Chapter Ten

That afternoon, Izzy and Clarissa went out to make morning calls. They explained that they’d rather Zo? not go out into society until she’d been presented—not to the Queen; illegitimate girls, even pretend French cousins, didn’t do that. They were terribly apologetic, but they wanted her to meet all their friends and acquaintances at the reception Leo and Izzy were organizing for after Christmas, and since Lucy and Gerald had brought her back to England earlier than expected, it had caught them out.

Especially since it was winter and the Season wouldn’t really start until spring.

Zo? assured them that far from being disheartened at the delay, it suited her down to the ground. It was, after all, what she’d done when she’d first come to live with Clarissa and Lady Scattergood.

Her sisters put her reluctance to move in society down to shyness, or perhaps anxiety about the masquerade as a French cousin. But Zo? wasn’t shy, and she knew she could handle society events with ease—Lucy had trained her well. She simply wasn’t interested in society life. And far from being disappointed, she was secretly delighted because the delay would give her more time to paint.

She was keen to start establishing a reputation as a portraitist, and she knew she’d have Lady Scattergood’s approval.

She started by painting another portrait of the old lady. The one she’d painted of her three years ago was promising, for a beginner, and Lady Scattergood liked it very much, but Zo? knew she was much better now and was keen to paint something that showed off her new skills.

Lady Scattergood was, of course, delighted. Zo? painted her seated like some kind of Eastern potentate in her peacock chair, wearing one of the large, flamboyant turbans she’d taken to wearing to disguise the thinning of her hair, and draped in multicolored shawls, with her beloved dogs around her. In the background were some of the fascinating and unusual objects her late husband had sent her from his travels to the far-flung corners of the world.

Her time painting people with Reynard had given Zo? experience in painting people who moved and talked and came and went, and so she told Lady Scattergood that she would be quite happy for her to receive visitors while she painted. Which, of course, she did.

It brought an unexpected bonus. The old lady’s visitors were fascinated by the painting process and returned again and again to watch the portrait emerge. Before it was even finished, she had several more commissions. All were of old ladies, but Zo? didn’t mind that at all. She wasn’t the kind of portraitist who wanted to paint only beautiful people. She preferred evidence of character and personality in a subject, and she found old people endlessly absorbing and frequently beautiful.

“We’ve made an appointment with Daisy Chance for you to be fitted for your new dress,” Izzy told Zo? at dinner one night at the home of Clarissa and Race. “It’s for quite early in the morning, so nobody will see you.”

Zo? was bemused by the secrecy. “You do know that dozens of Lady Scattergood’s visitors have already seen me, don’t you?”

“Yes, but they don’t count.”

“Izzy is talking about the leaders of the ton seeing you,” Clarissa explained. “Will you try some more of this berry ice? It’s delicious, don’t you think?”

Zo? agreed and allowed the butler to fill her a tiny crystal cup with the frozen berry confection.

“You see, we want to make a splash with you at our reception,” Izzy said.

“Yes. Which is why you need this dress,” Clarissa said.

Zo? had no idea what it was all about—her sisters were being so mysterious, but all she said was “Very well. What time do you want me to be ready?”

The House of Chance was a small, elegant establishment, just off Piccadilly. It was clear to Zo? that her sisters were well acquainted with the proprietor, Miss Daisy Chance, a short, elegantly dressed woman who, to her surprise, had a bad limp and spoke with an unashamed Cockney accent.

After the greetings and introductions, the small elegant woman scanned Zo? from top to toe. “So this is your French cousin, eh? Yep, you and her are two peas in a pod, just like you said, Lady Salcott.” She gave a brisk nod. “Perfect.”

She then sent an assistant to bring her sisters tea and biscuits and some fashion magazines to peruse and whisked Zo? behind a velvet curtain to where some of the working aspects of the business took place. She took out her measuring tape, chatting in a friendly way as she measured every aspect of Zo?’s body while another assistant wrote everything down.

She soon understood not only why her sisters and Lady Alice liked Miss Chance but also why they patronized her business almost exclusively. Daisy Chance was an original, both in personality and in designs, several of which were displayed in the shop, and several more were draped, awaiting their final fitting, in the back section.

And she’d made no attempt to improve her accent. “Nah,” she said when Zo? tentatively asked her whether or not she felt pressure to change how she spoke. “Most of the other dressmakers in London give themselves French names like Estelle or Amélie and put on fake French accents to hide the fact that they were born as common as me. And because so many people think French mantua makers are the best.” She chuckled. “Me, I can’t be bothered with all that. Me designs are what people come for, and if people think an accent is more important than one of me special designs, then more fool them.”

Zo? liked that.

The measurements taken, to Zo?’s surprise, she was then ushered back to join her sisters. The appointment, it seemed, was over.

“But what about the design?” Zo? asked.

“Oh, that’s all settled,” Izzy said, her eyes twinkling. “We worked it out before you got here. Miss Chance has done us proud.”

Us? she wondered, but clearly they weren’t going to explain. “And the fabric?”

“That, too. It’s green silk. Don’t worry, it will be perfect on you,” Clarissa said with a laughing glance at Izzy. “You’re going to make a real splash.”

Miss Chance, who was obviously in on whatever plan her sisters had hatched, grinned and said, “Yeah, you’ll look a treat, miss. Mind you, you’ll need to come back for at least one more fitting, but I’ll let you know when that is.”

It was an odd way to do business, but Zo? didn’t really mind. She’d already spent hours and hours with Lucy in Paris, poring over designs and standing endlessly, having things fitted and pinned and draped and repinned and redraped until everyone was satisfied. She liked fashion and had decided ideas about what she liked and disliked, but the long process of getting there was frequently tiring and very boring.

Who knew what this dress would look like in the end? But in the meantime it gave her more time to paint.

Lady Scattergood had been so delighted with her new portrait that she insisted on hanging it in pride of place above the mantelpiece in her drawing room, where everyone who visited could admire it. Naturally, they commented on it, and such was their interest that the old lady set up a workroom for Zo? to paint in, on the ground floor so it would be easy for her visitors—most of whom were elderly—to pop in and observe Zo? at work.

She also directed her butler, Treadwell, to set up a number of chairs there so ladies could sit and watch Zo? at work, painting the portraits that had already been commissioned. Treadwell then instructed the young footman, Jeremiah, to fetch them. Butlers did not carry furniture around.

Zo?, not bothered by an audience, was entertained by the fuss Lady Scattergood made of her and her paintings and was delighted by the commissions. She was even acting as a kind of agent for Zo?, urging her friends to get their portraits painted before Zo? got so busy and well known that they could not afford her, and taking charge of the payments. She charged far more for Zo?’s paintings than Zo? would ever have dreamed of asking, and even opened a bank account in Zo?’s name.

“Now, Zo?, my dear,” she said, “you must promise me that you will never divulge the existence of this bank account to any man, especially if you are ever foolish enough to marry.”

Bemused, Zo? agreed. “But—”

“A woman should always have control over her own money,” the old lady continued. “It is iniquitous, positively iniquitous, that according to the law, all of a woman’s property becomes property of the man upon marriage. All of it! An heiress becomes a veritable pauper overnight, totally dependent on the goodwill and honesty of her husband—and you know as well as I do how many men are to be trusted!” She snorted. “I’ve written several times to the prime minister about the matter, but of course, he’s a man, so he does nothing. So keep this bank account hidden, do you hear?”

Chuckling, Zo? agreed. She had no plans to get married anyway. And it was very good of Lady Scattergood to take such an interest in her career.

So she painted and painted, morning and afternoon, unless Clarissa and Izzy had some plans for her. And the visitors kept coming.

“What is it, Treadwell?” Lady Scattergood said one morning as she and two of her friends were sitting, watching Zo? work and chatting.

“A caller, m’lady.” The butler bowed and presented a silver salver, on which rested a card.

Lady Scattergood picked it up, snorted and tossed the card toward the fire. “That woman again! What did you tell her?”

“I took the liberty of telling Lady Bagshott—again—that you were not at home.”

“Quite right!” The old lady turned to her friends. “Do you know her? No? An arriviste , my dears, and quite pushy. She’s called I don’t know how many times, and each time, Treadwell sends her off saying I am not at home. But the wretched woman cannot and will not take a hint!”

“What does she want?” one of the old ladies asked.

“What any arriviste wants, of course: entrée to my home and access to my friends. And a portrait by Zo?. The creature has had the temerity to write to me—several times—requesting one.”

“You’re a snob, Lady Scattergood,” Zo? told her. “She can’t help her birth. None of us can.” She was particularly sensitive to that sort of thing, having herself been born in the back streets of London, not to mention illegitimate.

The old lady sniffed. “Perhaps not, but apart from her background in trade, the woman is aggressively forward and I cannot abide her.” She added smugly, “And every time she writes to request a portrait, I increase the price and tell her she cannot afford it. Which, of course, makes her want it even more. She always did want the best of everything.”

“You knew her before now, Olive?” one of the ladies asked.

“Vaguely. Back when I was a child,” Lady Scattergood said dismissively. “Our families did not ‘know’ each other, of course—my mother would not have dreamed of receiving hers, for instance—but we attended the same church and I could not help but become acquainted with her. Even then she was trying to push herself into my world.”

The visitors tsk-tsked and the conversation continued on the problem of mushrooms and arrivistes . Zo? went back to her painting. The conversation was sobering. Lady Scattergood and her friends might be treating Zo? like a favored pet at the moment, but not everyone would see her in the same way. There would be people in society who would be as ruthlessly exclusive toward her, just as they were toward Lady Bagshott.

A few minutes later the ladies left to take tea in the drawing room, and as soon as they’d gone, Zo? retrieved Lady Bagshott’s card from where it lay against the grate. She felt sorry for her and wanted no part of Lady Scattergood’s unreasonable exclusivity.

Zo? put the finishing touches on her most recent portrait, then set it aside to dry. Two other completed paintings were sitting on a ledge, waiting to be framed before going to their new owners. She’d painted so many since returning to London that she’d lost count.

She cleaned her brushes, tidied her work area and washed her hands. Lady Scattergood had several more commissions awaiting her. Which one to do next? Her gaze drifted to the card left by—what was her name again?—oh yes, Lady Bagshott.

Lady Scattergood’s exclusivity and hostility toward the woman just because of her background in trade bothered her. Art was for everyone. And if this lady was so keen to have Zo? paint her portrait, why shouldn’t she?

She wrapped up the completed paintings and rang to have the carriage brought around.

“Where are you off to?” Lady Scattergood asked when she came downstairs.

Zo? indicated the wrapped bundle. “To the framers.”

“Take your maid and Jeremiah with you.” Lady Scattergood was always nervous when people went outside and insisted on Zo? being accompanied.

After meeting with the framers and deciding on the best frame style for each painting—and subject—she returned to the carriage and showed the card to the coachman. “Take me to this address, please.”

He gave her a narrow look. “Are you sure, miss?” Clearly she was not the only one who knew about Lady Bagshott’s unsuccessful attempts to storm Lady Scattergood’s bastion.

“Quite sure.”

A few minutes later the carriage drew up outside an imposing white three-story house. The doorbell was answered by a very correct butler.

“Miss Zo? Beno?t to see Lady Bagshott,” she said.

He hesitated, and seeing she was about to be refused, she added, “Lady Bagshott left this card. I am returning her call.”

He took it, scrutinized it with a skeptical air, then said in a dampening manner, “I will inquire as to whether m’lady is at home.” He left Zo? cooling her heels in the hall. She looked around her. The furnishings and decorations were too ornate for her taste, but the lady clearly did not lack money.

Fifteen minutes later, the butler returned. “M’lady will see you now.”

She was ushered into rather a grand drawing room. Lady Bagshott received her seated in an ornately carved chair. She did not rise, nor did she invite Zo? to sit.

Instead of greeting Zo?, she held up the card Zo? had given to the butler. “Where did you get this card?”

“You left it with Lady Scattergood’s butler last week.”

The old lady sniffed. “And who might you be? Some maidservant, I suppose.”

Zo? said composedly, “I am Zo? Beno?t, and I am Lady Scattergood’s artist in residence.”

Lady Bagshott snorted. “A likely story. You’re far too young and pretty to do the portraits I’ve seen.”

Tired of standing, Zo? sat down on a hard chair next to a small rosewood table. “Nevertheless, I painted them.” She took out a small sketch pad and pencil, and while Lady Bagshott shot questions at her, trying to ascertain whether she was indeed the correct painter, her pencil flew over the page.

“In the portrait of the Dowager Countess of Fenchurch, what was at her feet?”

Zo? frowned. “Was that the one with the little dog, or the one with the cat on her lap?” Having watched Reynard work, she was a lot more skilled at painting animals, but she’d been working so fast, on so many portraits in quick succession, she’d forgotten the various ladies’ names.

“It was a dog, but anyone could guess that. I suppose you were dusting the room and saw it.” The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at her. “What are you doing, gel, scribbling away while I’m talking to you? It’s very rude.”

“Drawing.” Zo? turned the page and started another quick sketch.

“I haven’t agreed to allow you to do any such thing! Stop it at once! And I never gave you permission to be seated in my presence!”

Zo? ignored her. “I believe Lady Scattergood informed you of my fee.” Before she’d met Lady Bagshott she’d been more than half-inclined to give her a substantial discount, but having met the arrogant old battle-ax, she’d changed her mind.

“Hah! And I suppose you want me to pay you up front and then you’ll take my money and disappear.”

Zo? put the finishing touches to the second sketch and said in a bored voice, “My clients pay Lady Scattergood, not me. I would expect you to do the same.”

Lady Bagshott regarded her sourly. “If you are that artist—and I don’t for a minute believe you are—why would you paint so many raddled old women? Why not beautiful young ladies or handsome men?”

“I paint all sorts of people. And while you might call some of my subjects ‘raddled’ and ‘old,’ I see faces that are full of character. And that’s what I paint. In any case, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Hmph! Trotting out rubbishy old clichés, are you now?”

Zo? ripped two pages from her sketch pad and rose from her seat. “As the painter, I’m the beholder, and beauty comes in all sorts of guises. So I could portray you like this.” She passed her the first sketch, which was quite a flattering portrait.

The old lady peered at it through her lorgnette, and from her expression Zo? could see she was both surprised and pleased.

“Or I might portray you like this.” She passed her the second sketch, which was more of a caricature—a cruel but accurate portrayal.

The old lady gasped. “This is outrageous!”

Zo? glanced from her drawing to the old lady and back again. “No, it’s quite accurate. They both are.”

“How dare you! I’ve never met such an insolent chit!” She kept looking from one sketch to the other.

Zo? said indifferently, “Not surprising. I hear you don’t get out much.”

Lady Bagshott stamped her foot. “You brass-faced hussy!”

Zo? shrugged. “I just thought I’d give you an idea of your choices if I decided to paint you.”

Lady Bagshott lurched from her chair and in two steps flung the sketches into the fire. Unmoved, Zo? watched them blacken, curl and burst into flame.

“Hah! See?” The old woman gloated. “I choose no portrait at all—not from you, you impudent baggage!”

“Very well, but I think I’ll paint you anyway. You have an interesting face.”

“Nonsense! I won’t sit for you, no matter how much you beg! I absolutely refuse!”

“Oh, I don’t need you to sit for me. I have it all up here.” She tapped her head.

She glared at Zo?. “I won’t pay you a penny!”

Zo? shrugged. “I don’t need your money. Apart from a waiting list of commissions, I have a private income. I’ll put the portrait in an exhibition. Someone might buy it. We’ll see.”

The old lady’s voice rose in outrage. “Put my face ? In an exhibition ? Have every Tom, Dick and Harry staring at me?”

“Yes, it’ll be fun, won’t it?”

“It’s not fun at all! It’s an outrage. An appalling liberty! I refuse to allow it.”

“It’s not up to you, though, is it?” Zo? said pleasantly. “You’ve refused the commission, so I’ll paint you how I wish, and it’ll be mine to do whatever I want with it.”

The old woman huffed and puffed in frustration and outrage and muttered under her breath. Zo? slipped her sketchbook and pencil back into her reticule and turned to leave. She had almost reached the door when Lady Bagshott ground out, “Very well, then, you dreadful gel, I agree.”

“Agree to what, Lady Bagshott?” Zo? said innocently.

The old woman narrowed her eyes. “You know perfectly well what. I’ll commission the dratted portrait and I’ll even pay your exorbitant price. But I tell you this, young woman, it won’t leave this house, not while you’re painting it, and not once it’s done—is that understood?”

“It will need to go to the framer.”

Lady Bagshott’s lips tightened. “Very well, but it must come straight back, or I will want to know the reason why!”

“Agreed. Now, I will need to inspect the room I am to work in. It will need good light.”

Lady Bagshott tugged on the bellpull. “My maid, Sutton, will show you.”

The butler appeared. “This insolent creature will be painting my portrait,” she told him. “Fetch Sutton to conduct her to a suitable room.”

“One with good light,” Zo? said.

“Very good, m’lady.”

The maid, Sutton, was surprisingly friendly for someone who worked for a dragon. “Oh, miss, you’re ever so brave,” she told Zo? as they climbed the stairs. “I never saw anyone get the better of Lady Bagshott like that. Only her grandson.”

“Chip off the old block, is he?”

“Oh no, miss, he’s a real gentleman. He just doesn’t visit very often.”

Zo? grinned. “I can’t imagine why.”

When Zo? told Lady Scattergood that she’d agreed to paint Lady Bagshott’s portrait, her reaction was everything she’d expected.

“ What? You’re painting That Woman?”

“Yes.”

“But why? She’s a ghastly creature.”

Zo? just smiled. Lady Bagshott was indeed ghastly, but it was too late now to change her mind. She’d made a commitment. “She interests me.”

“She’ll treat you abominably,” Lady Scattergood warned her.

“She may try,” Zo? said calmly. “I’m not easily bullied.”

Lady Scattergood rolled her eyes. “I don’t suppose you got any money out of her, either. I will send her an invoice immediately. I hope you charged her the full price.”

“I told her it will cost whatever you told her in your last letter. I didn’t know how much it was.”

“At least you got that right. It’s going to be a very expensive portrait. But, oh dear, she’s going to be unbearable now, having an original Z-B portrait of her own.” Z-B was how Zo? signed her work.

During the next week, Zo? went every day to Lady Bagshott’s home to paint. She took Marie with her at Lady Scattergood’s insistence. Poor Marie, it would have been so boring for her had she sat in the same room as Zo?, not understanding a word that was said, but luckily Sutton invited Marie to the servants’ area, where she was more comfortable, and made herself useful while they taught her English.

It didn’t get off to an easy start. First Zo? had to negotiate the pose in which Lady Bagshott wanted to be painted. She’d had practically half the contents of her drawing room—chairs, paintings, statues, even a large gold clock—carried up to the room where Zo? had set up her painting equipment. They argued until Zo? said, “What do you want, a portrait of you or of your possessions?”

It became clear that she wanted both, with as many of her most valuable possessions as possible, but Zo? stood firm, and they finally agreed on an elegant chair draped with a beautiful tapestry, an ornate pedestal with an imitation Greek statue on it, a carved screen and a vase of flowers. Wooden-faced, the footmen who’d lugged all the extra things up to the third floor carried them down again.

Lady Bagshott was wearing a mid-blue velvet dress trimmed with lace, of which Zo? approved. Another argument resulted in the lady wearing only one necklace instead of several: a handsome sapphire-and-diamond one, with matching diamonds in her ears and several large glittering rings on her fingers. Draped across her lap was a white fur stole, and in one hand she clutched a Bible, open as if she were reading it, while the other hand rested on an ebony cane with a gold knob.

“I don’t want the cane in the portrait. It will make me look like a cripple!”

“It will make you look like a ruler,” Zo? told her. “And as well as balancing the composition, it displays those magnificent rings perfectly.”

“Hmph!” The cane stayed.

With the setting and pose finally agreed on, Zo? got started on the painting.

Despite the arguments—or maybe because of them—she was enjoying herself in an odd kind of way. As Lady Scattergood had predicted, Lady Bagshott did try to bully her, but Zo? soon learned that the less she reacted, the harder Lady Bagshott tried.

It was quite entertaining.

“I have been told you are French, but that cannot be true.”

“Mm?” Zo? responded vaguely, dabbing paint onto canvas. “Please tilt your head a little to the right.”

“Hmph!” The old lady tilted. “Where were you born?”

“I don’t remember. I was quite young at the time. And you, Lady Bagshott, where were you born?”

“What impudence! As if I’d share intimate knowledge with one such as you.”

“Oh,” Zo? said innocently, “I assumed we were making what the English call ‘polite conversation.’?”

The old lady gave her a sour look.

Zo? said, “I see you have your lips pressed into a thin line—almost invisible—is that how you wish me to paint them?”

A forced smile appeared on the old lady’s face. If she’d been painting a crocodile, it would have been perfect.

“It would help if you told me a little about how and where you grew up,” Zo? said.

She stiffened. “Why? What business is it of yours?”

“It will help me to know what kind of things to include in the background of the painting.”

The old lady gestured to her surrounds with her cane—since Zo? had called it the sign of a ruler, she’d taken to using it more frequently. “This is all you need. No one needs to know where I came from—it’s what I have achieved that matters.”

Zo? agreed with her, to a point. Sometimes knowing where someone started made what they achieved more admirable. But Lady Bagshott would never admit that.

“Perhaps not,” Zo? said. “Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, others must work to achieve wealth and position. I know which of the two I admire more.”

The old lady narrowed her eyes and stared at Zo?, as if she thought Zo? was making fun of her. But she wasn’t. She just kept painting.

From time to time, the old lady rose a little stiffly from her chair to walk around the room and stretch her legs. Naturally, with each circumnavigation, she would stop to inspect the portrait. And offer advice.

“My nose is not that pointy.”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

The old lady’s hand flew to her nose and briefly explored its contours. “I know my nose, and it is not pointy.”

“I am the artist and I’ve painted your nose exactly as I see it. Do you want people to recognize it as a portrait of you or not?”

“Don’t be insolent. I’m paying you, remember.”

“You’ve already paid Lady Scattergood, remember?”

She huffed bad-temperedly. “I don’t care. Change it at once.”

Zo? pretended to consider it. “You mean make it pointier? Or fatter? I could give you a Roman nose if you like. Or one with more of a hook. It does have a slight hook, now that I come to look at it again.”

Nettled, Lady Bagshott snorted and resumed her seat. Until the next time she needed to stretch her legs and inspect the portrait. And criticize.

And so it went, every day until the portrait was finished. The final result was, she grudgingly admitted after a long examination, acceptable. Just.

Zo? thought it was one of her better efforts: in fact, she was quite proud of it. The portrait wasn’t just a very good physical likeness, it also gave an insight into Lady Bagshott’s character: her need to dominate, but underneath, a hint of vulnerability; her will to succeed, balanced by a wish to be esteemed—a wish Zo? feared would never be fulfilled unless the old lady softened her attitude to others.

Gazing at the portrait, Zo? realized something else: despite all the difficulties, she had come to rather like the old harridan.

There was a brief but spirited tussle when Zo? needed to take the finished painting away to have it framed, but it was more of a token effort: Lady Bagshott simply didn’t like not having the last word on any matter. But as Zo? pointed out, the framers didn’t make home visits, and unless she preferred the painting unframed, she had to trust that Zo? would return it and not, as she feared, put it up for public exhibition.

“I’ll be glad to see the back of you,” were Lady Bagshott’s parting words.

“And I you,” said Zo? sweetly.

Zo? and her maid, Marie, were seated in Lady Scattergood’s carriage on their way for the final fitting of the dress she was to wear at the reception Leo and Izzy were holding for her on New Year’s Eve.

The streets were crowded and the traffic had stopped. Something up ahead—an accident perhaps—had brought them to a standstill.

Zo? gazed out the window at the people in the street, envying them their freedom to go where they wished, when they wished. She’d been feeling rather cooped up lately; the plan was for her not to venture out until she’d been introduced to society—well, all those in society who were still in London at this time of year.

So no walks in the park, no shopping expeditions, no wandering around a marketplace just to look…And the cold and rainy weather didn’t help.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lived in virtual seclusion before—last time she’d lived in London it had been her choice to stay out of sight for fear of causing difficulties to her half sisters. That hadn’t been too hard. She’d come from the orphanage, where she’d never had a moment to herself and every minute of the day was strictly supervised.

Now she had memories of wandering the countryside with a handsome vagabond, and she couldn’t help but think that her time with Reynard would probably be the last truly free time she would have. Young unmarried society women were strictly chaperoned at all times, and the whole world watched out for them to slip. Even if she married—which she was not at all sure she wanted—a husband would command her obedience and expect her to be present whenever he wished it.

She was jerked out of her reverie by the sight of a female in a dark pink pelisse, her face hidden by a veil, hurrying along the footpath, weaving through the crowds, with a maid scurrying to keep up with her.

There was something both familiar and furtive about the lady in pink. It was Milly Harrington, she realized, out in public—without her mother. What on earth was she up to?

As she watched, Milly dived into Hatchard’s Bookshop. Her maid, interestingly, waited outside, her gaze roving back and forth over the street. A lookout. How very interesting.

Zo? could see Milly through the window. A moment later a man approached her. She reached out her hands to him, and he took them and kissed her knuckles. Reverently.

So, Milly Harrington had a beau, one that Mama didn’t know about.

Good for her, Zo? thought as her carriage moved on.

The following morning, Zo? was in the summerhouse, drawing the intricate patterns left on the glass by the frost in the night. She had to be quick, as they were melting quickly, but they’d given her an idea for a painting.

“What are you doing?”

She looked up. “Knitting socks, Milly. What are you doing up so early?”

Milly tossed her head. “I’m allowed to.” She entered the summerhouse, sat down and looked around. “Where are the socks, then?”

Zo? sighed. The ice patterns were almost gone anyway. “Read any good books lately?”

Milly wrinkled her brow. “Books? What books?”

“Didn’t you go shopping for books the other day?”

Milly looked away. “No.” She didn’t look happy, and Zo? decided to stop teasing her. Feeling a bit constrained herself, she had some sympathy for the girl who never went anywhere without her mother. Their shared garden was the only place where she wasn’t clamped by her mother’s side. Which made that brief sighting of her at Hatchard’s all the more intriguing.

She finished off the drawing of the ice. Milly sat and fidgeted.

Finally she said, “I suppose you think you’re clever, having a party just for you before the season has even started.”

Zo? shaded in some of the lines. “No, not particularly. It was Izzy and Leo’s idea.”

After another long pause, Milly said, “I expect to be betrothed in the new year.”

“Really? Who to?” She wasn’t the slightest bit interested, but if Milly wanted to talk, she could hardly stop her.

“I’m not sure. Mama is still negotiating.”

Zo? looked up at that. “You don’t know the name of the man you’re going to marry?”

Milly made a careless gesture, but Zo? noticed her hands were trembling. “Mama knows what she’s doing. She’s second cousin to a duke, you know.”

Zo? put aside her pencil and pad and gave Milly her full attention. “She’s planning to marry you to some stranger you’ve never met?”

“Oh, I’ve met him. He’s seen me and likes me very much. I just don’t yet know which of the gentlemen I’ve met he is.” Her voice wobbled as she said it.

Zo? could hardly believe her ears. “And you’ve agreed to this?”

Milly gave an awkward half shrug. “Mama knows what’s best for me.” But her voice lacked conviction, and it was clear to Zo? she was simply parroting her mother.

“Well, I wouldn’t do it. I think it’s outrageous.”

Milly stared at her for a long moment, then burst out, “I hate you, Zo? Ben-whahhhh,” and rushed off.

Zo? stared after her. She knew Milly’s mother was ambitious, but this was appalling.