Everyone froze, but her aunt burst into raucous laughter. “One of these days, sister dear, you will learn to insult me without insulting yourself at the same time. I’d rather be old and happy, than old and full of salt and vinegar.”

“Why are you here?” Bronwyn’s mother demanded.

Esther sniffed. “My darling niece invited me for a visit. Surely you won’t turn away your own blood.” Her mouth lifted into a smile. “Then again, the master of the house did offer his hospitality, so I suppose I don’t require your approval after all. You’re as much a guest here as I am, aren’t you, Sister?”

Bronwyn had to work to keep quiet at the astonishment on her mother’s face. A completely unperturbed Aunt Esther was deploying the big guns without fear of reprisal. The marchioness sputtered, but then clamped her lips together and turned on her heel, walking back the way she’d come with a rigid spine.

Esther smirked. “That went well! Florence, my dear, how about a tour and you can tell me if you have any handsome beaux.”

Twenty

Curse her luck!

And her overbearing, managing mother!

And sumptuous ball gowns that barely covered any skin at all!

Bronwyn would much rather be chased and shot at than ogled by men twice her age who saw her only as a dowry with lace-covered breasts. She hadn’t come back to England to be forced onto the marriage mart like some precious society darling as if she’d never left, but that was exactly what was happening.

Mere days after their arrival, her mother had announced that they were to attend a midseason ball at the residence of some peer Bronwyn barely knew. A bloody masquerade, no less! Apparently, the suitor in question—in line for a solvent marquessate—had expressed interest in Bronwyn’s hand, which was why her mother had gone into a frantic state and sent Stinson to Kettering to fetch her forthwith. Needless to say, a wrench had been thrown into the marchioness’s marital hopes and dreams for her daughter when said daughter was nowhere to be found. And now Lady Borne was making up for lost time.

“Mama, I don’t wish to go,” Bronwyn had protested to no effect. “I don’t even know Lord Whatever-His-Name-Is. And I loathe masquerades.”

She actually loved them, along with the diverting anonymity they provided, but when there was someone trying to kill her, a party with guests in disguise could include a death sentence with her name on it.

“Lord Herbert,” her mother had replied crossly. “I won’t hear any excuses.”