Jane chattered gaily all the while. “My eldest brother George is here in town already. You remember George, don’t you? He keeps a set of bachelor rooms in St. James’s Street. He’s agreed to squire us to all of the balls and parties we attend during your visit. But you must be sweet to him, Margaret, for I suspect he’s only being agreeable for your sake. He’s always had a bit of a tendre for you.”

Maggie smiled at her friend. With fair hair that refused to hold a curl, an unremarkable nose and chin, and brown eyes set a bit too close together, Jane Trumble was, as Bessie had said, no great beauty. She was, however, both kind and clever, and when she talked, as she was doing now, her face lit up with such cheerful animation, it was impossible for anyone to think her plain.

They’d met during Maggie’s come-out season in the ladies retiring room at a ball. Maggie’s hem had been torn—trod on by a clumsy partner—and, in the absence of a maid, Jane had offered to mend it. The repairs were executed in a trice, but Maggie and Jane had remained in the retiring room for over an hour, talking and laughing. When at last they’d emerged, they were bosom friends, and had been ever since.

“As soon as you’ve rested from your journey, we must go shopping.” Jane led Maggie up the stairs. “I’d wager that gown you’re wearing is more than three years out of fashion. And your hat! How many times have you made it over? You look an absolute dowd!”

“I haven’t bought any new clothes since Papa died. There’s been little need. I’ve worn nothing but mourning.” Maggie’s mouth tugged into a frown. “Besides, it’s Fred who controls the purse strings now.”

Jane ushered Maggie down the upstairs hall and into the bedroom that was to be hers for the duration of her stay. Bessie had gone ahead of them and was already bustling about in the attached dressing room, seeing to the unpacking of Maggie’s things.

Jane sat down on the edge of the bed and drew Maggie down beside her. Her expression became serious. “Does he really have so much control over your money? I know he was an executor of your father’s will, but surely…?”

Maggie plucked at a stray thread on the skirt of her carriage gown. The mere mention of her father’s will, the provisions of which amounted in her mind to nothing less than the worst betrayal a father ever perpetrated against a daughter, was still enough to send her into the deepest melancholy.

“Fred holds all of my money and property in trust until the date of my marriage. As long as that marriage is with his approval. And he’ll never approve of my marrying anyone but him.”