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CHAPTER1
May 1815
London, England
“No, you fool!” the Countess of Quinseley snapped at her lady’s maid. “The diamond tiara must go atop the crown of braids.”
Honestly, how difficult could it be to follow simple directions? Perhaps Lady Quinseley ought to give this girl the sack as well. The chit—what was her name?—had lasted a full fortnight longer than the usual specimens that passed for lady’s maids these days, but if even the easiest of tasks evaded her comprehension…
ObviouslyLady Quinseley wanted to wear her diamond tiara at its most visible angle. It boasted the finest craftsmanship outside of the Crown Jewels, and fit for a queen. Lady Quinseley knew she looked the part, with her regal profile, ramrod posture, and lustrous hair still the color of spun gold, despite her fifty years. She looked decades younger than her actual age, and was proud of it.
“Goddess,” squawked the parrot perched above her looking-glass.
Lady Quinseley smiled. There would be a treat for him later. A piece of apple from the bowl atop her dressing table.
She had always been proud of her looks. Why shouldn’t she be? She’d been the most winsome baby from the moment of her birth, and had only grown in beauty every year since. Her late husband, the Earl of Quinseley, had fallen in love with her at first sight, forsaking all others in his quest to make her his bride.
Of course, later the earl had also… but she wouldn’t think of that. What mattered was the countess keeping her place as the reigning queen of the ton. Yes, yes, Queen Charlotte was theactualQueen of England. But among the social set, no one wielded more power than Lady Quinseley.
All because of her beauty.
“That’s enough fiddling!” She batted at her lady’s maid’s trembling hands in exasperation. “Go and iron the next gown. I’ll be ready to change dresses after nuncheon.”
Lady Quinseley changed gowns, hairstyles, and jewelry at least once every four hours, and never wore the same look twice. This custom was extravagant on purpose. She was not just the most beautiful woman in England, but also one of the wealthiest. And what good were such riches, if not to make others aware of one’s superiority?
The new maid—whatwasher name?—ran from the room. Oh, it didn’t matter. The countess would sack her before tea time. There was an endless supply of young girls eager for the opportunity to be Lady Quinseley’s personal handmaiden.
None of her peers came close to the countess’s beauty. No one did. It was a known fact, and yet, the countess still enjoyed playing her little ritual after every change in clothing.
She lifted her arm.
Mirren, her green-and-red parrot, immediately flew down to perch on her slender wrist. He opened and closed his beak in anticipation of the forthcoming apple slice, but he knew better than to dive into the bowl and attempt to bite one of the fat red fruits on his own.
Nobody took what belonged to the countess without her permission.
“Question?” squawked the parrot.
This was how the ritual began. The parrot had been a wedding gift. Lady Quinseley asked Mirren the same question half a dozen times per day and always received the same answer, as they had done for the two decades of her marriage to the earl. It was one of the highlights of her day, and the reason she loved her parrot more than any human.
“Mirren, Mirren, on my hand,” she began. “Who is the fairest in all the land?”
You are, the parrot squawked in reply every single time.
Today, Mirren opened his beak to reply, then tilted his head as some movement caught his eye outside the open window behind Lady Quinseley.
She frowned and repeated her question, her voice harsher to convey her discontent. “Mirren, Mirren, on my hand. Who is the fairest in all the land?”
Mirren flapped his wings, his black eyes still gazing over her shoulder.
“Bianca!” he squawked.
“What?” Lady Quinseley roared.
She leaped up from the plush stool before her dressing table and turned toward the window. There, sweeping dirt from the pathway below, was the bane of her existence.
Twenty-year-old Bianca White was the illegitimate spawn of the late earl. Lord Quinseley had declared his intent to marry the most beautiful woman in all the land when he’d first laid eyes on Lady Quinseley… but he had not given up his mistress, a passably attractive Black soprano that Lady Quinseley spent the next two decades pretending did not exist.
The resulting child had inherited the worst of both her biological parents. Black hair like her mother, with the same strip of snow-white at the temple her father had also been born with. Even with the girl’s golden brown skin, there was no denying her parentage. Not that the earl had tried. He’d openly acknowledged his bastard daughter from the moment of her birth, as if the low-born chit were as important as an heir.
