Chapter One

October 1832

Tipton House

Mayfair, London

L ottie glared, barely restraining herself from lobbing the candleholder sitting next to her on the fireplace mantel toward the object of her fury. “Why must you continue to insist that this man is the best in the business?”

“Because he is.”

“I can assure you that he is not.” She was. That title decidedly belonged to her, even if none other than herself knew it.

Women cast no shadows in the theatre. Aside from those fortunate few blessed with a voice angelic enough to warrant a trip onto the stage at the Royal Opera House or Drury Lane. The rest of the female persuasion remained spectators, momentary travelers resting their laurels in cushioned velvet seats designed first and foremost for the privileged rich. The aristocracy. The ton . To which she, Lady Lottie, youngest daughter of the recently deceased seventh Earl of Castlebury, also belonged.

Now sister to the eighth Earl of Castlebury—the scoundrel currently vexing her greatly with his amused silence while the Duke of Somerton tried his blue-blooded best to drop her flat to the floor from a coronary fueled by internally combusted rage. Indeed, the very air in the drawing room of Tipton House suddenly felt quite stifling.

Lottie glared at her eldest brother, Crawford. “You’re less than helpful, you know. Rather unhelpful , in truth.”

“What am I to do when you and Rainville get bees in your bonnets about Thatcher Goodrich? Every blasted time that playwright’s moniker is mentioned, you puff up like a peacock and begin squawking, providing Rainville the riotous entertainment he seeks.”

Lottie lit up like a lightning storm at her sibling’s words, offense and belittlement setting very ill upon her chest. Her head swiveled in a not dissimilar motion to an owl’s, and her gaze stabbed her target with fierce, fiery daggers of indignation. “ Excuse me? ” she inquired.

“Mind your step, dear brother. This Castlebury has a tongue sharp as her sister’s,” Rainville advised with a tip of his regal chin toward Lottie, his honey-toned gaze sparking with humor. “Bleed you out if you don’t keep a keen eye.”

“And well I know it,” Crawford muttered, raking a hand through his glossy auburn hair, disheveling it. “You married the nicest one,” he groused, jutting his chin out stubbornly, no doubt preparing for Lottie’s next verbal blow.

“ Nora and nice are not words generally connected together within the same sentence.” Rainville chuckled, his countenance alight with the love that he held for the middle Castlebury sister, now the Duchess of Somerton—and much adored by the wholly devoted and forever-smitten duke.

Lottie’s gaze shifted between her brother and her brother-in-law, her frustration mingling with a sense of artistic injustice as she felt fuming and indignant. She was determined to prove herself in the world of theatre, even if it meant challenging the conventions of her time.

Thatcher Goodrich and his plays be damned.

“If women controlled the theatre industry, the quality of it would increase a thousand-fold, and the tales would be rather more sophisticated.”

“Is that so?” Rainville smirked, always the smug duke.

“Yes, that’s so.” Oh, her spine veritably cramped from righteous rigidity. “And you blooming well know it.”

As the argument continued, Lottie’s resolve only strengthened. She would not be silenced or dismissed. Thatcher Goodrich might be the current darling of the theatre world, but Lady Lottie Castlebury was about to make her mark.

“Why, Rainville, must you always champion Goodrich?” Lottie questioned, her voice tinged with exasperation. “The man is no Shakespeare, and I shall not stand idly by while the world sings his praises as though he were. Not when I , a lowly female, find myriad shortcomings with the third acts of his plays—and can do exceedingly better at the task of creating them.”

Rainville sighed dramatically, leaning against the mantelpiece. “Lottie, you’ve always been passionate about the theatre, and I admire your enthusiasm. But perhaps you’re too quick to dismiss others’ talents. Goodrich has a gift.”

Lottie couldn’t help but scoff. “A gift for mediocrity, perhaps. If the world wants to ignore the brilliant minds of women in the theatre, then so be it. But I refuse to let it pass unchallenged.”

Crawford, ever the diplomat, attempted to interject. “Lottie, I understand your frustration. But sometimes, in order to change the world, one must first navigate it. You’re a talented writer, but you need a platform, an opportunity. That’s not easily afforded a woman today, more’s the pity.”

Lottie’s gaze flicked between her brother and her brother-in-law. She knew they meant well, but their advice felt like chains, holding her back from her true potential. The world had always been a stage, and Lottie yearned to command it. Her jaw set with determination and her quiet blue eyes flashed. “Very well,” she conceded, though her tone held a hint of defiance. “I shall seek my own opportunity, away from the confines of this stifling drawing room.” With that, Lottie stormed through Tipton House, her violet skirts swirling in her wake, leaving Crawford and Rainville to exchange glances of concern.

She stomped out of Tipton House onto Grosvenor Square with all the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean heroine betrayed, feeling rather satisfied with her theatrics. Her indignation was a tempest within her, churning with unyielding determination. The grandeur of the mansion’s presence on the square dimmed in comparison to her fiery spirit.

The ornate ancestral portraits lining the walls of Tipton House had borne witness to generations of Castleburys who had adhered to the norms of aristocracy. But Lottie was different, an anomaly among her lineage—a woman fueled by dreams that transcended the limitations of her privileged existence. Well, perhaps not an anomaly , per se. Both her sisters fell far outside the realm of normal, expected behavior. Both defied conventions. So perhaps it was simply in their breeding as the daughters Castlebury.

The opulence of Grosvenor Square extended beyond the walls of Tipton House, but Lottie’s thoughts were far from the splendor of the aristocratic neighborhood. Her heart raced with the turmoil of her emotions, and her determination was unwavering. She would not allow societal norms to stifle her artistic aspirations. Not when she knew beyond doubt that she was as good as any man.

As she stretched her legs in the cool London air, the city’s bustling sounds greeted her. The cobbled streets of Mayfair stretched before her, winding their way through privilege and propriety. The weight of societal expectations pressed down on her shoulders, but she refused to bow to convention. With every stride, Lottie’s thoughts swirled with plans and possibilities. She knew that she needed to seek her own opportunities, to carve out a path that would lead her to the stage she so dearly longed to command with her words. The theatre was her passion, her sanctuary, and she would let nothing stand in her way. But how to do it remained the looming question.

How?

Unbeknownst to Lottie, the old, frayed bag she currently clutched with frustrated fists against her side bore the brunt of her emotional turmoil. Its weathered seams finally surrendered to her twisting and rending, releasing her most treasured possession—her journal filled with the carefully crafted words of her plays. She unknowingly abandoned it somewhere amidst the delights of Grosvenor Square, losing it during her furious departure.

Lottie’s inner fire burned brightly with each step, her heart a beacon of unwavering resolve. She had set her sights on a future where she would challenge conventions, shatter expectations, and prove that a woman’s voice could command the spotlight. The stage awaited her, and she would claim it as her own, no matter the obstacles in her path. Rainville could take his fancy playwright and stuff a goose with him.

Her steps carried her further into Mayfair, where the city’s elite mingled in grand ballrooms and exclusive clubs just beyond her view. Lottie marched along in her steady, capable way of moving. She would write her own destiny, just everyone wait and see.

“Goodrich could use some tutoring from the likes of me on how to create a moving and emotionally satisfying third act.” Lottie scrunched her nose and glanced to the clouds, fluffy as sheep’s wool as she grumbled, “But do I even get the chance? Noooo. What would a li’l miss like me know about script writing?”

As Lottie ventured farther from Tipton House, her footsteps echoed the rhythm of her racing heart. Crossing Park Street, she sighed as hard-packed road gave way to the inviting embrace of Hyde Park. The sprawling green expanse stretched before her, a sanctuary of nature in the heart of bustling London. A sense of serenity washed over Lottie as she entered the park, the weight of her recent confrontation gradually lifting as she meandered through the great park. The towering trees rustled their approval, their leaves whispering secrets that only she could understand. For Lottie, Hyde Park was more than just a place of leisure; it was her muse, her refuge.

She wandered along the winding paths, the vibrant colors of blooming flowers catching her eye. The air was crisp and invigorating, and the distant laughter of children playing added a touch of innocence to the surroundings. Lottie’s mind, ever consumed by her passion for the theatre and written word, momentarily found solace in the simple beauty of the park.

Her old bag, a loyal companion on countless journeys, swung at her side as she strolled. She brushed her fingers against it briefly, knowing within were contents that held the hopes and dreams of a burgeoning playwright, the pages within her journal filled with her most cherished words. It had been her confidant, her creative partner in the creation of countless characters and stories.

As Lottie continued to meander through the park’s winding trails, she became lost in her thoughts. Scenes from her latest play danced before her mind’s eye, characters taking shape, their voices calling out to be heard. She was so engrossed in her creative reverie that she didn’t notice the faint tearing of the frayed seams. It wasn’t until she reached a secluded spot near a picturesque pond that she realized her journal was no longer in her possession.

“No!” she gasped. “No, oh please, no!” Panic seized her heart as she frantically patted her bag, searching for the familiar weight of her treasured notebook. But it was gone, lost somewhere amidst the serene beauty of Hyde Park. Or Park Street. Or Grosvenor Square.

Good God, it could be anywhere.

Her most private thoughts and feelings in play form.

Gone.

“Oh hellfire, what if someone finds it?” Lottie whispered, mortification heating her round cheeks. “What if they read it?”

Her hands trembled as she retraced her steps, scanning the path for any sign of her beloved journal. The park, once a source of solace, now felt like a treacherous labyrinth, hiding her most precious creation. Her breath quickened, and a sense of desperation washed over her. “Come on, come on,” she urged quietly.

The world around her seemed to blur as she retraced her path, searching for any trace of the lost journal. Every tree and every flower appeared to taunt her with its beauty, mocking her misfortune. She questioned the fates that had led her to this moment, one filled with frustration and heartache and preemptive humiliation. The things she had written in there! Oh, it was too much to bear.

A gentle breeze rustled, finally bringing Lottie back to the present, carrying with it the faint scent of ink and paper. She followed the breeze to the edge of the pond, where she spotted a few loose pages from her journal caught in the reeds. Her heart leaped with a mixture of relief and anguish as she gingerly retrieved the scattered remnants of her work. “There you are!” she squealed, snatching them up. “Well, there two of you are. But I’ll take it.”

The pages, though disheveled and damp from their encounter with the pond, still held her carefully penned words. How had they gotten there? Where in heaven’s name were the rest? Lottie clutched them to her chest, a mix of gratitude and sorrow welling within her. While her journal was momentarily lost, she had salvaged a portion of her creativity, a glimmer of hope amidst the awful reality of her missing work.

As she sat by the pond, the setting sun casting a golden glow across the water, Lottie vowed to herself that this setback would not deter her. If she could not find her journal then she would re-create her lost work, breathing life back into her characters and stories. The theatre still beckoned, and she was determined to answer its call with renewed determination and unwavering passion.

Seated there, her skirts bunched around her, Lottie clutched the damp pages of her journal to her chest, her frustration and determination waging a silent battle within her. She stared out at the serene water, its surface rippling gently in the fading light of day. Birds chirped in the branches overhead. In this moment, she was alone and thankful for it. “I bet I left it in my bedchamber.” Brightened by the idea, she stated it again. “That’s it! You simply left it in your chamber. Why, it’s not lost at all.”

She almost believed herself.

In her welcome solitude, Lottie found herself muttering a conversation to an unlikely audience—a group of ducks that had gathered by the pond’s edge. Her words spilled out, a mixture of exasperation and indignation. “Lousy, arrogant men, the lot of them,” she grumbled. “Think they know everything, don’t they? As if the world revolves around their opinions and accomplishments. As if they’re the only ones who possess them.”

The ducks, seemingly unfazed by her rant, continued to paddle lazily in the water, their quacks a gentle background chorus to her musings.

Lottie leaned closer to the pond, eyes narrowing as she continued her one-sided conversation. “They’ll ignore your ideas, your dreams, or worse—claim them as their own. And what do we women get? Condescension and dismissal. A pat on the head. Told to look pretty, act affable but not too intelligent. Well, I won’t stand for it any longer.” She paused for a moment, her steely gaze fixed on the ducks, as if she were seeking their approval. “I’ll show them. I’ll prove that a woman’s voice is just as powerful, just as deserving of recognition, as any man’s. The theatre will be my stage, and I’ll command it with my words. Thatcher Goodrich has rather the competitor in me, whether he yet knows it or not.”

The ducks, indifferent to the weight of her declaration, paddled away in search of morsels beneath the water’s surface. Lottie sighed, feeling a momentary connection with these feathered creatures, who seemed equally unimpressed by the world’s injustices as they were to her fervent declarations. With renewed determination, she unfolded the salvaged pages of her journal and began to read her own words, her fingers tracing the ink-stained lines.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the park in a soft, ethereal glow, Lottie whispered a promise to the fading light. “I’ll write stories that will captivate hearts and minds, that will leave audiences breathless. And no man, no matter how lousy or arrogant, will stand in my way.”

With her resolve strengthened, she gathered the scattered pages and carefully placed them back into her bag. Unbeknownst to Lottie, the tattered remnants of her journal were not as secure in her bag as she had hoped. As she carefully placed the ink-stained pages back into the weathered journal, she failed to notice the bag’s pitiable condition. The bag, weakened by years of faithful service, had given way completely at the bottom, leaving a hole that gaped like a silent cry for help. Her pages passed swiftly and silently through.

Lottie hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding beneath her, the loose pages fluttering to the grass.

“I won’t let anyone steal my voice, my stories,” she declared with conviction, her words resounding through the park.

With a final quack of bemusement, the ducks retreated from the scene, leaving the scattered remnants of Lottie’s dreams behind.

As she continued her journey through Hyde Park, the weight of her determination was palpable, and the loss of her journal remained a constant agitation, an anxiety. Her steps quickened, the need to find it safely within her chambers propelling her feet down the dirt path.

“Please let it be at home.”

Otherwise, God help her.