A half hour later, Sophie walked into her foyer, surprised to find the house unnaturally quiet. She hung her pelisse and hat before heading to the drawing room, where her mother and Mary perched on the edge of their chairs, dabbing the corners of their eyes with soggy handkerchiefs.

Dread slithered around Sophie’s neck, squeezing her in a chokehold. “What’s happened?” she asked, rushing into the room. “Is it Papa?”

“No, darling,” Mama assured her. “He’s fine. He’s just upstairs … resting.”

A sob escaped Mary’s throat.

“What, then?” Sophie said. “Why are you both crying?”

Mama stood, smoothed her skirt, and raised her chin in a valiant effort to regain her composure. “I had to let most of the staff go this morning. The truth is, we haven’t been able to pay them for several months. They’ve stayed out of loyalty, but when they heard that a wealthy merchant was setting up house in Mayfair, they asked for a reference … and I couldn’t refuse.”

“Mr. Wickett?” Sophie asked, thinking of their dear old butler—the one who’d been more like a grandpa to her than a member of the staff.

“He regretted that he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to you,” Mama said soothingly. “He asked that I convey his sincerest apologies.”

Sophie’s throat closed painfully. “He doesn’t owe me an apology,” she whispered, sinking into a chair.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Mary whined. “Lottie’s gone too. Who’s going to help us dress and style our hair and make our beds?”

“We’ll help each other.” Sophie reached out and patted her sister’s hand. To her mother, she said, “I didn’t realize things had become quite so desperate. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you more than I already have,” Mama said, looking thinner and older than she had just twenty-four hours ago. “Besides, what could you have done?”

“I would have thought of something,” Sophie said, adamant. She would have gladly handed over the small sum she’d saved from her share of the column. Maybe she could have pawned a few items, just to keep them solvent until … until her marriage to Lord Singleton.

Mama forced a smile. “At least we still have Mrs. Appleby and Mrs. Pettigrew,” she said, referring to their faithful cook and their longtime housekeeper. “And Mr. Crawford, of course,” she added. “Your father simply can’t do without his valet.”

“No,” Sophie said dryly. “Of course not.”

“I know it’s not an ideal situation,” Mama said, “but it’s only temporary.”

Sophie felt her sister’s and her mother’s eyes trained on her. Knew just what they were thinking—that they’d rehire the staff once Sophie married the rich marquess.