ivy didn’t get those any more.

Ivy had become a recluse. Millie worried her friend might never recover from the double blow of grief and shame caused by her father’s and brother’s deaths. Ivy only agreed to attend the ball tonight because she knew Millie needed her support.

Just the thought of lying beneath Viscount Tread as he wheezed and sweated was enough to make any girl gather her friends near and run to the closest nunnery. Millie swallowed down the rising bile.

Things couldn’t get any worse.

‘Oh, there you are, Daughter.’

Hellfire. Things just got worse.

As a matter of course, when her stepmother, Patricia Whittenburg, became involved, things always got worse.

‘I’ve been looking for you, dear. Poor Viscount Tread has been almost frantic with worry thinking you might have slipped away.’ Patricia’s stretched vowels made Millie cringe as the woman’s perfectly painted eyebrows raised like a guillotine.

Perhaps Millie could run. Patricia had no chance of catching her in the ridiculously heeled slippers she wore.

Hope died swiftly as her stepmother wrapped bony fingers around Millie’s arm. Sadly, the only thing escaping was Millie’s chances to be free.

Her stepmother wore a lime-green monstrosity cut so low, Millie could almost see the woman’s nipples. Patricia’s waist was cinched tight enough to crack a rib. It was a wonder she could breathe at all, let alone brandish the commanding tone she directed at Millie.

‘Come out from behind that plant, you silly girl.’ Patricia’s mouth crimped in disdain as her nails dug into Millie’s skin. ‘And you.’ She narrowed her eyes at Ivy. ‘I distinctly remember not inviting you. The last thing we need at this ball is the stench of scandal.’

Ivy took a half step back. Her thin shoulders drooped like a flower bereft of rain.

Millie hated the defeat she saw in her friend. ‘She came as a guest of the Duchess of Dorsett.’ Not precisely true, but Patricia wouldn’t dare question the duchess. Lady Philippa Winterbourne, Duchess of Dorsett, was widely known to have the ear and favour of Queen Victoria herself. One didn’t disagree with the duchess. Ever.

Despite her stepmother’s talons digging ever deeper, Millie stifled a smug smile. This round went to Millie.

‘How the two of you won her approval, I’ll never know.’ Patricia’s grip hardened, making Millie wince. She could pull free, but that would only draw attention to them, and Viscount Tread bumbled ever closer.

Patricia eyed Ivy like a worm in her apple. ‘You may have snuck into this party on the arm of the duchess, but she isn’t here now. Get away from us, child. I have things to discuss with my daughter.’

Millie almost laughed aloud. Patricia was barely six months older than Millie and two months older than Ivy. They’d all come out in the same season, for cripes sake. Hearing her stepmother refer to Millie as her daughter or Ivy as a child was almost as ridiculous as being engaged to a man within squinting distance of seventy. So, not ridiculous at all, according to Patricia.

Ivy’s gaze bounced back and forth from Millie to Patricia. Millie knew Ivy would never abandon her. But if she stayed, Patricia would become even more cruel.

‘I’ll be fine, Ivy. Why don’t you get some food.’ Ivy wasn’t eating nearly enough. She had always been slight, but after the loss of her brother and father, she was painfully thin.

‘I shall be just over there if you need me.’ Ivy pointed to the refreshments table.

Millie smiled. ‘All will be well. Trust me.’

Ivy nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.

Smart woman. I’m not convinced either.

As Ivy wove through the crowd, her dress winking like a jewel caught in moonlight, Patricia made a clicking sound in the back of her throat. ‘How dare the duchess bring that disgusting girl to my house? All the rumours say the child’s father murdered her brother. The whole family is sick with madness. I’m sure of it. Once you’re married to Viscount Tread, you won’t be permitted to socialise with people like that, mark my words, Millicent.’

Patricia wrenched Millie around and assessed her from the top of her wild, red curls struggling to escape their pins, down her cream evening gown failing to contain her generous curves, to her flat slippers taking nothing away from her lamentable height.

Sighing dramatically, Patricia shook her head, her grip loosening enough for Millie to shake off the offending hand. ‘For the first and likely last time, you are the belle of this ball. Everyone has come tonight to celebrate you and your betrothal. To a viscount, nonetheless. You should be thrilled. And tripping over your huge feet with gratitude to me for arranging this match. Ungrateful wretch.’

Millie opened her mouth to protest, but Patricia kept talking.

‘Finding a man willing to marry a ginger-haired girl who is too tall and too fat to ever be fashionable was no easy feat.’

Ouch.

Even from her horrid stepmother, the words cut. Millie clenched her teeth and straightened her shoulders.

I don’t care what you think. Your words can’t hurt me.

But they did. And Patricia knew it.

The pernicious woman tilted her head, candlelight sparkling in the amethysts threaded throughout her perfect, blonde ringlets. Millie couldn’t begin to fathom how Patricia thought the purple jewels would complement her hideous gown. ‘Imagine where you would be without my help. An awkward, chubby spinster doomed to a life of solitude.’

‘I prefer solitude, especially when the present company is so tedious.’ Millie stuck out her chin and pressed her lips together. She knew Patricia would have slapped her for talking back – or at least tried – if they weren’t in a crowded ballroom. But Millie savoured the safety of the crush tonight.

Patricia stretched her lips into an ugly smile. ‘Viscount Tread is old, smelly, and rumoured to suffer from gout. He’ll be perfect for you, dear daughter.’

‘Why are you so cruel, Patricia? Do you think it makes you powerful? Because it doesn’t. It only highlights your weakness.’

Patricia grabbed Millie’s arm again, tugging viciously, almost causing Millie to stumble.

Remember your training.

Widen your stance.

Centre your weight on the balls of your feet.

Punch Patricia in the face.

No. Don’t punch Patricia in her pointy little rat nose. She will bleed all over the carpet.

Patricia spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Come out of there this instant. Proper young ladies don’t loiter behind the foliage.’

Millie did many things proper young ladies never dared. She blamed it on being raised at her father’s side. A tomboy through and through. Millie rode horses astride. She threw knives with surprising accuracy. And recently, she had been secretly training with the duchess to become a private investigator. Lady Philippa Winterbourne was more than a filthy-rich widow. She was fierce. Formidable. Fashion-forward. Femme fatale. And lots of other fabulous ‘F’ words. Everything Millie one day hoped to become.

Under the duchess’ demanding tutelage, Millie was learning the tricks and trade of becoming a private investigator. A career offering her freedom. Not that her stepmother knew any of those things. The very idea would cause Patricia to swoon upon the chalked ballroom floor in a heap of sickly-green silk.

Millie twisted free of her stepmother’s grip, surprising the woman with how easily she escaped. ‘I am not loitering. And I already told you, I will not marry Viscount Treadful.’

It was a nickname she and Ivy devised. She was quite proud of it. When she shared the moniker with Lady Philippa during her weekly visits for tea – which were actually training sessions – she could have sworn the duchess almost cracked a smile. At the very least, the left corner of her lip had curled and her eyes had sparkled. Millie was chuffed. It was quite a feat to get the indomitable duchess to show any emotion at all.

Patricia’s lips hardened and her eyes narrowed. ‘You will do as you’re told. Or your father will ship you off to care for his aging sister. Would you prefer that dismal future?’

‘I would prefer any future free from Viscount Treadful. He’s almost as old as Father. Not all of us are willing to go to the lengths you did to ensnare a wealthy man. There’s a word for women like you, Patricia, and it certainly isn’t “Mother”.’ Millie threw back her shoulders and relished a rare moment where her five-foot-eleven frame and fuller-than-fashionable figure put her at an advantage. She towered over her stepmother’s delicate physique.

But Patricia Whittenburg was as intelligent as she was mercenary. She could exert her power over Millie with no more physical strength than crooking a finger.

Patricia had to tip her head back to meet her ‘daughter’s’ gaze. She batted her charcoal-darkened lashes. Everything about the woman was fake. Her beauty, her smile, her calculated kindness. She was a cruel, heartless monster wrapped in a package of perfect, blonde ringlets, a tiny waist, a pert nose, and the Devil’s soul.

‘There’s a word for women like you as well, dear. Women who refuse to marry. Women who prefer the company of other ladies to a man. It’s unnatural.’

A thrill of alarm skated up Millie’s spine. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’ Surely Patricia wouldn’t be so bold as to accuse her of sexual deviance.

‘Sometimes, I wonder exactly what you and the Duchess of Dorsett do every week at your so-called salons.’ Patricia’s green eyes sparked with an unholy fire. She had used the belladonna drops advertised in Mrs S. D. Powers’ The Ugly Girl Papers , and her pupils were so dilated, the black almost encompassed her irises. ‘She certainly can’t find your conversational skills that entertaining.’

Millie’s heart thumped painfully at her stepmother’s threat. While she was not a sapphic, she wasn’t confident about Lady Philippa’s proclivities. Not that it should matter. But Patricia could wreak havoc in the beau monde by merely hinting at homosexuality. Even someone as powerful as the duchess might be brought low by such scandalous accusations.

Millie owed Lady Philippa a great debt. Philippa wasn’t just acquainted with Queen Victoria. She was the Queen’s right-hand lady, hired to uncover villainy amongst the titled gentlemen long protected by their brethren in the House of Lords. And she believed Millie would make an excellent addition to their team.

Millie could still hardly believe it. Too tall, too chubby, too outspoken. But Philippa found her athletic, intelligent, and resourceful. She thought she was perfect for the job. She believed in Millie.

Philippa had also promised to help Millie escape her betrothal to the ancient Viscount Treadful. A feat they intended to accomplish this very evening.

Unless Patricia ruined everything with her devastating threats.

She won’t. I will not allow it.

When faced with conflict, attack was preferable to defence.

‘I hardly think you are stupid enough to offend someone as grand and powerful as the Duchess of Dorsett. Especially with such preposterous accusations.’ Millie raised her brows in a haughty expression she’d been practising in her mirror.

‘Let’s see what the House of Lords thinks. Homosexuality is illegal last time I checked.’

Millie shook her head. ‘What a ridiculous law. It shouldn’t matter who someone is attracted to. Love is love regardless of the body parts involved.’ Millie should have left the last part unsaid, but it was true. And she always spoke the truth, even when it made her life more difficult. It was a character flaw she tried and failed to correct.

‘Spoken like a true invert.’ Patricia’s lips twisted in disgust. ‘If you refuse to marry the viscount, I will have no recourse but to confess your perverseness to your father. A wicked woman engaged in immoral activity. With the Duchess of Dorsett, no less.’

‘And you would turn your own “daughter” into the authorities?’

Patricia snorted. ‘I won’t have to. If The Star of Venus catches wind of the scandal, and I can assure you, it will, the bobbies will come to us.’

Patricia was addicted to scandal sheets, gasping at the latest juicy piece of gossip while she sipped her morning cup of tea. The Star of Venus was by far the most appalling of the lot. They wouldn’t hesitate to print such licentious tripe regardless of how baseless the accusation. Publications like The Star rarely troubled themselves with details like facts or truth. Though Scotland Yard certainly should.

Still, the prattle of small-minded people created untold horror. News of a duchess engaged in sexual perversion would spread through the beau monde like wildfire. Even if no legal ramifications occurred, Lady Philippa’s reputation would be decimated.

‘You are despicable.’ Millie narrowed her gaze and wished she could throw her ever-improving right hook at Patricia’s powdered cheekbone.

Patricia tsked, shaking her head. ‘Really, dear, your skin turns such an unsightly shade of red when you’re in high temper. Calm yourself.’

Millie was ready to calm herself with a rousing game of ‘crush Patricia’s windpipe and watch her turn puce’.

Adjusting one of the curls bouncing near her chin, Patricia sighed. ‘You know your father won’t question me. You’ve already displayed your sexual depravity with Lord Franklin St George. Now this? Does your immorality know no bounds?’

The blood drained from Millie’s face. How did her horrid stepmother find out about Franklin St George? That had been over ten years ago. She was barely seven and ten when St George courted her. Her father wouldn’t have betrayed her trust so grievously.

Patricia widened her carmine-stained lips, flashing a perfect row of blunt, little teeth. ‘Your father keeps no secrets from me, dear. He told me all about it and the money it cost him to keep St George quiet about your indiscretion. How do you suppose it will go over when I tell your dear, devoted father about this new twist?’

‘He would never believe you.’ And once, that would have been true. But now, the words tasted bitter in Millie’s mouth.

‘Test me, dear. I dare you.’ Patricia’s green eyes flashed triumphantly. ‘At the very least, we’ll need to commit you to an asylum. Don’t worry. You’ll have your devoted duchess to keep you company in your filthy cell.’

Millie’s stomach twisted painfully. While accustomed to Patricia’s spite, she could not allow the duchess to be harmed.

I won’t be frightened. I have a plan. It will work. It must work.

She and the Duchess of Dorsett had put their heads together weeks ago and created a solution to escape her stepmother’s maniacal grip. It wasn’t ideal, but it might be her best chance for freedom. Millie only needed to be bold enough to carry it out.

Tonight.

Before she lost her nerve.

‘Not even you would be so vicious, Patricia.’ Another lie. Her stepmother was cruelty in curls.

Patricia’s bell-like laughter rang out, mocking Millie. ‘Silly girl. Of course I would.’

‘Why are you so hateful? Truly?’

Patricia’s pretty mask slipped, and Millie glimpsed the terrifying creature beneath. ‘You’ve been the light in your father’s eye for far too long. I am his wife. His loyalty belongs to me. As does his title and his money. With you married off, when your father comes to his end, nothing will stand in my way. He has no heirs, no distant relatives waiting to inherit. I’ll be taking a page out of your dear duchess’ notebook. Everything that was his will come to me. His poor, devoted widow.’

With Patricia’s master plan laid out, Millie felt ill. Since the beastly woman married Lord Whittenburg, she had patiently and meticulously thrust a wedge between father and daughter. Insidious little lies, manipulations of truth, contrived scenes designed to place Millie in an unflattering light.

And her father wasn’t innocent in the horrid affair. He’d never been the same after her error with St George, but since Patricia came into their house, things had gotten significantly worse. At every turn, he chose his young, nubile wife over his devoted daughter. The divide was now so deep, Millie’s relationship with her father had fractured completely.

Game, set, match, Patricia.

‘Mark my words, Millicent. A madhouse is your future unless you marry the viscount. I don’t care how disgusting he is. I don’t care how old. I don’t care how perverted his proclivities. Given your own behaviours, you might actually enjoy it.’ Patricia’s pointed little nose tilted toward the ceiling as she laughed again, a delicate, tinkling melody juxtaposing her venomous words. ‘He’s probably the only man here who won’t care that you are no longer intact. No need to thank me. I just want what’s best for my sweet girl.’

Anger roused Millie from the pain of betrayal. ‘You will pay for this, Patricia.’ But it was an empty threat, and they both knew it.

Before Patricia could respond, their gazes were drawn to the striking figure of Lady Philippa Winterbourne, the Duchess of Dorsett, as she strode across the ballroom floor. A wave of relief washed over Millie.

Reinforcements.

Lady Winterbourne cut through dancing couples, sharp as a blade and without a hint of hesitation. She wore a blackberry gown dripping with crystals that caught the candlelight as she swept through the crush of people. Philippa was a dark star shining in a bright sky. Lords and ladies scrambled to get out of her way.

The duchess intercepted Viscount Tread as he turned slow circles, still scanning the crowd for Millie. His ruddy complexion darkened close to scarlet when he saw Philippa. He almost tripped over himself attempting a gallant bow. She gestured with her fan in the opposite direction of where Millie hid in the shadows. His bushy, grey brows furrowed as he squinted at a young lady in the far corner whose only resemblance to Millie was the cream colour of her dress. Relief washed over his face as he smiled wide at the poor girl and blundered off. Lady Winterbourne continued her graceful journey toward Millie and her stepmother.

Patricia’s lips hardened, and she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. ‘Viscount Tread is your future, Millicent. No one, not even the Duchess of Dorsett, can save you from your fate. Accept it, or I will make sure you suffer beyond your worst imaginings.’

I’d rather accept a knife in my belly.

Millie refused to be a pawn in Patricia’s game. She would carve out her own future. One free of her malicious stepmother’s stratagems.

Tonight. It must happen tonight.

As quickly as wiping clean a chalkboard, Patricia adopted a cheerful expression and turned toward the duchess. Her voice was too loud, her smile too wide.

Why had her father made such a horrific choice? Were men so blind? Their logic and loyalty turned by a pretty face, a small waist, a nice pair of… eyes? It was horrific! A father should always fight for his children. But Lord Whittenburg deferred to Patricia at every turn. Millie grieved his loss as though he were dead. Because the man she knew from childhood was gone.

Men are inconstant, fickle fools.

One more reason why she wanted nothing to do with them.

Except tonight, a man will save me from the hell Patricia has planned.

‘Lady Winterbourne! You honour us with your presence.’ Patricia’s shrill voice cut through the musicians playing a lively waltz.

Millie looked over her stepmother’s head at the Duchess of Dorsett and reminded herself she was far more powerful than Patricia would ever know. Even if her stepmother seemed to hold Millie’s future in her sharpened claws.

Lady Philippa Winterbourne’s beauty was fierce rather than delicate. A jaw almost too square, lips stained only a few shades lighter than the deep purple of her gown, hair blacker than sin and just as luscious, boldly streaked with silver and piled high in an intricate coiffure. She was a visual force and everything Patricia Whittenburg would never be in both poise and power. Millie watched her stepmother’s eyes narrow with envy.

Lady Philippa lifted a perfectly arched brow. ‘It’s lucky you are so pretty, Lady Whittenburg, as your personality leaves much to be desired. At least your face will recommend you for a few more years, though I would limit your consumption of wine. It dulls the wits and complexion, two things you can’t afford to lose any more of, wouldn’t you agree?’

Patricia’s mouth fell open. Air rushed out in a strangled squeak. ‘Pardon?’ She hastily deposited the empty wine glass she was holding into the potted palm.

‘Pay attention, please. I do not repeat myself. I came to speak with Miss Millicent. Excuse us.’ She nodded at Millie and turned to walk away, her command impossible to refuse.

Before Millie could follow in the duchess’ impressive wake, Patricia once more grabbed her arm, pulling her close.

The cloying scent of lilies invaded Millie’s nostrils. She fought not to gag as Patricia hissed in her ear. ‘The viscount is expecting to dance with you before the announcement of your engagement. You will not disappoint him.’

Millie took a measured step away from Patricia. ‘The viscount should accustom himself to disappointment, madame. As should you.’ Her stepmother was sure to make Millie pay for this later. But the moment was too delicious not to enjoy.

‘Remember this, Millicent. The moment you sealed your fate.’

Millie smiled, though she worried her skin might crack from the effort. ‘I’m counting on it.’ She turned and walked away, her legs only shaking a little.