Chapter One
Vanguard Hall
There were degrees of wickedness, and tonight Lady Maryann Eleanor Fitzwilliam was going to be terribly wicked.
She was determined to take revenge on Lady Sophie, a beautiful, reigning diamond of the ton, who thought it amusing to harass those she deemed inferior to her because of their lack of wealth and connections.
Unfortunately, this meant the wallflowers of the last few seasons, to which Maryann had been relegated, were forced to the sidelines by Lady Sophie and her coterie’s idle gossiping. Maryann and her friends had become thoroughly tired of the sobriquet of “wallflower.” Four years ago, for a moment in time, she had been well-loved by the fashionable set, until she had found it impossible to be as mean-spirited and vindictive as many of their number. Then they had cut her from their coterie, avidly whispering and laughing about her behind their fans to all who would listen.
And that, unfortunately, was the majority of young society women.
Lady Sophie might be the sister of a most sought-after duke, but she and her beautiful coterie were bully-ruffians, and tonight she would surely discover her cruelty had a price. Maryann would be the instrument of Lady Sophie’s lesson. After all, Maryann had recently impressed upon her dearest friends that it was time to be daring and take whatever they needed, for waiting like biddable ladies had garnered them nothing—not love, or family, or any measure of independence or happiness.
Maryann glanced surreptitiously about the gardens, tapping her feet impatiently, wondering why her older brother—Crispin—one of her closest confidants, was taking so long. They had agreed to meet at this section of the gardens once the supper waltz ended.
Pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, she worried her bottom lip, hoping that she hadn’t sent him to his death when she had urged him to collect a few grass snakes and critters by the pond. The summer night was overly warm, but a few days ago, he had been abed.
It was that very reason the family split their time between their town house in Berkeley Square and Vanguard Hall, their manor on the outskirts of London. Vanguard Hall was close enough to town that many were more than willing to travel to the Countess Musgrove’s home for one of her balls or garden parties, and it was far enough away from the pollution of London to help Crispin recover whenever the shortness of breath that sometimes plagued him reared its ugly, frightening head.
A shuffle amongst the potted flowers had her whirling around.
“There you are!” she softly cried, hurrying over to the dark figure stooped in the shadows. “Crispin, thank you! I knew you did not approve of my revenge, but you came through for me. Where is the bucket?”
The figure went remarkably still, and a niggle of an uncomfortable awareness bloomed inside Maryann. She bit back her cry of protest when, with an almost imperceptible motion, the man melted deeper into the darkness and vanished the way he had come.
“Crispin?”
A few moments later, he appeared with the bucket.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said with an approving smile. “I truly could not do this without you.”
He nodded once, and she turned around to peer into their parents’ massive and overflowing ballroom. Crispin had originally suggested it should be a masked ball; however, that had been considered too scandalous by her mother for the Musgroves to carry out. Still, a few of Crispin’s friends had worn masks to enter, but most discarded them when the countess had discouraged such frivolity. But that was enough if anyone should see her and Crispin now. They would report of two people in masks, and the countess would have to recall that it was several guests who had worn those artful coverings.
To Maryann’s mind, revenge was an art, which took careful plotting and execution. She had ensured that at Lady Pilkington’s ball last week, her brother danced with Lady Sophie and encouraged her to be here tonight. Not that she would have refused an invitation to their mother’s sought-after balls, but Maryann had to be incredibly cautious to prevent her plan from falling through.
“I must rely on your strength and good sense for the next part, Crispin. May I trust in your assistance?”
The slightest of hesitation, then he nodded.
Relief burst inside her chest. “I am not contrary, but you are awfully accommodating tonight. Have you given up on quoting Marcus Aurelius?”
She felt his silent stare in the dark—deep, penetrating, and questioning, and it caused a rush of discomfort to curl through her. “You know, the one about the best revenge is to be unlike the person who performed the injury? But I assure you, nothing I can do will make me endure that odious Sophie for another day!” Maryann gasped. “And speak of the devil’s wife, here she comes.”
Her brother shifted closer as they peered through the windows into the ballroom, where the radiant blond head of the voluptuously curved darling of the season stepped into view. Her silver-threaded pristine white gown floated around her like gossamer. She held court with her coterie (the members of the mean ladies’ club) like a queen, and not the termagant who had been insolently tyrannizing other debutantes of the season.
With her actions, so many young ladies had fled balls in tears with a cloud of shame and scandal hovering over their heads, which Lady Sophie maliciously kept alive. Of course, no one saw the depth of cruelty beneath the pleasant veneer of good-natured countenance she presented.
Only her victims were fully aware…
“Look how sweet and innocent she appears,” Maryann whispered, nudging Crispin in his side. “Did you know she was the instigator of the scandal which prompted Hyacinth’s mother to rush her off to Cornwall? How ghastly can it be to spend the season, or the rest of her life, buried there because of an overindulged wretch?”
A rough choking sound came from her brother, which he quickly stifled.
Maryann lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lady Sophie had been piqued that Mr. Humboldt dared to turn his attention from her to Hyacinth, so Sophie arranged for her to be locked in the conservatory with a footman!”
An elusive sensation whispered through her, and Maryann frowned.
“No one believed Hyacinth’s protests that she had been innocently led astray by a note. But I analyzed the note she got, and it matched perfectly with Lady Sophie’s handwriting. And I should know what that looks like, since I found the pretty poems she wrote to you! And what is most terrible about it is that Sophie has no interest in the man. She is the daughter of a duke with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds and an estate in Wiltshire. Poor Mr. Humboldt stood no chance with her, and he rightly fell in love with Hyacinth, who is so good-natured.”
A lump formed in Maryann’s throat as she watched Miss Louisa Nelson, a young lady the same women frequently whispered about and called the “dowdy wallflower,” enter the ballroom. She wore a slightly fussy rose-colored evening gown, which unfortunately did not really flatter her florid complexion and short stature. Her sweet, rounded face appeared excited as she scanned the room. Louisa then made her way over to the refreshment table.