The Earl’s Unwilling Bride (Preview)

Prologue

Sophia Edgerton, the baron’s daughter, stood on the edge of the crowd, her gloved fingers curled around the delicately carved ivory handle of her parasol. She had opened it only moments earlier in a half-hearted attempt to look older than her thirteen years, though it did little to age her. It drooped slightly to one side, much like her confidence.

Across the lawn, girls in pastel gowns fluttered like butterflies, their laughter high and aimless. Boys, much older and far louder, had begun to cluster near the refreshment table, where someone had added a mysterious splash of something illicit to the punch.

They had been eagerly waiting for this day all year, being one of the few events that girls so young could enjoy. And to make it all the more exciting, it was rumoured that the Earl of Stratton’s sons would be in attendance, and every girl in the county had eyes for the earl’s sons.

“Stop fidgeting,” came Mary’s whisper. Lady Mary Fortescue, one year older and three times more composed, nudged Sophia with her elbow. “You’ll crush your skirt.”

“I hate this skirt,” Sophia muttered. “It’s last year’s, and the lace itches.”

“Everything itches at the Spring Fête. It’s tradition,” Mary said lightly, smoothing a curl behind her ear. “Besides, no one’s looking at your lace. They’ve got far more interesting things to look at.”

Sophia glanced up, her curiosity piqued. “Who are they looking at then?”

Mary tipped her head towards the broad gravel path winding up from the stables. Two boys—no, young men, Sophia supposed—were approaching at a languid pace, cutting through the golden afternoon like something out of a novel. They were composed and calm, walking through the fête as if they owned the entire town. They knew their place in the world, that was for certain, and every eye on the lawn was half turned to them.

“The Earl of Stratton’s sons,” Mary breathed, a touch of awe decorating her words. “They came!”

The taller of the two, golden-haired and grinning, had the easy elegance of someone who always knew he was being admired. He waved at someone across the lawn, and a group of girls nearly knocked over the lemonade in their haste to wave back, trying and failing to hide their giggles behind their fans.

It had to be William, then, the elder of the two. Sophia’s eyes shifted to his brother.

He was a little behind William, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and somehow quieter in the way he moved. His gaze scanned the crowd without invitation, his expression almost uninterested. While William soaked in the attention like sunlight, the younger brother walked through it as though it meant nothing.

Adrian.

Sophia felt something odd twist in her chest. She’d heard about him before. Of course, she had. The whole of England knew of Stratton’s strapping sons. But, regardless of all the talk, she hadn’t quite expected him to be so handsome.

She sighed inwardly. She was still some years away from coming out into society, and thus some years away from the marriage mart. By the time she came of age, Adrian Hawke would be long gone, married to some beautiful, sophisticated young lady who no doubt could never be as interesting as Sophia herself.

“Yes, they are something to sigh over, aren’t they?” Mary said, her eyes still firmly on the two young men as they made their way through the crowd, greeting people like old pros.

“I think I prefer him,” Sophia murmured.

“Who? Lord William?”

Sophia shook her head. “The other one. Master Adrian.” While it was true that Lord William, in many ways, shone brighter, it was the quiet surety of Master Adrian that drew her.

Mary raised a brow. “Well. You do like a challenge.”

Before Sophia could reply, a sharp call rang out. “All girls aged thirteen to sixteen, gather by the fountain! The treasure hunt is about to begin!”

Mary squealed. “Come on!” She grabbed Sophia’s hand and tugged her forward.

“I don’t want to hunt treasure,” Sophia protested. “I’d rather stay here. It’s all a bit childish, isn’t it?”

“You’d rather mope over your lace?” Mary grinned. “Come on. You might win a prize. Or trip over a boy.”

Sophia rolled her eyes but followed anyway, unaware just how right Mary would turn out to be.

Later, as they tumbled out of the treasure hunt, giggling behind their sugar-plum laden hands, Sophia was on her feet one moment and then the next, someone had run right into her—or she’d run into them, she wasn’t quite sure.

She groaned, trying to untangle her legs from his. “I … oh no! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—”

Her voice caught in her throat. She found herself flat on her back, her hair fanned around her like a chestnut halo, and beside her a young man in an equal mess. The young man. Adrian Hawke, the second son of the Earl of Stratton, and the face she’d had in her mind for the entire treasure hunt.

He didn’t say anything. He merely grinned as if it were the only thing he could think to do. It wasn’t a polite smile or a courtly smirk, but a crooked, surprised, utterly helpless grin.

She blinked, surprised, and then laughed. It burst from her unbidden, half-worried and half-wonderstruck, as she tried to work out what had just happened. Young Master Adrian laughed too, quiet and breathless, still lying there like a fool.

“You should look where you’re going,” she said, brushing leaves from her skirt, trying to affect annoyance.

“You knocked me over,” he said.

“Only because you were in the way.”

They might’ve gone on in that awkward yet oddly at ease way for the entire afternoon, except someone called her name from across the lawn.

“Sophia!”

She rose quickly, brushing the dirt from her hands, and with one last glance, she turned and hurried away.

Chapter One

Ten Years Later

The shrouding mist, hanging low over the fields and clinging to the hedgerows, matched the Earl of Stratton’s mood entirely. Adrian watched as it curled around the carriage, almost entirely disguising the ground and giving him the sensation that they were floating through the air. Dawn hadn’t yet broken properly, and the chill in the air had teeth, sharp and mean. Adrian welcomed it. He preferred pain with a purpose. Especially when he’d been summoned.

The letter from his solicitor had arrived two days earlier, marked urgent and confidential, penned in that maddeningly delicate script Mr Alderton favoured. It said nothing specific, only that the matter concerned the estate and could not be delayed. And so, at the crack of dawn, he was on the road to London when he would have far rather stayed holed up in the manor house as was his habit in recent years.

He sat back in the carriage, watching the grey countryside idle past the windows, and he allowed himself to become awash with nostalgia, something he normally tried to avoid. Remembering served no one well. He’d learned that during the war, when he’d battled not only for his country but for survival.

Still, he never would’ve imagined this would be his life. Ten years ago, he had been the second son, forgotten by most, freer than most. William had always been the heir, the golden one, the one with the easy smile and the charmed life. Adrian had never begrudged him for it. It had suited them both, even if his relationship with his father had been somewhat strained.

He was not meant to inherit. He was not meant to carry the burden of Stratton.

And yet here I am.

He shifted on his cushioned seat, running his hand over the soft velvet. There were, at least, some comforts to be had, even if his thoughts were anything but.

Father. William.

Both were gone far too soon. One to grief, the other to scandal and maybe something darker still. It didn’t matter how many times Adrian replayed that night in his head, the last time he had seen his brother. It always ended the same way: with William storming out, drunk and furious, after their worst fight yet. And then the sea had taken him. Or so they said.

The wind picked up, rustling the hedgerows. Adrian tightened his coat around him.

Sometimes, he thought about the boy he used to be. The one who grinned without thinking, who laughed too easily, who once fell flat on his back at a spring fête because a girl in a blue dress barrelled into him. He still remembered the feel of gravel in his palms, her elbow in his ribs, her laughter bubbling up like it surprised even her.

Sophia.

He didn’t know why that memory had come to him now. Perhaps because it belonged to a life that had not yet gone off course. But that moment, snatched from time, had for some reason remained in his mind after all these years. After all the heartache.

The city rose on the horizon, the spires and chimneys of London emerging from the thinning fog. Adrian exhaled slowly and sat taller, looking out the window more carefully. Whatever Alderton had to say, it would not be good, he was certain of that. Letters marked urgent and confidential rarely were, but what could it possibly be?

He had already buried his brother. He had already buried his father. If there was anything left to lose, he would certainly not miss it because he knew not that he had it.

By the time Adrian arrived at Mr Alderton’s office on Chancery Lane, the morning fog had begun to dissipate, though it left behind a lingering dampness that clung to his coat in small droplets of dew. London was already stirring. Carts creaked along the cobbled streets, milkmaids called out cheerfully to one another, and newsboys scattered through the crowd.

But Alderton’s office was quiet. As always.

The building was narrow and proper, sandwiched between a barrister’s chambers and a publishing house. The door creaked as Adrian stepped inside, and the familiar scent of dust, ink, and pipe smoke wrapped around him. A clerk glanced up from a ledger and gave a hasty bow before disappearing through an inner door.

Moments later, Mr Alderton emerged.

“Lord Stratton.” The solicitor nodded, ever precise, ever calm. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

He was a thin man. Too thin, in Adrian’s opinion. And his nose was as long and thin as his body. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles balanced on the edge of it, and Adrian often found himself willing them to slip down and off his face entirely.

“I assume it was important,” Adrian said, stripping off his gloves. “I do not like to be summoned in such a manner, as you can imagine.”

“Quite,” Mr Alderton said. “But I assure you, it is a matter that needs your attention immediately.”

Alderton led him into the study, a dark-walled chamber that seemed as if it belonged in another world. As if they’d stepped through the veil into a fairy tale and not into an office in the middle of one of the grandest cities in the world. The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a tall window behind the solicitor’s desk, illuminating tidy stacks of parchment and perfectly placed pots of ink.

Adrian didn’t sit, only inhaled deeply and hoped this whole ordeal would be over soon so that he could retreat to his castle.

Alderton cleared his throat delicately as he took his seat behind the desk and began looking at some papers. “It concerns your brother’s accounts.”

Adrian stiffened. “I thought those were settled.”

“Settled,” Alderton repeated, looking at him from over the top of his spectacles. “Not resolved.”

He reached down, slid open a drawer behind the desk, selected a folder, and opened it with reverence. Adrian held his breath as the pages rustled. Numbers stared up in black ink like grave markers, and Adrian already knew what was coming. William, for all his charm and good humour, had not been a sensible or particularly honourable man.

“As you know, your brother left certain obligations—”

“Gambling debts, Alderton. We’re all men here. Say it as it is.”

“Yes,” Alderton said, unfazed. “And for a time, it appeared those obligations had been met. However, in the past three months, new claims have emerged. Substantial ones. It seems Lord William was borrowing under aliases. Quiet arrangements. Favours for silence. That sort of thing.”

Adrian bit back the groan that threatened to escape. “How much?”

“Ten thousand,” Alderton said. It landed like a punch to the gut.

“But that’s … impossible. That’s more than most men of our station earn in a year!”

“Indeed,” Alderton said. “The debts span multiple creditors, many of whom have now come forward. Some are offering leniency, others less so. If pressed, the estate cannot cover it, and so another solution needs to be found.”

Adrian said nothing but slid into the chair opposite the solicitor. He stared down at the folder as if he could will the numbers to vanish, but of course, they remained.

“There is, however,” Alderton went on carefully, “another matter. One which may provide a solution.”

Adrian looked up warily. He didn’t like the solicitor’s tone. “Go on.”

“It concerns a clause in your father’s will. One you may recall, though at the time I believe you deemed it irrelevant.”

“The dowry.” Adrian allowed himself to lean back in his chair. His father had been cruel to the very last breath.

“Yes. The portion of your mother’s inheritance placed in trust. It is untouched and substantial.

“But available only upon my marriage.” Adrian let out a slow, bitter breath. “I remember it well.”

“You have not married.”

“No.”

“And the funds remain untouched,” Alderton said, as if Adrian needed it spelled out for him.

The silence that followed was awkward, not because either man was uncomfortable, but because both knew there was nothing to be said that would make this easier. Adrian had no desire whatsoever to marry.

“I’m not in the habit of making personal suggestions,” Alderton said, smoothing the edge of the page with one long finger. “But as your solicitor, I feel obligated to tell you that marriage, at this juncture, may be your most practical course.”

Practical. That was the word they always used when they meant cold. When they meant loveless. When they meant necessary. If he were to marry, he didn’t want it to be for money.

Adrian folded his arms, suddenly defensive. “You think I can just pluck a bride out of thin air?”

“You’re a titled man with a historic estate,” Alderton replied dryly. “Even with the whispers surrounding your brother’s death, there are still families who would see the advantage.”

Adrian flinched inwardly. The whispers never quite went away, the talk that he must have somehow been involved.

He crossed to the window, the sunlight catching faintly on the dust motes floating in the air. His reflection was pale in the glass, drawn and unfamiliar, and he wondered idly what would have happened if William had never died.

“So,” he said at last, voice quiet, “that’s where we are. Marry for money or lose what’s left of the estate.”

“It needn’t be stated so harshly,” Alderton said. “But yes. That is the shape of it, I’m afraid.”

Adrian closed his eyes. He had thought the worst was behind him: the grief, the shame, the funeral where no one had met his eye. But this was different. This was legacy. His mother’s legacy. And he was being asked to trade his name, his heart, his future for mere survival.

“Understood,” he said. “Is that all?”

“For now,” Alderton replied, quietly respectful. “I can recommend some—”

“No, thank you,” Adrian said sharply. He reached for his gloves, then stood up quickly and marched out of the office without a goodbye.

The streets of London had grown louder since he’d arrived barely an hour previously. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, market traders shouted their wares, and the smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with coal smoke in the damp air. But Adrian barely noticed.

He had dismissed the carriage at Mr Alderton’s office and set off on foot, needing the motion to burn through the fury coiled in his chest, each step a release of pent-up energy. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to go somewhere.

Marriage.

He had always imagined, if he were to do it at all, that it would be for something other than survival. For love, as foolish as that might have been. William certainly would have teased him for it.

The irony stung. The ton thought he’d killed William for the money, that he’d somehow engineered his brother’s downfall to seize the title, the fortune, the legacy. And yet the cruel and absurd truth was that William had already squandered it all. There was nothing left but for Adrian to pick through the ashes of something he had never truly wanted in the first place.

He passed a flower stall on the corner of Hanover Street and paused. Blue ribbons. Larkspur. A girl’s laughter, sudden and bright. Her parasol drooping. It came back to him with such clarity that he nearly winced.

Sophia.

He hadn’t seen her since. Never even knew her surname, and he certainly had no idea why she had stayed with him all these years. Perhaps because that was the last day he’d truly been happy. His father had died only a few days later, quite suddenly, and William was thrust into a new role as surely as Adrian was thrust into grief.

What had she become in those ten years? Was she married already? Surely she was. She would be living some quiet country life, far from London’s ugliness, perhaps with a child or two. He hoped so. He hoped something good had survived the years.

He walked on.

By the time he reached the Stratton townhouse, the sky had turned grey and cold again. He let himself in with his key and, ignoring the good cheer of the butler, surprised by his presence, he climbed the stairs two at a time. The drawing room was cold, the hearth unlit. He did not call for a fire, and neither did he admonish the servants.

He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want the theatre of courtship, the artificial smiles, the endlessly dull conversations with women who knew nothing of the real world. But more than that, he didn’t want to lose the estate. It was all he had left to cling to.

He would have to find a way. He would have to marry, even if it was not for love or even for companionship. It was a necessity now, not an option. And heaven help the poor woman who agreed to it.

Chapter Two

Two Months Later

The late morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, scattering delicate diamond patterns across the rug beneath Sophia Edgerton’s chair. She held her embroidery hoop lightly in her hands, the needle dulled from hours of mindless prodding. She’d long ago lost interest in embroidery, but it served her well to have something to do with her hands.

She gazed out over the garden that had once been her mother’s pride but was now half-wild and overgrown. The peonies had bloomed early this year. She smiled to see them, even untended, even though they reminded her of all she had lost, and she wasn’t even twenty-four.

Aunt Helena disliked her daydreaming. She would often reprimand her, telling her it made her look idle. But Sophia had long since mastered the art of looking busy while thinking freely. It was yet another reason she continued to sew.

It was a small pleasure, admittedly, but it was one of the few she had left, and it always made her feel as if she’d won some game over her cold aunt.

The sitting room, though tasteful, felt like a museum. It was cold and overly curated. She’d grown used to its silence in the two years since her dear parents had died in a carriage accident. The tick of the mantel clock, the scratch of her aunt’s pen as she worked on correspondence, and the occasional clink of a teacup were the only regular sounds. That, and the occasional bark of irritation from her uncle, muffled through the study doors when things didn’t go his way.

Still, Sophia hummed softly under her breath, unable to squash that part of herself, no matter how much Helena wanted her to. The tune was old, wordless, something her mother used to sing when brushing her hair. It was a habit more than anything, a way to keep her mind from drifting too far into sorrow.

“You’re smiling again,” came her aunt’s voice, sharp as ever. She hadn’t even looked up at her. “What is there to smile about, I wonder?”

Sophia turned politely, lowering her eyes just enough to avoid appearing defiant. “The peonies are out,” she said gently. “I thought they’d died in the frost, but they’ve bloomed early.”

Her aunt sniffed, unimpressed. “Frivolous things. You’d do better to keep your attention on your stitches.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Sophia offered a placid smile and lowered her gaze to her embroidery hoop once more. The thread had tangled in her daydream. She began to tease it free with careful fingers.

She could have argued or pointed out that she’d finished three handkerchiefs and a chemise this week alone, or that a moment of beauty in a quiet day was not some mortal sin. But it would serve no purpose.

Her aunt was not cruel, not exactly, but she was bitter. She was sharp around the edges, like a porcelain cup with a hairline crack. Sophia suspected it had not always been so. She didn’t believe anyone was ever born like that. Once, perhaps, Helena had been kind and hopeful. But years with Baron Edgerton had worn her thin, as they would anyone.

“Are you to sit there all day?” Helena asked with a sudden huff, eyes boring into her. “I need those invitation cards taken to Lady Trowbridge’s. You know how particular she is about punctuality.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Sophia stood gracefully, her movement light, even as a sigh rose in her chest.

She didn’t mind the walk. In truth, she relished any excuse to leave the house. The townhouse, once grand, now felt too tight. It was filled with ghosts, echoes of happier times. The hallway still bore her father’s favourite hunting paintings. The drawing room still smelled of her mother’s lavender sachets if Sophia really focused, though Helena had tried to banish them. She could hear the echoes of laughter somewhere in the belly of the house.

Sophia wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and took the small bundle of cards from the hallway table. The street was quiet, as was expected in respectable corners of London where wealth was worn modestly and gossip travelled faster than carriages. Sophia kept her head high and her pace steady. She didn’t give the neighbours anything to whisper about or, worse, tell her uncle and aunt about.

She turned the corner, letting her thoughts drift.

Two years ago, she had been a cherished daughter, her father still the baron. She had been confident and protected. She had believed her life would unfold like the pages of one of her books: slow, lovely, and full of promise.

She still believed in happy endings. She wouldn’t allow herself to stop. She just no longer assumed they would come easily.

When she arrived home an hour or so later, she was barely through the front door when she heard her uncle’s rough and gravelly voice summon her to the study. Sophia bit back a sigh as she made her way through the house to a room that had once held so many pleasant memories but now smelled of old smoke and spilled brandy. They were, after all, two of her uncle’s most reliable companions.

Sophia stood just inside the doorway, hands folded neatly before her, waiting for Baron Edgerton to acknowledge her. He didn’t, even though he had demanded her presence. It was another habit of his, and one, she supposed, was designed to demonstrate his power over her. It worked, though she would not show her frustration.

Today, he was seated at his desk, hunched over a scattering of paperwork and a half-finished decanter, even though it was barely mid-afternoon. One long finger tapped irritably against the glass as he read, and the silence stretched long enough to become pointed.

“You sent for me, Uncle?” she asked softly, unable to stop herself.

He looked up. His eyes raked over her with little warmth but full of calculation. “Yes. Sit down, would you?”

Sophia frowned. She was often summoned, but it was rare to be offered a seat. She’d always assumed he thought her beneath that. She crossed to the chair opposite the desk and perched on the edge of the cushion, back straight, chin lifted just enough to appear composed but not defiant. It was a delicate line. She had learned to walk it well.

Baron Edgerton steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “You’re to be married.”

Sophia blinked, reeling from the impact of his words. “I … pardon me?”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased by her shock. “The Earl of Stratton has agreed to a match. Your name, thankfully, still carries weight in some corners, though goodness knows why. The connection will reflect well on us both, and I, for one, would like to know more about the earl. With you in place, as such, I might get what I need.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I was not aware that—”

“You needn’t be.” He waved a hand. “It wasn’t your concern.”

“Not my concern?” She almost choked on the words, but he waved a hand again.

“I’ve handled everything. The banns will be arranged swiftly.”

“But … I don’t know him.”

Baron Edgerton raised a brow. “You think that matters?”

A chill ran through her. “The Earl of Stratton,” she said slowly. “The one they say—”

“The one with an estate,” he cut in sharply. “The one with a title and a name still worth salvaging. His reputation may be bruised, but yours is pristine. Together, you’ll make a presentable pair.”

Sophia stared at him, still unable to fathom what was happening. “Why would he agree to this?”

Her uncle smiled thinly. “Because he’s desperate. You’d be surprised what men will do when their coffers run dry. It’s said there is money in trust for him, but only upon marriage.”

The smile deepened, smug and shark-like. Sophia felt a stab in her chest.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly.

“You’ll do as you’re told. It is not a question.”

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, and she chewed her lip. Eventually, she asked, “Why me?”

“Because you have value.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “And because this family needs you to use it.”

There it was. Not love or happiness. Not even duty. She was merely useful. She was a pawn in a game she hadn’t even known was being played.

“And once you’re in that house,” he added, pouring himself a drink, “you’ll keep your eyes open. The Hawke estate is full of secrets.”

Hawke? Why did she remember that name? It sparked something in her, though she couldn’t put her finger on what.

“I want to know what’s being hidden. I suspect there are documents. Papers worth quite a lot if they were to fall into the right hands.”

She stared at him in disbelief, her attention drawn back to the room. “You want to marry me off only for me to spy on my husband.”

“I want you to do your part,” he said smoothly, his gap-toothed smile somehow slimy. “You’ll be richly rewarded for it.”

She stood slowly, keeping every movement under careful control. She needed time to think. “And if I refuse?” she asked. “What then?”

He didn’t smile this time. “I wouldn’t if I were you. You have very few options left, Sophia. And I can take those, too.”

The words were quiet, but they struck like a lash. She gave a small nod, just enough to be taken as agreement. Then she turned and left, heading straight to her room. The door clicked shut behind her. Sophia stood motionless in the centre of the carpet, her shawl still draped around her shoulders, her fingers clenched in the fabric. The lace caught against her knuckles, as delicate and thin as her composure.

She took one slow breath followed by another, and only when she was sure she wouldn’t shake, did she begin to move.

The room was small but orderly, and most importantly, it was hers. Her own little space. Or at least as much hers as anything in this house ever could be. The bed was neatly made, the edges tucked just so. She crossed to the writing desk in the corner and touched it absently, seeking anchorage in smooth wood and inkwells.

The calm of the morning, the sun on the peonies, the brief moment of peace in the garden. How far away it all seemed now. Married! And to the Earl of Stratton! A man whose reputation preceded him.

A knock on the door startled her.

“You have been hiding in this room all afternoon,” came her aunt’s voice, clipped and cold. She made no mention of what had been discussed in the study. She had not asked about how Sophia was feeling. It was simply another command.

“I’ve not been hiding,” Sophia said, though her aunt merely looked her up and down with her usual disdain.

“Regardless. The cook tells me dinner will be ready shortly. I expect you to be downstairs in ten minutes.”

Sophia answered with a quiet, “Yes, Aunt,” and waited until the footsteps receded.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting in her lap, and let herself feel the fear mingled with insult and injustice.

Married off to a stranger, and a man with a dark reputation at that. And worse, she was being used to gather information of some sort. It was unthinkable. And yet it was happening, and Sophia was certain she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

She stood abruptly, walked to her wardrobe, and opened the drawer beneath her gowns. Tucked beneath a folded shawl, she found a small wooden box, the one her mother had given her at fifteen, carved with tiny forget-me-nots along the lid. She opened it carefully. Inside was a pressed flower, the faded edge of a childhood letter, and a broken gold comb.

She held the comb gently in her hands. Her mother had worn it every day of her married life. It had snapped when Sophia tried to wear it not long after the funeral, and she’d cried harder over that than the burial. It had been a final, stupid, silly link, and she had broken it.

“No,” she whispered aloud, a decision made within her. She would not let them turn her into something she was not. She would not be her uncle’s pawn. She had no plan yet, but she would find one.

Lady Mary Fortescue arrived just after supper. Sophia was in the parlour with the lamps turned low when Mary breezed into the room with her usual ease, and Sophia noted the damp of her hems and the flush of her cheeks. She imagined her friend sweeping through the house with her usual determined grace.

“Tell me everything,” she said, not yet removing her gloves before folding herself onto the settee.

Sophia closed the door gently behind her, silently thanking her aunt and uncle for allowing her at least to keep her closest friend when they had been so cruel in every other part of her life. She didn’t know what she’d do without Mary.

“You always did know how to make an entrance,” she said with a small smile.

Mary flapped a hand in the air. “When your note said ‘urgent’ and ‘bring no chaperone,’ I knew it was either scandal or strategy. Or both.” Her voice dropped theatrically. “You’ve eloped with a stable boy, haven’t you? Please tell me you have. It would fill every part of my being with joy.”

Sophia sat beside her and drew her knees up under her skirt, the only unladylike indulgence she allowed herself in this house, and even then, only in Mary’s presence. “Hardly. He’s been sacked. He winked at my aunt, apparently.”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “Brave man. Likely suicidal.”

The laugh escaped before Sophia could stop it, and once again, she was grateful for her old friend. For a moment, it was just like old times, when they used to whisper secrets at the edge of ballrooms or share contraband bonbons under the garden hedge when their parents had already told them no.

But the moment passed, Sophie remembered why she had written to her, and her smile faded.

“I’m to be married,” she said softly. “I was told, not asked.”

Mary stilled, all levity vanishing, and she slowly removed her gloves, placing them delicately on the table before her. “To whom?”

Sophia stared down at the rug. “The Earl of Stratton.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel.

“Lord Adrian Hawke?” Mary asked, incredulous. “The recluse? The one with the ghost-ridden townhouse and the brother who—?”

Sophia nodded. “That one.”

There was that name again. Hawke. Sophia felt as if she should know it, recognize it somehow, but the familiarity vanished before she could grasp it.

Mary let out her breath from between pursed lips. “Good Lord, Sophia. What on earth possessed your uncle?”

“He says it will restore the family’s standing and bring honour to the Edgerton name.” Her voice curled bitterly around the words. “But that’s not all.”

She told her everything: how the baron had summoned her like a servant, how he’d mentioned the earl’s name with cold calculation, and how, worst of all, he’d asked her to observe Stratton once she was inside his home.

Mary didn’t interrupt, but the colour in her cheeks rose slowly, and her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. When Sophia finished, Mary exhaled through her nose. “He wants you to spy.”

Sophia nodded.

“Like some parlourmaid with a hidden note in her garter.”

“Apparently.”

“But why?”

“That, I do not know. Not yet,” Sophia said. “Though he’ll surely need to tell me sooner or later exactly what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

Mary surged to her feet and began to pace, one hand slicing the air with each step. “Forgive my boldness, Sophia, but your uncle is the greasiest, pinched-nosed so-and-so that I think I have ever heard of. Your father would have him horsewhipped if he could see what he was doing.”

“My father’s gone.”

“I know, Sophia,” Mary snapped, then immediately softened. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just … this is unconscionable. You can’t marry him.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Sophia’s voice was quiet, but steady. “My uncle holds my dowry. My aunt has already begun planning fittings. I’m barely allowed out of the house without a maid anymore. Perhaps it might turn out to be better than this life. It certainly can’t be much worse.”

Mary stopped pacing. “Then we’ll make a choice. We’ll find one, together.”

Sophia blinked. “You’re serious?”

Mary came to sit beside her again. “When have I ever not been serious about saving you from terrible decisions made by even more terrible men?”

Sophia managed a weak laugh, and Mary reached for her hand.

“Look at me,” she said, gently tugging until their eyes met. “You are not alone. You are never alone. Whatever happens, I am with you. We are best friends until the day we die, remember?”

“I remember.” Sophia swallowed hard. “But I’m scared, Mary.”

“I know,” Mary whispered. “But you’ve always been braver than you think. You’re the girl who once faked a fever to sneak into the village fair. You’re the girl who stood up to a countess for insulting her maid. You are sweet and kind and determined, and you will get everything you deserve.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. “You think I can survive this?”

“No,” Mary said. “I think you can outwit it.”

She stood again, her chin lifted with that imperious tilt that always made Sophia feel safer.

“We’ll scheme and plot. We’ll do something wild and ruinous, and I’ll pretend it wasn’t entirely my idea.”

Sophia stood, too, brushing her skirt with suddenly steadier hands. “I hope the earl is ready.”

Mary smiled slyly. “Let’s make him wish he were.”