It was about ten o’clock on a Sunday night and Adelaide knew where her daughter ought to be—in her bed, drowsily thinking about her engagements the next day. But instead of heading toward Charlotte’s bedchamber, Adelaide unerringly walked up the stairs to the third floor. Sure enough, candles were burning all around the walls of Charlotte’s studio.

Charlotte was standing absolutely still, looking at a portrait on its easel in the middle of the room.

“Darling,” said her mother. “May I come in?” She walked around to stand behind her daughter. “Why,” she said, startled, “it’s lovely, sweetheart. Truly lovely. My goodness.”

Charlotte had finished her portrait of Sophie York. Sophie was posed on the branch of a broken-down tree, in the clearing of a forest. The ground was covered with bluebells, stretching into the distances of the forest glade. The folds of Sophie’s dress were perfectly reproduced, her petite curves elegantly rendered by Charlotte’s brush—but her look! Rather than looking dreamily into the middle distance, as peers invariably did in portraits, Sophie was looking straight at the beholder, a small smile hovering around the corners of her mouth. She appeared to be laughing at the very absurdity of sitting on a branch. And there was a twinkling invitation in her eye … in fact, Charlotte had made Sophie look rather less than a perfect lady, Adelaide decided. Something about the fullness of her lower lip, perhaps? But, of course, Sophie wasn’t a perfect lady. That was what gave her mama so much anxiety.

“Oh, Lord,” Adelaide sighed. “You aren’t going to let Eloise see this, are you, dearest?”

“Oh, no, Mama,” Charlotte said, smiling. “I think I’ll keep it and give it to whomever Sophie marries, when she marries. Because she looks so enticing, doesn’t she?”

Adelaide smiled back. “It’s a very good portrait, Charlotte. It really looks like Sophie.” She was rapidly rethinking what she had come to say. Why were she and Marcel so worried about broaching difficult subjects with Charlotte? These new young women … they knew so much more than she had as a young girl.

She retreated to the sofa and invitingly patted the cushion next to her. “Darling, we need to have a talk.”

Charlotte sat down rather reluctantly. She had a fair idea of the subject her mother wanted to discuss. Lately she felt as if wherever she turned someone threw her a significant look and asked how she found the Earl of Sheffield and Downes. A small frown creased her forehead. There was something very odd about all this intense interest. People seemed to be so fascinated by Alex’s pursuit of her. Comparatively speaking, they paid almost no attention to Braddon Chatwin’s courtship even though he too was an earl.