Chapter One

London, 1866

E leanor Piper wished she had her practice string. It wasn't a string so much as a length of cotton rope, which sounded even worse for a young lady to be toting around a ballroom. Instead, she smoothed her wide, pale yellow skirts and looked into the sea of brightly colored finery. Very few faces looked familiar, but she likely knew their names from the society columns her mother had foisted upon her in the last few months. No one ever looked like their scandal column sketch.

"Don't fidget," her mother hissed. She smelled strongly of mint and rosewater, which shouldn't have been eyewatering, but somehow, on her mother, it was.

That's why I need my string , Eleanor sulked. Her father wanted Eleanor to make a Society match, given that the queen had passed him over for special recognition for service to the Empire. While the British had theoretically not taken sides in the American Civil War, some shipping companies had aided the Confederacy in hopes of maintaining good cotton prices. Piper Shipping this is the entrance to the Ladies' Room. Haven't you some other way to meet women?"

Tristan seemed to ignore the jab, turning towards his sister, forgetting about his trespass against Eleanor completely. Which was understandable, since Eleanor was eminently forgettable. "What are you in such a hurry for? Will you force me to call for pistols at dawn again?"

"You are such a prig," declared the other girl, whose deep, glossy auburn hair was shining and perfect. Eleanor recognized her from the caricatures on the scandal sheets. That was Miss Justine Brewer, or Bad News Brews , as she was nicknamed. Beautiful, impetuous, and wealthy, she was the object of every man's dreams and nightmares both. "I can't believe you're still whinging about that. Now, out of the way, we have an emergency."

As the two young ladies swept into the retiring room, Eleanor crept in after, not bothering to excuse herself from the presence of the man called Tristan. He'd already forgotten her anyway.

"I can't believe we are an hour into a ball and my dress is falling apart," wailed Tristan's sister. She pulled off her long white gloves and fussed with a tear in the ruffled gown. "How am I supposed to look like I can lead if my very clothes won't follow directions?"

Eleanor agreed the dress was not hanging correctly. The light blue ribbon trim was meant to encircle the gown and return to a pin at the waist. Two ends of the ribbon hung limply halfway down the belled skirt.

Miss Brewer stepped back and eyed the misbehaving ribbon, her mouth canted over to the side in a perfect pout. It should have wrinkled her face into a terrible scowl, but that was Justine Brewer—cute as a button, no matter her expression. Eleanor wished her face was half as pleasing in even one attitude.

"I could tie it into a bow," Miss Brewer suggested.

"That's too last season," Tristan's sister complained. "What am I going to do? I have to get back out there."

This was a problem she could fix! Eleanor took a step forward. "May I make a suggestion?" Her boldness surprised her, but after all, these were just other young ladies, and not ones that would judge her for forwardness.

"Please," the sister wailed. Even Miss Brewer looked relieved.

"Could I just show you?" Eleanor stepped closer.

The dress's owner huffed in frustration. Miss Brewer gave her a skeptical once-over. "Of course, Miss...?"

"Piper. Eleanor Piper. How do you do?" She gave a slight, reflexive curtsy because she didn't know the rank of the other woman.

"Of Piper and Co. Shipping?" Miss Brewer asked, exchanging a look with her friend.

"Mr. Piper is my father, yes." Dismayed by the distraction, Eleanor looked to the golden-haired young miss. "May I?"

With a shrewd look in her eye, the young lady nodded. "Go ahead."

Eleanor knelt in front of her, smoothing out the ribbon, finding the edges of each side. There was a loose tie that had come unpinned from the waist. It wasn't secure without a proper knot. Stripping her gloves off, Eleanor quickly tied a double butterfly, careful to flare out each wing to make the knot's namesake clear. The width of the ribbon wasn't easy to work with, nor was the slippery satin easy to tie, but Eleanor was happy to finally be comfortable.

"There now." Eleanor backed away, pleased with her work. Instead of a plain hook of ribbon, there was now a jaunty butterfly pinned midway down the wide skirt of the young miss.

"Oh," Miss Brewer said in surprise.

"That was fast," the other said, looking down. "Oh. It's a butterfly." She sounded disappointed.

"Do you not like butterflies?" Eleanor asked, her stomach plummeted.

"Who doesn't like butterflies?" the miss replied, though her tone made it very clear: she did not like butterflies.

Eleanor squared her shoulders. "Not to worry." She knelt once again, untying her butterfly and looking up at the woman who was now peering down at her as she worked, judging her to be the type of person who preferred fewer feminine frills. She tied a double figure eight knot instead, fashioning the ribbon to make the geometrical pattern of the infinity sign pleasing to the eye.

"Ophelia," Miss Brewer said, her voice full of admiration. "Come look in the mirror."

The young lady—Ophelia—moved past Eleanor to the mirror hung on the wall. She moved this way and that. "Oh, that's good. That's very good. Miss Piper, you have my undying gratitude."

Eleanor smiled and got to her feet, careful not to step on petticoats and balance the hoop of her dress. "My pleasure."

"You seem to be quite the expert on ribbons," Miss Brewer said carefully.

"Not ribbons, really." Eleanor smiled. "It's one of those things anyone might learn if their father dealt with ships. Knot-tying is essential aboard any vessel."

Ophelia got a strange look on her face, an expression that made Eleanor almost nervous. "Miss Piper, I would very much like you to call on me tomorrow, at my home."

Eleanor blinked rapidly. Had she made friends so easily? And did she want to be known as a friend to an associate of Bad News Brews ? "I would be delighted. May I inquire as to your address?"

"Belgravia Square. Lord Rascomb's residence." Ophelia smiled.

Eleanor stood stunned. This was The Honourable Ophelia Bridewell. And her golden-god brother was The Honourable Tristan Bridewell. Her stomach sank. They were so far out of her social sphere, she might as well be on the bottom of the ocean. "Of course."

Miss Ophelia gave her an impish smile. "Did you not recognize me?"

Eleanor shook her head. Oh, her father would be pleased to call on Lord Rascomb, with his wealth, his title, and his two unmarried sons. "I apologize, I have not been keeping up on the social on dits ."

Miss Brewer gave her a kind smile and folded Eleanor's hand in her arm. "Why don't you let us make introductions tonight? It's the very least we can do."

"That isn't necessary," Eleanor said weakly, wanting to pull her arm from her new friend's grasp.

"I'm afraid it is," Ophelia sighed. "After all, once Justine makes up her mind about a friend, you'll have a devil of a time changing it. Besides, tomorrow, you'll be a member of the club, so we might as well introduce you as one tonight."

"The club?" Eleanor asked, having a distinct feeling that things were about to happen to her, whether she wanted it or not.

Both young women smiled. "The Ladies' Alpine Society."

Eleanor echoed the name back. "I'm afraid I've never heard of it. What does it do?"

"It raises money," Justine said.

"For what?" Eleanor asked, her whole body tingling.

"For the first women to climb the Matterhorn." Ophelia took Eleanor's other arm.

"And who would those women be?" Eleanor sagged against them.

"Us, of course," Miss Brewer answered. "Come, let's go raise some money."

*

"Would you introduce me to Miss Brewer?" Blakely asked Tristan. He'd been in America too long and didn't know what he was asking. The other men in the group chuckled.

"Not if you value your time," Jacobs chirped.

"Or your immortal soul," said DeWitt.

"Wasting your breath, but I will if you'd like me to," Tristan said to him. He liked the man, mostly because he generally liked everyone. Blakely lost too frequently at cards, but that was another reason that Justine would eat the man alive. Justine didn't like losers. Or really, winners, for that matter. Justine Brewer disliked about every man she encountered, which was fine by Tristan.

He'd given her a wide berth since childhood, when she'd climbed up to the slate roof of their townhome and performed a jig because he'd dared her to. He didn't expect her to do it, which was the entire reason he'd said it; any reasonable person would have seen the risk of breaking one's neck. The girl was patently insane, and he wanted no part of her antics.

"Oh, hello there, who's that other one on Miss Brewer's arm? Haven't seen her before," Jacobs said, peering over Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan glanced, expecting to see another one of Ophelia's constantly changing chums. But no, it was that young miss he'd bumped into earlier. It was entirely his fault. He'd been charging towards the card tables, hoping to catch Francis, Justine's older brother, who was just back from the Continent, when he'd stepped right into the woman's path. He was such an oaf at times—of which Ophelia had no compunction reminding him. His height and width had sprung out of nowhere at the ripe age of eighteen, and in the years since, he'd spent most of his time outside. He still had trouble remembering just how far his stride carried him when inside a building.

"I don't know her name," Tristan confessed. There was a softness about her that he liked. Where his sister's friends were typically impetuous and bold, this woman didn't seem like she would run him over.

He glanced at his mates, all standing around gawping at the trio of women making their way through the ballroom. He wasn't about to let any of those idiots get the upper hand on a pretty girl. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

They booed as he walked away, a grin on his face. Blakely caught up. "Introduce me?"

"It's not worth it, mate," Tristan said, a grin on his face.

"What do you care? Aren't you seeing Mrs. Fitzroy?"

Tristan's step faltered. "We've parted company." Mrs. Vera Fitzroy was an actress whose greatest joy seemed to be torturing him. She'd been nothing but sweetness when he first courted her, but she'd grown more acerbic as they spent time together. Finally, he realized that he'd not known her at all. He gave her an emerald brooch to commemorate their time together, and she'd been seen in the company of an older man the very next night. Tristan had felt insulted, though he knew he had no right to begrudge Vera her happiness—or her livelihood.

Finally they reached the trio: his sister, Justine, and the mysterious young miss.

"How is your evening thus far?" Tristan asked Justine.

"I haven't yet gotten a sponsor for the Scotland expedition, if that's what you're asking," Justine said curtly. She was all business with him, which suited him fine.

"Quite," he said. "May I introduce my friend Mr. Terrance Blakely? Blakely, this is my sister's bosom companion, Miss Justine Brewer." He didn't add her nickname, Bad News , which admittedly, he'd given her. It wasn't his fault he knew the editor of a few papers.

Justine gave Blakely a tepid smile, but Blakely was all aflutter. Maybe she could wheedle more money out of him for the expedition, just as the rest of his money had been relieved from his pockets at the card tables.

"Since we are introducing everyone," Ophelia announced, "may I present Miss Eleanor Piper, the newest member of the Ladies' Alpine Society."

Tristan's brows shot up. He had not pegged this young lady as an adventurer. Miss Eleanor Piper blushed furiously, which he enjoyed watching. So she was as timid as she seemed. He hoped she could keep up, otherwise Ophelia and Bad News would chew her up and spit her out. Not to mention what the mountain would do to her.

"And this is my brother," Ophelia continued. "Mr. Tristan Bridewell."

"I'm not truly a member," Miss Piper stammered. "In fact, I've only just heard of it."

"Nonsense." Justine said. "She's coming. And that's final."

Tristan caught Miss Piper's gaze. Her brown eyes were deep and velvety, carrying a softness that melted him. "You must have shown some kind of acumen that makes Miss Brewer so adamant."

"She's an absolute genius with knots," Ophelia said. "You should have seen how quick she was, too. Look at my dress. Look at this!" His sister turned to show off the side of her dress, where a perfectly tidy double figure eight knot was dressed out to perfection. Their father could not have done half so well with a ribbon that thick.

"That's impressive," Tristan admitted.

"See? We must have her," Justine said.

Blakely turned red at the phrase, no doubt hearing a double entendre.

"Your skills would be quite the asset," Tristan said, making that delicious eye contact with her. She blushed again; this time, the heat spread delightfully across her chest. The off-the-shoulder fashion displayed so much, and for that Tristan was eternally grateful. "How did you come to know such a thing?"

"My father is in shipping," Miss Piper said, her voice small.

"Ah, this must be him now," Ophelia observed as an older couple approached.

Miss Piper did the introductions, and Tristan noted Mr. Piper's disapproval when she named him. Tristan's reputation was perhaps not the most ideal. He played cards—gambling was an easy way to raise the money for their expedition, after all. But he did use some of his winnings on keeping women like Vera Fitzroy happy, it was true.

Yet Tristan was convinced he could win over a man like Mr. Piper. Not that he had any designs on Miss Piper, of course. Any friend of Ophelia's was immediately off limits, and doubly so if she were someone who might accompany them on their expedition. One oughtn't dip one's pen in the company ink, so to speak.

The goal was the Matterhorn. It had been successfully ascended not even a year earlier, by a British team. Unfortunately, Lord Francis Douglas and three other members of the expedition had lost their lives in the descent. Queen Victoria was not pleased that aristocratic blood had spilled on mountain, but it spurred Tristan's father on. Somehow, that burning desire to conquer was made all the more palpable by the fatal mishap that had befallen Lord Francis Douglas's team.

Ophelia shared that desire with their father. Tristan wanted to be a part of the ascent, not out of a desire to conquer, but for the view. He was always a boy climbing a tree, looking for a lofty perch. What could be loftier than the distinctive perch atop the Matterhorn? How far would they see? The challenge of climbing a mountain that proved not only impossible but lethal to so many was intoxicating.

Tristan gripped Mr. Piper's hand—he tried to greet all industrialists with a hearty American-style handshake, as they seemed to respect him more for it. Given that he wouldn't inherit his father's title, he needed to prove himself in some other way. "Mr. Piper, a pleasure."

Mr. Piper's grip was firmer than he expected, his hands solid and square. Clearly the man had worked shipboard before he became a businessman. "Mr. Bridewell," he grunted, a voice like gravel. "I've heard you and your father are in search of adventure."

Tristan gave his best rakish grin. "I daresay it isn't a search, as we've found our target."

"And what would that be?" Mr. Piper was fishing, and Tristan would be happy to reel him in.

"The Matterhorn," Ophelia announced, giving Mr. Piper a pristine smile of her own. "You see, we're hoping to make me the first woman to the top."

"I beg your pardon!" Mrs. Piper exclaimed, swaying as if she might topple at any moment.

"Mr. Whymper has proved the ascent possible. I've met him, and while he is perfectly decent, he is no god among men. I believe I can also accomplish the task just as well," Ophelia answered serenely.

Justine, miraculously, kept her mouth shut about joining the expedition.

"Is this true?" Mr. Piper asked Tristan.

"Of course," Tristan replied. "But my sister will not be alone. My father and I will also be on the expedition. Surely you know that my father, Lord Rascomb, is an accomplished mountaineer."

Mr. Piper frowned but nodded. "I'm not sure I can condone such an exercise for a woman. Their natural frailty seems a deterrent."

Tristan didn't bother looking to his sister, who had heard the sentiment time and again. But he would pitch Ophelia against any man when it came to endurance. Their father had taken them on mountaineering projects many times, from Mount Snowdon in Wales to Mont Blanc in France. They were slogs, each one of them, and while his older brother Arthur complained, Ophelia kept her head down and her feet moving.

"I harbor no qualms about my sister's abilities."

"Mrs. Piper," Ophelia said, bypassing Mr. Piper's authority. "I've asked Miss Piper to call on me tomorrow. She has some skill that I had hoped she would impart upon me."

Mrs. Piper straightened, her previous frailty forgotten. "Oh? And what is that?"

"Her skill in knot-tying is quite extraordinary. It would be most advantageous to have such abilities on a treacherous climb such as the Matterhorn."

Tristan smiled at Ophelia's cunning. She didn't say she wanted Miss Piper on the expedition, nor did she ask for lessons. That was Ophelia for you; dance around the issue so that by the time the trespass has been committed, the persecuted doesn't realize they've been manipulated.

"We would be happy to call on you tomorrow," Mrs. Piper answered, clearly dazzled by the idea.

Even Mr. Piper finally looked pleased. Tristan wanted to sigh. The obviousness of their social climbing was depressing. His father's title baited more than one family. Technically, his brother Arthur, the heir, was unmarried. No doubt they wished to shove Miss Eleanor into the wandering, aloof gaze of Herringbone.

It wasn't Arthur's fault that his courtesy title was Lord Berringbone, nor was it his fault that he was born with eyes so wide and so very far apart, like a trout. It was only a matter of time until someone came up with his nickname. That it was Tristan was... not unexpected. But Tristan had not sold this nickname to the papers. It was just what he called his brother from childhood, and then when they ended up at the same school, since Arthur wasn't that much older, well, the other boys definitely picked up on the fish-related ideas.

Tristan didn't begrudge Herringbone inheriting all the money. Or the title. Or a guaranteed purpose in life. But looking at the shy Miss Eleanor, he did begrudge Herringbone the chance to court her, sight unseen. Tristan was here, and an excellent conversationalist and dancer. Why should his brother get all the respectable women?

The musicians returned from their break, striking up another Viennese waltz. He might as well do his part to raise Miss Piper's esteem in the eyes of Society. "Miss Piper, may I have this dance?"

She looked astonished to be asked, and he couldn't help but wonder who had ignored her so often as to make her believe herself invisible. She was a stunning girl, her hair and eyes a study in warm luscious brown, like the dark Swiss chocolate he'd come to enjoy.

"Go on, go on," Mr. Piper muttered, shooing her off with his hands.

There was Tristan's answer. Those people—her parents—were the ones who had ignored her. If nothing else, between him and Ophelia, they could make Miss Piper feel important. He held out his hand, waiting for her, hoping she could at least take this dance. It was her due as a young lady at a party.

She composed herself and slid her gloved fingers into his. "Thank you," she whispered as he led her to the parquet, already swirling with couples. Belled skirts swirled in yellows, lavenders, azures, and emeralds.

He gave her his best rakish smile, as he'd done to win over her father. "I have a feeling that by the end of the night, I'll be thanking you."

*

The dance floor was distracting. How did one remember steps amidst all these swaying multi-colored dresses? But then, how did one remember one was on the dance floor at all, when Tristan Bridewell's hand was settled heavy on her waist? He was beautiful. And not a gentleman she would ever consider, either.

Not that a gentleman like him would be interested in her. She needed to reject that idea immediately. This was clearly a bid for her father's money for whatever their Society was about. Even in the retiring room, Ophelia had asked if she was related to Piper Shipping. That was fine. Understandable. They needed to raise money, and Eleanor was the lock holding back her sizeable dowry. This Society needed the correct key. Whether that was friendship or something more, so be it.

But surrounded by Tristan's very firm arms, the scent of him different than the salty ocean smell of Mr. Smythe, her father's captain, best friend, and the teacher of all her wonderful knots, Eleanor was hard pressed to remember this was not about her. That Tristan's clear, exceptionally beautiful blue eyes staring at her as if she were something extraordinary was because of her father's money.

"Have you been to many balls?" Tristan asked, pulling Eleanor out of her own spiraling thoughts.

She looked up at him, momentarily lost in the absolute charming beauty of his symmetrical face. "No, not many, I'm afraid."

"Oh, were you in the country? Or traveling?" Tristan asked. A small frown line appeared between his brows, and somehow he became more attractive. How was a man with a lined face more attractive? But he was.

"No," Eleanor said. "I was..." What was she doing? Reading books, tying knots, drawing pictures of dogs and cats that she wished were her pets if her mother wasn't deathly allergic. Emphasis her mother's, of course.

Tristan's hand adjusted at her waist, causing the sensation to renew. That was very distracting. "And you?" she asked. "Have you been to many balls?"

His eyes flashed wide open in acknowledgment. "I fear that being the son of a viscount obligated me to attend every ball in a forty-mile radius of London since my fifteenth birthday."

"What happened on your fifteenth birthday?" Eleanor asked automatically, not thinking that it might be an impertinent probing.

Tristan barked out a laugh. "I grew into my feet." He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "I was clumsy as a boy."

Eleanor had to concentrate very hard on listening because his mouth so near her ear was making her feel faint. Maybe she had inherited her mother's sickly constitution, because dancing with Tristan was inducing all sorts of concerning symptoms. "And now?" She hoped she didn't sound breathless.

He grinned, which really ought to be a crime, because the pleasure on his face was so handsome, Eleanor was surprised she wasn't felled right there on the dance floor.

"You tell me," he said. "Have I stepped on your feet at all?" He spun her around, which did nothing for her dizziness. He let go of her hand and bowed. It was only then that Eleanor realized the music had stopped and the dance was over.

Oh dear, he was a dangerous man. And Eleanor knew from the scandal sheets that he found company amongst the opera singers and the demimonde. He was not a man in search of a wife. If she weren't careful, he would seduce her out of her petticoats with one alluring smile. No, not her. He was looking for her father's money. This was about the money, and not about her. She had to remember that in order to keep her head on straight, as her father would say.

They returned to their circle of people, her parents, Miss Ophelia, and Miss Brewer. Then quite unexpectedly, Tristan announced, "It's settled. Miss Piper has agreed to teach us her knowledge."

Eleanor shot him a look that could only be construed as surprise, couldn't it? Not gratitude for including her, not delight that it would compel her to spend more time in his company. But maybe those things too. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she looked to her parents, who both eyed her skeptically.

"Well then," her mother sniffed. "We shall begin tomorrow, I suppose."