The Castle Keepers: A Novel

by Aimie K. Runyan, J'nell Ciesielski, Rachel McMillan

Genres: Clean & Wholesome Romance; Historical Romance; Victorian Romance; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

“A fascinating story of love’s ability to overcome family curses, scandals, and even war. Told in three parts, this multi-generational tale is wonderfully heartwarming!” —Madeline Martin, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Bookshop in London

Leedswick Castle has housed the Alnwick family in the English countryside for generations, despite a family curse determined to destroy their legacy and erase them from history.

1870. After a disastrous dinner at the Astor mansion forces her to flee New York in disgrace, socialite Beatrice Holbrook knows her performance in London must be a triumph. When she catches the eye of Charles Alnwick, one of the town’s most enviably titled bachelors, she prepares to attempt a social coup and become the future Marchioness of Northridge. Then tragedy and scandal strike the Alnwick family, and Beatrice must assume the role of a lifetime: that of her true, brave self.

1917. Artist Elena Hamilton arrives in Northumberland determined to transform a soldier’s wounds into something beautiful. Tobias Alnwick’s parents have commissioned a lifelike mask to help their son return to his former self after battle wounds partially destroyed his face. But Elena doesn’t see a man who needs fixing—she sees a man who needn’t hide. Yet secrets from their past threaten to chase away the peace they’ve found in each other and destroy the future they’re creating.

1945. Alec Alnwick returns home from the war haunted but determined to leave death and destruction behind. With the help of Brigitta Mayr, the brilliant young psychoanalyst whose correspondence was a lifeline during his time on the Western Front, he reconstructs his family’s large estate into a rehabilitation center for similarly wounded soldiers. Alec’s efforts may be the only chance to redeem his family legacy—and break the curse on the Alnwick name—once and for all.

Three beloved authors share stories of the Alnwick family through the generations, revealing how love and war can change a place—but only its people can unshackle it from the misdeeds of the past.

• Multiple historical timelines following generations of one family
• Stand-alone collection of connected stories
• Includes discussion questions for book clubs

 

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Release date: May 2, 2023

Publisher: Harper Muse

Print pages: 378

Sample

Chapter 1

~Rule No. 1~

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

—William Shakespeare

New York City

February 1870

Beatrice examined her reflection in the mirror, and though she didn’t risk her mother’s ire by commenting on her own appearance, she knew she was ready to take the stage for one of the most important performances of her life.

Daddy wore his best tailcoat with mercifully fewer complaints than usual. For this, Beatrice offered silent thanks. She didn’t need her father’s grumbling and her mother’s resultant henpecking to rile her nerves. Her sweet-natured father’s grousing was a way of flirting with Mama, but Beatrice found it exasperating when it happened at important moments.

Tonight they would dine at the home of Caroline Astor. Mrs. William Backhouse Astor, the single most influential person in all of New York society. And Beatrice, if she ever wanted admittance to Mrs. Astor’s good graces, would have to be flawless. Her hope was that if she played the part well enough, she just might secure a proposal from Thomas Graham.

Thomas, who actually watched plays when he went to the theater rather than attending purely so he could be seen by those who mattered.

Thomas, who was the only company that felt superior to the company of her beloved journal, a pen, and a roaring fire in her bedroom.

Thomas, whose piercing gaze made her stomach wobble and her breath stop in her throat with the merest glance.

Thomas, who had spent a great deal of social capital to secure this all-important invitation in hopes of advancing Beatrice and her family in society. Beatrice hoped it was so his parents could have no objection to their forming an attachment beyond seeing each other at social events and in the gathering areas at the theater once or twice a week.

Thomas, who would be the great compromise: a position to please her mother and the potential for the honest-to-goodness love match Beatrice longed for but had never hoped to aspire to.

Until Thomas.

Befitting the event, Beatrice and her mother dressed in fine silks and tasteful jewels. Their ruffled bustle skirts were like sugary confections—flowing masterpieces of fabric, rather than meringue—that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Their restrictive bodices defied nature as well, molding the shape of the wearer into the feminine ideal. Their hair was just as elaborate—a massive tower of braids and curls that took the skill of a sculptor to achieve. Their money was so new, it was practically fresh from the printer’s, but Mama knew full well how to spend it.

“You don’t think you’d do better to wear a bit of color, kitten?” Daddy eyed Beatrice’s cream gown with delicate gold beading. Mama’s was a lovely shade of royal blue with silver embroidery that accentuated the blue in her eyes, but the matrons tended to wear more vibrant colors than their daughters. Beatrice guessed the object was to make the eligible ladies look more like brides, so they wore shades as close to white as they dared on a day other than their wedding day. Creams, ivories, silvers, pale golds, and yellows. Occasionally

a shell pink or a featherlight blue—anything to imply innocence and purity. “Why not one like the green you wore yesterday? Or that nice red one from last week? You look a treat, but I do like a punch of color.”

“Those are afternoon dresses, Morris.” Mama tucked her arm in his and patted his gloved hand. “The young ladies tend to wear more muted colors for evening attire.”

“Drab, if you ask me,” Daddy said. “But I suppose my opinion is the least important on the subject.”

Sarah Holbrook looked indulgently at her husband and prodded the party out the door. She barked a few orders to Robinson, the much-put-upon lady’s maid who looked after Mama and occasionally Beatrice.

Beatrice remained silent, knowing her mother’s tone with the staff earned her clucking tongues from the more refined of their acquaintances who always gave the guise of magnanimity to those in their employ. Mama mistakenly thought that kindness to the staff was a sign of familiarity that would make her seem common.

Mama was the classic American beauty with honey-blonde hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and perfect, even features, while Beatrice was too tall and her hair was too deep a chocolate brown to be fashionable. Thankfully it was abundant enough for the latest hairstyles. And no one could deny Beatrice’s complexion was as enviable as her mother’s. Beatrice’s gray eyes with flecks of blue, she had to admit, were a source of pride.

Daddy was of humble birth, having been born to tenant farmers and lured west by the temptation of the California gold rush. He was one of the lucky few who hit the mother lode, and luckier still to have married Mama. She had pressed him to invest the money in railroads rather than squandering it on fleeting luxuries. The investments were a booming success, and by the time Beatrice was three, they moved from their lavish home in San Francisco to New York so they could make their mark on society. More than anything in the world, Mama wanted to leave behind the memory of her impoverished beginnings and find true acceptance in the most elite circles of New York.

Mama had told Beatrice—on the rare occasions she was willing to speak about her girlhood—how poor they’d been. How cast out she’d felt. She’d read about New York in magazines and dreamed of going there and being welcomed by the finest families. It was never Beatrice’s dream, or Daddy’s, to become pillars of New York society, but Mama had made it their chief aim in life nonetheless. It was as though admittance to balls and fine dinners would somehow erase the years of privation.

“Your opinion matters a great deal, Daddy,” Beatrice assured him. “I wouldn’t dare pick a riding ensemble without consulting you.”

Daddy rewarded her with a kiss on the forehead. For whatever refinements he lacked, he was as skilled a sportsman as any

in New York’s elite circles. The Holbrooks only lacked the luck, socially speaking, of people like the Fishes and Astors who came from old, established fortunes. They were, to use Caroline Astor’s term, arrivistes. But Daddy had taught Beatrice how to ride when she was barely able to walk, and he’d always gifted her with lovely riding habits in hopes that she wouldn’t lose interest in their mutual pastime. There was no danger of that, but she let him indulge her anyway.

Daddy kept up jovial small talk on the ride to the Astors’, but Beatrice was too busy swallowing back bile to give him more than a cursory response. Every social outing brought her nerves to the brink of their limits. It grew worse and worse as each engagement carried increasingly more importance in advancing the family’s social position and improving Beatrice’s marital prospects. And as the stakes grew, Mama became more and more overbearing where Beatrice was concerned. Each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves sent her stomach churning, and she could do no more than concentrate on her next breath if she was to arrive at the Astor home with her wits intact.

Mama hissed a few reminders about decorum at Daddy, who, as always, took them in indulgent stride.

They were ushered inside by the butler and found the orderly receiving line moving efficiently. Mrs. Astor greeted them with the same formality tempered with the barest trace of warm cordiality she extended to everyone. Caroline Astor was, of course, the most splendidly dressed woman in the room. She wouldn’t have stood for anything else. Beatrice had seen the pictures of the social maven as a young woman when she’d been fresh like dew on a rose. It was hard to reconcile that image with the formidable woman who stood before them. She wore a gown of steel silk (and a gaze to match) that would have overpowered a lesser woman, but there wasn’t a gown in existence that would have dared to overpower the Caroline Astor.

The simple truth was that the keys to the gates of New York society resided squarely in the Astor matriarch’s pocket, and she clenched them tight, admitting precious few to her fashionable inner circles.

Beatrice escaped the receiving line without incident and saw Thomas. He had a flute of champagne in hand and was deep in conversation with some Astor relation Beatrice didn’t know who always wore an expression of vague boredom but who seemed pleased enough to be in Thomas’s lively company.

Thomas looked up and his eyes locked with hers. He’d noticed her glancing in his direction. A faux pas. She didn’t play coy and pretend

she hadn’t seen him but rather nodded in his direction, allowed a delicate smile to pull at her lips, and continued to scan the room.

She wanted to stare into the deep-brown pools of his eyes. His irises flecked with gold caught even the least glimmer of light and could hold her captive for hours. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through his thick black hair, but she could not let him know this. She couldn’t be aloof, for no man wanted to waste his time with a woman who couldn’t be won, but nor could she be too effusive.

Mama often called it a game of cat and mouse, and her mother wasn’t wrong. It was made all the more challenging when the mouse had to keep the hunt exciting when she wanted nothing more than to be caught.

In mere seconds Thomas appeared by her side. As in many great plays, the truths weren’t in the words spoken but rather in the ones left unsaid.

“So lovely to see you here at last, Miss Holbrook,” he said. I’m so glad Jack was able to weasel an invitation out of the old windbag.

“Thank you, Mr. Graham. I was delighted at the invitation. Making new acquaintances is one of the true joys in life, is it not?” I never thought she’d ask us. She’s a miserable old crone, isn’t she?

“Mrs. Astor is the finest hostess New York has ever seen. You’re in for a treat.” She’s a nightmare. “You’ll do me the honor of allowing me to introduce you and your parents to the room, won’t you?” I desperately want to show you off.

“Of course, we’d be glad to meet your friends.” That’s precisely why I’m here.

For twenty minutes Thomas escorted Beatrice from guest to guest, introducing her as though she were an important dignitary come all the way from the other side of the globe to spend the evening in their company. He radiated pride as her hand rested in the crook of his arm. She had to work hard to keep her smile from being too broad and her expression too animated when he was in such proximity.

A man might not be able to sense when a woman was too enthusiastic about him, but one had to be more guarded with the mothers. They were far more observant than their husbands and sons, even if they led the men to believe otherwise in order to puff up their egos.

“I’m afraid we’re to dine on opposite sides of the room,” Thomas said as the dinner chime sounded, the regret in his voice ringing sincere. “I’d very much hoped to talk to you in more detail about the performance of Hamlet from last week. I thought your take on the performance was quite insightful.”

“We shall simply have to delay that pleasure for another time, then.” Beatrice rewarded him with a genuine smile.

He returned the gesture and bent low to her ear when he thought no one was looking. “You look positively sublime, my sweet.”

His words were spoken so softly, she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined them. His breath was warm against her ear, and she could smell the

heady tinge of champagne on his lips. Had they been alone, she would not have been able to resist brushing her own against them to taste it for herself.

She prided herself in keeping a serene countenance, but to keep the color from her cheeks in such a moment was beyond even her greatest attempts at self-control.

Mrs. Astor’s dinners were, as one might expect, the epitome of Knickerbocker graciousness. There was no unnecessary affectation beyond the gleaming, polished silver candelabra and fine china. The house was grand enough, the food elegant enough, to stand for themselves.

Daddy was seated near William Astor, the patriarch of the family, which was a particular honor. Why the family had been given such an attention, Beatrice didn’t know for certain, but she was sure Thomas had used his Astor ties to encourage Lina Astor to pay them special attention that night. It was, after all, an audition.

Thomas, though seated several tables away, saw where Beatrice and her family were situated and nodded his approval to her. Beatrice gave herself a reprieve of her rule about daydreaming while in public and took a few seconds to imagine a crowd like this one assembled for her wedding to Thomas. She pictured the starched white tablecloths and sparkling crystal. What would her mother insist upon for the gown? Satin? Silk? Perhaps velvet if they were married in winter.

Mama cleared her throat and Beatrice snapped back to attention. How does she know? It was a constant wonder to her. Mama seemed to have an otherworldly knack for knowing when her daughter’s attention wandered.

The food was served by attentive footmen. Dazzling arrays of oysters served as the hors d’oeuvre. Scalloped, fried, broiled—prepared in any way the Astors’ chef could contrive.

Beatrice took one of each sort of oyster, knowing that sampling each offering would be the polite thing to do. The only option she wasn’t keen on trying was the raw one, so she decided to try it first. She summoned her courage and tipped the shell so the contents would slip into her mouth as she saw the others do. It tasted positively foul and smelled vaguely of sulphur, but she managed to swallow without making a face. A mercy, since Mama was watching her discreetly as she held a conversation with a Mrs. Twombly. The stylish matron held Mama enraptured with her discussion of her recent trip to France and England with her husband and two daughters.

For the next three hours Beatrice absorbed the conversation, partaking just enough that she didn’t appear dull or overly timid. Her nerves were quaking like spindly tree branches in the wind, but she was confident it didn’t show too badly. She hoped it was just enough to make her appear charmingly demure. If her mother noticed her disquiet, Beatrice would be treated to a lecture about self-control later. There was no convincing Mama that her constant critiques only made Beatrice’s anxious nature hover even closer to the surface.

She ate a few more of the oysters, all of which tasted much better for being cooked, no matter the method. Then the footmen came fo

rth every half hour or so with mutton and barley consommé, chicken breasts, beef filets, foie gras, and several kinds of salads. Each was a work of art in miniature. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly presented. Caroline Astor never would have stood for less.

Beatrice took only small portions of each but was already reaching her limit of comfort, owing to the restrictive steel boning in her corset. A footman set a plate of delicate candied fruits and petit fours before her. There wasn’t a French pâtissier in existence who wouldn’t have looked at the arrangement with pride. She took a small bite of one of the petit fours—this one was a miniature lemon cake topped with a tiny violet made from sugar. The first seconds after it touched her tongue were pure bliss, but then the sugar became unbearably cloying.

Dread filled Beatrice when she realized she was going to be ill. One of the oysters must have gone bad, and Beatrice was going to suffer for it.

The nausea hit suddenly and with the force of one of the nor’easters that took New York to its knees. Sweat beaded on Beatrice’s forehead and she began to shake.

“Mama, I fear I am quite unwell.” Beatrice tried to keep her tone as low as she could without being so rude as to whisper.

Mama studied Beatrice’s face, which must have been chartreuse with nausea. “Have some water, dear. I’m sure that will right you.”

Beatrice raised the etched-crystal water goblet to her lips but was overcome before she could swallow even a drop of the cool water.

“Control yourself,” Mama hissed before she could reel the words back into her mouth.

“Please excuse me,” Beatrice mumbled, standing from her place and rushing toward the door with a napkin held to her mouth. One of Caroline Astor’s fine linen napkins. Beatrice prayed she could escape before the contents of her stomach made an untimely exit, but the wobble in her knees didn’t inspire confidence.

She’d nearly made it to the door when she tripped over the hem of her skirt and splayed flat on the marble floor. She didn’t dare look up to put faces with the snickers she could hear from the nearby tables. She summoned every ounce of her strength to scramble up and find the nearest obliging plant in the hallway in which to empty her stomach. Trying though she might to keep the sounds of her retching quiet, she was certain every Astor for miles could hear her defiling of what was likely a priceless Ming urn or some such museum-worthy objet d’art.

In that moment there was nothing Beatrice wanted more than for the curtain to come down on this scene and for all to forget her performance that night. She knew in her heart there would never be another.

Chapter 2

~Rule No. 2~

If you don’t know your lines, speak as though you do.

Mayfair District, London, England

May 1870

The glint of the crystals hanging from the chandeliers in Lady Millbourne’s ballroom danced in the glow of candlelight as elegantly as any of the dancers beneath them. Beatrice was wearing one of the ball gowns her mother had helped design. It was a lovely plum-colored organza that complemented her complexion, and the bodice boasted elaborate beading and a sweep train that made her feel as regal as the queen herself. Her coiffure was a well-organized riot of chestnut pin curls that had taken Robinson ages to put in place.

Lady Millbourne had the outrageous fortune to marry an earl. Most of the New York ladies who came to marry for titles were lucky to end up with a baronet or even a mere peer of the realm. Luckily, Lady Millbourne remembered her days as Lucy Twombly and had been fond of Beatrice before her ascent in society. The countess agreed to serve as Beatrice’s mentor in London society, and it was a boon Beatrice would need desperately.

As her entrée to Caroline Astor’s inner circles had been an unqualified disaster, London’s ton was to be her triumph. One embarrassment in front of the elite of New York society and not two weeks later, Beatrice and her parents were on a steamship to Paris, where they spent several fortunes at Worth’s atelier before heading to London for the season. Trading one elite social group for another, with the hope of a fresh start, they hadn’t time to waste, for the tale of her embarrassment hadn’t yet made it across the Atlantic. But it wouldn’t be long before it did.

Beatrice carefully sipped champagne at Lady Millbourne’s elbow as she was introduced to so many lords and ladies, she felt like she would never remember them all, though it was imperative that she did. For some reason, Beatrice felt somewhat more at ease. Perhaps because this wasn’t her society; the one she’d been raised to conquer. The one she had failed—miserably—to win over. But here she had the advantage of being a novelty. And having a large fortune that could be quite useful to some baron or viscount in need of shoring up his estate.

Mama was embroiled in conversation with one of the senior matrons in attendance, but Beatrice felt her mother’s eyes trailing her the entire time. Heavens, what she wouldn’t have given to be free from her mother’s stares. At times she felt like an actress constantly dogged by her worst critic. It made her bone weary. Beatrice knew her mother hated to let Lady Millbourne take over the duty of chaperone that night, but it was a necessary part of the game they were playing.

Lady Millbourne presented her to a middle-aged man, dressed finer than the others. “Your Highness, may I present Miss Beatrice Holbrook of New York. Miss Holbrook, His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

Beatrice dipped into a low curtsy before the man, who otherwise looked as unremarkable as any other man who had entered his forties or fifties. He was balding and given to fat around the middle, but he possessed a charm she’d scarcely encountered before. Though people were chatting in small groups or pairs, there was the sense that everyone had one eye on the prince and wished for nothing more than to please him. They

deferred to him as everyone in New York deferred to Caroline Astor. No one else’s opinion mattered more.

“The charming Miss Holbrook. I’ve been looking so forward to meeting you since Lady Millbourne told me of your arrival. Tell me, does London meet with your approval after all the hustle and bustle of New York?”

“It far exceeds it, Your Highness. I’ve never met a more charming people in my life.” He needn’t know how limited her experience was, but the statement was true enough. Beatrice had been too young to remember her time in San Francisco before she and her parents left. She felt well rid of New York and had seen little of Paris outside of Worth’s atelier.

“I hope your visit will prove satisfactory, Miss Holbrook. And be of some duration.”

“Thank you so much, Your Highness.”

He inclined his head and moved to chat with another.

“Well done, my dear Miss Holbrook. A good first impression,” Lady Millbourne said when they were out of earshot. “I wager he finds you interesting enough to keep around for the season.”

“Thank heaven.” Beatrice dropped her shoulders by a few inches.

“Indeed, my dear. Now we’ve only to get you in front of Baron Chatsworth. I think he’s just the thing for you. What a handsome couple the pair of you would make. Why don’t you excuse me for a moment and I’ll see where he might be.”

Beatrice nodded and her hostess walked off in a swoosh of taffeta.

Beatrice inconspicuously walked to the edge of the ballroom to await Lady Millbourne’s return. Mama was still deeply engrossed in her conversation and had moved off into one of the quieter side rooms reserved for the purpose. Beatrice drew in a deep breath, knowing that, at least for a few moments, her mother wasn’t watching—rather, scrutinizing—her every move. Beatrice didn’t see her father anywhere, so it seemed prudent to stand to the side and feign interest in watching those who were engaged in dancing.

As Beatrice was absorbed in the swirls of silks and satins on the dance floor, she felt a cold splash on her front that came from someone bumping her from the right.

“I am so terribly sorry!” a hushed voice exclaimed. A tall, dark-haired man blushed furiously, holding an empty champagne flute in one hand and leaning heavily on a cane. He looked far too young to need such a device. What might have caused the injury that made its use so necessary?

A ball of ice formed in her stomach. “My mother is going to murder me” was all Beatrice managed to say. Her mother, who had never been indulgent before the incident at the Astors’, had been merciless in her speeches about flawless comportment in the d

ays before this ball. And for all that, Beatrice had failed. She would have to go home and miss the opportunity of meeting the baron. This wasn’t a disaster of the same magnitude as the night at the Astors’, but one whisper implying that Beatrice was stealing away due to fragile health or some such could be harmful enough to her prospects.

She exited to the hallway without taking her leave of the man to inspect the damage in one of the large mirrors. She was fairly well drenched, but at least he’d been drinking champagne and not claret.

“Is there any way I can be of some assistance?” the man from the ballroom asked. She’d tried not to notice the sound of his footsteps punctuated with the clack as the metal tip of his wooden cane made contact with the marble floors.

Just go away, she wanted to mutter. “No, sir. All shall be well. Thank you. But there’s nothing to be done for my dress. I’ll have to fetch my parents and go home.”

“Please, let me see what can be done. Surely one of the maids can be of service.”

“Don’t go to any trouble, please.” Beatrice knew the color was high in her cheeks, and she was afraid she’d start shaking if he didn’t leave her in peace.

“I couldn’t bear to be responsible for ruining your evening. I insist. Come with me.”

There in the hall, memories of her disastrous dinner at the Astors’ flooded her brain, and suddenly Beatrice found her breath trapped in her lungs and she couldn’t exhale.

“You’re unwell,” the gentleman said.

A stone bench stood in the hallway, and he motioned for her to sit. They were alone and unchaperoned. If they were discovered, this would be her undoing, but as the corridor began to grow hazy around the edges, she had little choice but to sit and risk public ridicule.

“Just breathe, Miss . . .”

“Holbrook,” she managed to supply as she expelled the stale air in her lungs and exchanged it for fresh. If she was going to be the laughingstock of London because of this man and be forced to return to New York in disgrace, he might as well know her name.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked, though he seemed relieved that she was able to speak.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

It was a lie. She knew exactly what had caused her to panic, and the fear of being cast out of London as well as New York had been too much to bear. Where else was left? Paris? She could hardly imagine charming the French elite with her schoolroom French.

“I’d wager you have a war wound yourself,” he said, wobbling his cane.

“War wound?” She stared at the patterns made by the veins in the marble floor to steady herself.

“India,” he said by way of explanation. The rebellion. She’d read about it in

 the papers, but it seemed like such a far-flung thing she hadn’t paid it much heed. “I expect you didn’t have to go so far.”

“New York. Caroline Astor’s dining room.”

“I’ll take India any time over that viper’s nest.” His lips pulled up at the corners.

“You have the measure of it then,” she said, weakly able to return the smile.

“I’m so sorry I’ve dredged up bad memories for you. I feel like a cad.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Beatrice said, grateful that the room was finally coming back into focus. “It was an accident.”

“Accidents have a nasty way of haunting a person. But I am glad you’re willing to overlook it.”

Beatrice nodded. She’d been away and unchaperoned for quite some time now and had regained enough control over herself to know how serious her absence was.

“I need to get back before I’m missed,” she said. “Lady Millbourne is probably frantic already.”

“Yes, yes. Let’s see you cleaned up first though. It won’t take but a moment.” He led her to the servants’ hall with the familiarity of one who knew the house. Or perhaps one who knew all great houses. “And then if your absence is noticed, a maid will vouch for us if anyone thinks we’ve been up to mischief.”

Beatrice’s stomach sank. If anyone noticed she was missing and pressed the matter, she might already be ruined.

When they reached the servants’ hall, every staff member immediately stood still upon seeing them. “You’ll excuse us, but Miss Holbrook here has been the victim of my clumsiness.” He addressed the room full of black-clad servants who were all standing with drink trays or awaiting their next orders, depending on their function in the household. “Would one of you be so kind as to help us?”

A maid whisked her away, blotting the stain with instructions to have a maid wash it with a mixture of vinegar, lemon juice, and water later that night. The maid didn’t want to send a guest out onto the dance floor smelling of salad dressing, and Beatrice was grateful for the forethought. Within minutes Beatrice was fit to be seen in public again. She thanked the maid profusely and wondered where she’d learned her trade so expertly.

“You look right as rain.” The gentleman glanced at Beatrice’s gown when she returned. “Let me escort you back.”

Beatrice nodded and accepted his arm. He led her back to the ballroom, looking as though he were searching for words but could find none.

“There you are, Miss Holbrook!” Lady Millbourne said. “I couldn’t imagine where you’d gotten to.”

“The fault is mine, Lady Millbourne. I’m sorry I deprived you of your guest."

 The gentleman bowed and departed before she could speak.

“What on earth were you doing with Lord Alnwick?” Lady Millbourne asked.

“Lord Alnwick?” Beatrice wrinkled her brow. “He didn’t even introduce himself.”

“I’m not terribly surprised. He’s not known for being particularly ebullient. I’m surprised he’s here, to be honest with you. He’s Charles Alnwick, styled Earl Alnwick, the future Marquess of Northridge,” she confirmed. “You address him as Lord Alnwick. Aside from the prince, there isn’t a soul here with a title to match his.”

Beatrice’s eyes scanned the dance floor for him and did not find him. Lady Millbourne noticed Beatrice’s gaze and clucked, “It’s a shame he’s so aloof.”

“Aloof?” He’d seemed uncommonly kind, if a bit reserved. One of the more amiable people she’d met since arriving in London.

“Some unpleasant rumors too. I wouldn’t set my sights on him if I were you.”

“As you say,” Beatrice assured her. But there was something unforthcoming about the way Lady Millbourne spoke that betrayed there was a great deal she wasn’t revealing.

Chapter 3

~Rule No. 3~

Never be afraid to accept a larger role. You can learn the lines as you go.

“It seems you were quite the success, kitten,” Daddy said as he glanced over the society column at breakfast three days later. “You were mentioned prominently and several times. Very well done.”

“Indeed.” Mama placed her teacup crisply on its saucer. “The party went off well enough for you. Now if only the next encounter with your Baron Chatsworth is productive, we may have made some real progress. ...