“That you would never have him,” she said triumphantly. “Not when you were already engaged. Gracious, you do get around, don’t you? Setting your sights on an earl, then a duke. Who’s next, Prince Alfred? I’m glad I took the initiative to write that letter.”

Her pretty face was marred with spite, but Sarani’s brain was spinning at the boast. Penelope had written to Markham? How on earth had she made that connection? Or known about Rhystan’s locket? But as quickly as she asked the question, she knew the answer.

It had to have been Ravenna, not knowing what Penelope would do, of course. Sarani had learned about the locket’s existence from Ravenna as well, and come to think of it, she had mentioned saying something to Penelope herself. If one had the connections, which the Duke of Windmere, Penelope’s father, would have, as well as the stolen miniature, getting information about Rhystan’s former commission would have been easy.

Penelope let out an ugly laugh. “Such aspiration, Lady Sara, though one wonders whether you are even a lady at all.”

“What are you talking about?”

Penelope winked and whispered, “I heard you’re a bastard that poor Lady Lisbeth didn’t even know who your father was.”

Sarani truly didn’t want to sink to her level, but she saw red. Tears smarted at the backs of her eyes. She was sick of being treated with such scorn. She let a slow, cold smile form on her lips and lifted a brow. “Why, you should know all about that, shouldn’t you, Penelope?” The girl went pale, but Sarani didn’t relent despite the sourness pooling in her belly. “Being born on the wrong side of the blanket, I mean.”

“I…”

Sarani took a page from Rhystan’s book. “Walk away, Penelope, before we both say something regrettable.”

To Sarani’s surprise, the girl did, hurtling backward like she couldn’t get away fast enough. That was the thing about bullies—they did not like it much when the boot was on the other foot. Penelope might have been casting stones at Sarani’s origins, but she’d forgotten about her own.

Sarani retrieved her cloak and was about to leave when she was stopped again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “How hard is it to leave this place?”

“Currying favor with your betters, I see,” a voice sneered.

Vice Admiral Markham’s bulk took up her vision in the foyer. Her eyes widened. Sarani would not have recognized him if not for the voice. Unlike Talbot, who had not changed in five years, Markham seemed rather worse for wear—he’d put on a stone or two and he looked like he had a rampant case of gout. He did not wear a uniform but was dressed in rumpled evening clothes that had seen better days. Her nose wrinkled. He also smelled like the inside of a chamber pot.