The next morning Chloe van Stork sat up straight in bed at seven o’clock and rang her bell vigorously. Today she was going to begin sitting for her portrait! After her bath she looked dubiously at the row of drab gowns hanging in her wardrobe. Finally she chose a simple white morning dress. Probably it didn’t matter anyway. Her school friend Sissy had had her portrait painted in costume, as Cleopatra. And when Chloe admired it Sissy told her that the costume didn’t really exist, and her mama would never allow her to wear something like it until she was married. Chloe had stared at the gold snake curled around Sissy’s waist, whose head ended somewhere just under her right breast, and heartily agreed with Sissy’s mama, although she would never have said so.

“Well, miss, so you will not be helping us finish the collar bands today?” her mother said ponderously. But Chloe could tell she was pleased. After all, why did Katryn send her daughter off to an enormously expensive school if she didn’t want her to move in high circles?

In fact, her mama was well near ecstatic, although she would never exhibit such an extreme emotion in front of her husband, who emphatically disliked the idea of Chloe joining the aristocracy. But from the moment Katryn van Stork realized that their only daughter was going to be very pretty, if not beautiful, she had been planning and scheming for that very thing. So she beamed at her buttered muffin and kept her mouth shut.

Just then their starchy footman entered the breakfast room and bowed. Mrs. van Stork jumped. He moved like a snake, this Peter.

“Flowers for Miss van Stork,” Peter intoned.

Just as if he were announcing a funeral, Katryn thought crossly.

Chloe’s eyes widened. Peter was holding what appeared to be five or six bunches of violets, fresh with dew. They looked as if they had been picked no more than ten minutes before. Peter paced around the breakfast table while Chloe waited impatiently. He bowed again, at her chair, and she finally snatched them from his hands.

Peter left the room, his eyes searching the ceiling for an answer to why he was working for a wealthy cit instead of a great lord. Because they pay more, he thought practically.

Chloe plucked the card from among the violets, her fingers trembling a little. Then she half laughed in surprise. They weren’t from Will—or Lord Holland, she hastily corrected herself. Instead she was holding an elegantly printed card that read Charlotte Daicheston across the bottom. Written in handwriting that looked almost male was a note: I am very much looking forward to our appointment. Do let me know if another time would be more convenient. And it was signed Charlotte, in a sprawling, confident hand.