Rising from her sofa on unsteady feet, Miss Whitbread teetered to the silk-draped window. She peered down at the street. “I knew I’d heard carriages. Lord, but it’s a crush out there.”

“Shall we go downstairs?” Lady Lavinia asked.

“Not yet,” Miss Compton said. “Let my parents welcome the guests. I shall see them in the salon.”

Lady Lavinia leaned back on her sofa with a sigh as she finished her drink. “Your father and mother have a marriage to aspire to. She is one of the most acclaimed hostesses in town, and he is so handsome and commanding.”

“Handsome?” Miss Whitbread giggled from the window.

“He was,” Miss Compton snapped, provoked. “Only look at his portrait in the gallery at Rawdon. He could have had anyone.”

“So could your mother have had,” Miss Whitbread said. “The fortune her father left her was nearly as great as mine. And don’t tell me it doesn’t weigh with a gentleman.”

“Do you agree, Miss Flite?” Lady Lavinia asked. “Is a fortune enough of an inducement for a gentleman seeking a wife?”

“It may not be sufficient for marriage,” Miss Compton pronounced, “but it’s obviously necessary. No man of our acquaintance would wed a church mouse.”

Effie felt the scrutiny of the young ladies fixing upon her, equal parts curious and mean-spirited. They were plainly eager to know if she possessed a fortune. Under other circumstances, it would be impolite for them to ask outright, but champagne was involved, and they were in a dressing room, not a drawing room.

Miss Whitbread was the first to summon the courage. “I expect Lord and Lady Belwood have settled a goodly sum on you,” she said. “She and her husband have no children of their own, and childless people must find some person on whom to bestow their fortune. As you’re the only child of Lady Belwood’s closest friend—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Patricia,” Lady Lavinia interrupted. “Must you give voice to every vulgar thought in your head?”

“I meant no offense,” Miss Whitbread said. “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard.”

“Cease repeating it in my hearing,” Miss Compton retorted, glaring at her tipsy friend. “And do turn the subject before I expire from boredom.”

Effie smiled into her champagne, neither confirming nor denying the rumor.

It was all to the good if people thought her an heiress. She needed them to believe she was one of them. And to be one of them, one must have money. Not the kind earned through honest labor, but the kind bestowed on one through the privilege of one’s birth and connections. That was the only variety of money that mattered to people like these.

The conversation resumed in another direction, with the three ladies lapsing into a discussion about their gowns, and about the gentlemen who would be in attendance at the dinner that preceded the musicale.