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Chapter One
Mayfair, London
September 1823
“At least Denny and I didn’t wearrealtogas,” Kathleen Calvert said, as if that inane observation could forestall her impending doom.
“I think togas would have been terribly jolly,” Jeannie enthused.
“But not very practical,” Cara countered, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation. “I’ve never understood how the Romans kept them on in the first place.”
It was sweet of Kathleen’s stepsisters to try to defend her from the storm of retribution headed her way. That storm went by the name of Helen, Lady Gorey. Kathleen’s stepmother was the bane of her existence.
Helen stared down her daughters before turning her icy glare on Kathleen. No one did icy better than Baroness Gorey. She never yelled or ranted, or disturbed one perfect hair on her perfect head. She simply buried one with cold contempt. This time, she would surely bury Kathleen as far out of sight as she could, and for as long as she could.
“Your persistent attempts to make light of your scandalous behavior are most distressing, Kathleen, especially for your poor father,” Helen said.
“Indeed, my dear child,” Papa began. “I do wish—”
“And one cannot begin to imagine the gossip,” Helen ruthlessly interrupted. “I doubt we will be able to leave the house for months.”
While that was a ridiculous assertion, it was true they were all but hiding out in the small back parlor. The inviting space was decorated with plump, chintz-covered armchairs, and a rather tatty velvet sofa piled high with cushions. Books, flowers, and needlework projects covered the tabletops. An easel with a half-completed landscape, along with a basket of sketching supplies, contributed to the cheerful atmosphere. Because the room’s cozy disorder offended Helen’s elegant soul, she rarely stepped foot inside, making it the sisters’ private domain.
This morning, though, was one of those rare occasions. The family was huddled around a mahogany tea table, as if preparing for an invasion by hostile forces, a fairly accurate description of Kathleen’s view of theton.
Jeannie, sitting next to Kathleen on the sofa, snorted at her mother’s dramatic assessment. “It’s not as if Kath was dashing about with some loose screw, Mamma. It was just silly Denny Barlow. His family practically lived next door to us in Ireland, and Denny is Kath’s best chum. Their race was just a bit of a rig.”
When Helen leveled her Medusa-like gaze on the sixteen-year-old, it was a miracle poor Jeannie didn’t turn to stone and splinter in a million pieces.
“I forbid you to use such dreadful cant, Jeanette. If you cannot behave with decorum, you will be sent to your room. Indefinitely.”
“But Mamma,” Jeannie protested. “It’s just that—”
Kathleen jumped in. “It’s just that I made a capital blunder this morning, and it doesn’t matter that I made it with Denny. It’swhatI did that matters, notwhomI did it with.”
“But you were just kicking up a lark,” Jeannie said. “You didn’t mean anything by it.”
Kathleen forced herself to say the words, for her sister’s sake. “It was still very wrong of me.”
Papa, sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, cast his wife a cautious but assessing glance. When he sighed, Kathleen’s heart sank. Her father rarely took Helen on, and today would run true to form.
“While I am pleased to hear you take responsibility,” he said, “it does not solve the problem, Kathleen. We must defer to your stepmother, since she has a better understanding of how this incident will be regarded by our friends and society at large.”
Cara, perched on a padded stool near her mother, grimaced. “Not well, I imagine.”
At nineteen, Cara already possessed a graceful maturity. Tall and willowy, with her mother’s blue eyes and wheat-blond hair, Cara had a gentle nature which, combined with her looks, had already won her several eligible suitors.
“That, my dear child, is an understatement,” Helen replied. “Really, to be racketing around at dawn on Hampstead Heath no less, with that ninny, Dennis Barlow. Your stepsister’s behavior is hardly to be comprehended.”
She laid her usual emphasis on that all-important qualifier,step, to emphasize the point that Kathleen was the wild Irish outsider and no true Gorey, as far as Helen was concerned.
Kathleen couldn’t help jabbing back. “Actually,Mother, it was more than racketing about. It was neck and neck, cracking the whip, just like the charioteers of ancient Rome. I’m sure we broke allsortsof speed records.”
In reality, it had been nothing more than a dash on a country road—corking good fun and a welcome escape from boredom. Thinking of it as a chariot race had simply been a silly jest between two old friends. But it might as well have been bread and circuses for the uproar it was already causing.
Jeannie flashed her an impish grin. “Did you stand up like charioteers, too?”
Kathleen was tempted to embellish but caught her father’s expression. “No, dear, we quite sensibly sat. After all, we didn’t wish to tip the carriages or injure the horses.”
