And Colin should know.

That was exactly the way he had felt about his father when the solicitors had shown up at his doorstep last month to inform him that his father had mortgaged everything he had in the world, including the estate and everything in it, against the engraving business he’d started last year. The same business, incidentally, that Colin had vehemently advised against. And the same one that, according to the representatives for Father’s investors, had never even turned a half penny’s profit.

Resentment built deep in his stomach, spilling out into his blood and pumping through his body with every beat of his heart. Father had mortgaged the estate—Colin’s entire inheritance and the only home his siblings had ever known—without ever even telling him. He had told him the money had come from eager investors. Never did he admit that the investors were eager thanks to the massive amount of collateral he’d put up.

John laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You’ve little other choice, no?”

“No.”

“Then carry on as you must. I just thought it best to share with you what you are up against. An invisible foe is much more dangerous than the one you can see. At least now you know to be on the alert. Have a care with how you are perceived.”

Colin nodded. “Agreed. Thanks for sharing, cousin. It’s always better to be prepared.” If he’d learned nothing else in his past two years at the Inns of Court, he’d certainly learned that. A barrister was only as good as the information he gathered. Well, that and his ability to argue his point the way a dog chewed on a bone.

As his cousin headed to the sideboard to fill his plate for breakfast, Colin considered the letter and accompanying cartoon. The words of warning would no doubt resonate with the young ladies who read it. It had a distinctly empowering feel to it, as if the author had decided it was high time women took responsibility for their own fates. It was both bold and clever to print such a thing in a fashion magazine—after all, how many men would ever see it?

Colin leaned back in his chair, considering what, if any, changes should be made to his approach to finding a wife. This article may very well be intended as a guide to females on how to avoid fortune hunters, but it could also be used for exactly the opposite purpose. Did he not know what they would be looking for now? He could use this knowledge to his benefit.

He picked up the magazine and scanned the letter once more. A fortune hunter danced only with women of a certain worth? Fine. He’d go out of his way to dance with any woman he found interesting. Actually, he quite liked that strategy. It felt much more natural to enjoy a lady based on her own merit, anyway.

Unbidden, an image of Lady Beatrice flashed into his mind. Some of the stiffness drained from his shoulders, and he smiled absently. Their tour had been every bit as enjoyable as he’d imagined it would be. She was so much more than he ever expected a privileged daughter of the nobility could be. How many other debutants could have inspired him to dance a Scottish reel in the middle of a gallery? And more to the point, how many other debutants would have taken him up on the offer?

“What are you over there grinning like an idiot about? Nothing good can come from that blasted letter, my friend.”

Colin raised an eyebrow to his cousin as he set down his plate and pulled out a chair. “On the contrary. This letter did little more than arm us with the knowledge we need to avoid raising suspicions.”

John slowed in the process of laying his napkin in his lap. Colin could practically see the man’s military brain going to work. “By Jove, you’re right, old man. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“Too much time away from the battlefield can make any man go soft. Mustn’t blame yourself.” He grinned at the sarcastic expression John threw him before picking up his fork.

“No, I think it is the lack of stimulating conversation around here. Regardless, you have your battle plan. Dance with a variety of ladies. The trick of it is having a care not to lead on any of the unsuitables.”

“Agreed.” The last thing he wanted to do was hurt some girl’s feelings. He had to be charming and agreeable with the ladies he considered prospects and cordial but impersonal to those who weren’t.

Of course, if he adhered strictly to that plan, it would mean no more ill-advised romps with the enchanting Lady Beatrice. He smiled wryly. So far, he had shown a complete lack of judgment when it came to his stór.

And he wasn’t sorry for it.

It was a bloody rotten time for him, and if there was one person in the mess of it who made him feel like an equal, as though he actually had something of true worth to offer her, then he wouldn’t apologize for whatever small amount of time he could spend with her. There was literally no one else in London, or on the planet, for that matter, who could offer her what he could, and he planned to enjoy that.

Tonight at the Westmoreland ball, he would dance every set, with any young lady who took his fancy. He had only two goals for the evening: to further charm prospective brides and to dance a proper dance with Lady Beatrice.

* * *

Beatrice had been expecting the knock for so long, it was a relief when it finally came. “Enter,” she said, setting down her paintbrush and turning to greet her sisters.

Just as she expected, Jocelyn and Carolyn let themselves in, their blue eyes bright with the anticipation of sharing their discovery. Beatrice had known they would come and had painted with half an ear to the stairway since the time she heard the knock on the servants’ door exactly two floors below her studio almost an hour earlier.

It was Tuesday, after all: delivery day.

“Oh my word, Bea, you will never believe what they printed in A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion this week.” Carolyn was ahead of her sister by half a foot, holding out the periodical in question. They hadn’t even taken the time to properly dress, each wearing wrappers over their night rails with their hair simply braided.

Good. Beatrice liked to think that girls all over the city were just as excited.

Schooling her features into an expression of pure innocence, she wiped her hands on the bottom of her apron and regarded them with false curiosity. “What is it? Something new from France?”

Jocelyn plopped onto the studio’s only piece of furniture, a slightly worse-for-the-wear chintz sofa, and shook her head. “Much more scandalous than that. Oh, it’s brilliant. Wait until you see.”

Carolyn handed over the magazine before joining her twin on the sofa. If either of them noticed that Beatrice’s fingers trembled or that her breath wasn’t quite even, they didn’t let on in the least.

Drawing a quiet breath, she turned under the pretense of holding it to the meager light from the cloudy day and looked down at the printed page. Her heart gave a little leap. There it was, in black and white. Her words, her art, her labor of love for her fellow females, published in a legitimate magazine for all to see. The surge of pride was so powerful, so consuming, she actually felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes.

“Can you believe it?” Carolyn asked, nudging the bottom of Beatrice’s skirts with her foot when she didn’t say anything. “It says the author is a former debutant.” The implied scandal of such a thing hung heavy in her breathless tone.

“How utterly remarkable,” Beatrice murmured, infusing a healthy dose of incredulity into her response. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the etching, the product of her own hands. Almost, anyway. Monsieur Allard had done a superb job of transcribing her drawing into an etching. She ran a finger over the crosshatched shading of the imposing columns in the background. It had turned out perfectly, and all she wanted to do was hug it to her chest and proclaim to the world that it was her handiwork.

But of course she could not.

If anyone knew that she had written the letter and submitted the drawing, her reputation would be utterly ruined. No one would ever see the good in what she did, only the breaking of unspoken rules.

“I wonder who wrote it,” Jocelyn mused, pulling her legs in to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “Do you think it is true that it was written by a debutant? Who’s to say it wasn’t some dried-up old journalist trying to ruffle feathers or create a story where there is none?”

Carolyn’s eyes rounded. “Do you think someone would do such a thing?”

Beatrice bit her lip against the need to defend herself and the validity of her work. Instead, she gave a casual shake of her head. “No, I don’t think it could be a journalist.” She came to sit between her sisters on the sofa and pointed to the engraving. “See the background? That’s Lady Churly’s ballroom. See the fluted columns?” she said, sliding her finger across the drawing.

Jocelyn snatched the paper back and pored over it with renewed fervor. “How very, very bold. If the setting is real, then . . .” She paused, tilting her head as she regarded the image through squinted eyes. “Oh my goodness gracious, I think that’s Mr. Godfrey!”

“No!” Carolyn exclaimed, leaning over the page for a closer look.

“Of course not,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes as she pulled the magazine out of her sister’s hands. “None of these people is real. They are just figments of the author’s imagination.”

She looked down at the etching, shaking her head at the absurdity of the claim. But . . . A trickle of dread slid down her spine as she stared at the picture. Oh heavens. She bit the inside of her lip hard as she took in the man’s clothes, his smug expression, his Corinthian hair.