A Lady’s Rival to Romance (Preview)

Prologue

The drawing room in Lady Wrentham’s townhouse was a portrait of genteel abundance. Tall windows, dressed in muslin and heavy brocade, admitted a gray light that fell softly upon a carpet of deep pattern. A pair of gilded mirrors reflected the women and their finery until the room seemed doubled. There were porcelain vases on either side of the chimneypiece that held late roses, their scent faint but persistent. The furniture had the neatness of a room clearly kept for company. There was a settee upholstered in faded blue, chairs with cane backs, and a small table bearing a silver tea service and a tidied pile of scented paper. On the mantel stood a clock on which the hands marched with dutiful precision, as though time itself observed the social hours with scrupulous care.

“Theodore Loxley has gone,” Lady Albright said as she leaned forward in her chair with the eagerness of one who considered every conversation an opportunity. “Apparently, he left in such haste that the servants were still unsettled.”

Miss Amelia Trent, a golden-haired, count’s daughter who never failed to believe that the last word of a story was her due, sat primly holding her fan like an epistle.

“Left for the Americas, I am told,” Miss Trent said. “By the packet ship that lies in the river now.”

“I ought to be sorry for Persephone,” Mrs. Cavendish said in a tone that clearly invited other women to agree. She occupied the settee with a small air of injured propriety. “An engagement so abruptly broken. One cannot help but consider how it will reflect upon her family.”

“It will reflect more severely upon his,” said Miss Eliza Smythe, fuller-figured than Miss Trent and dark hair and eyed, correcting the older woman with cultivated severity. “A Loxley who absconds is a scandal that no peerage can easily shrug off.”

“They say he took the passage at midnight,” Lady Wrentham said, noisily smoothing her silk skirts with attentive gravity. Lady Wrentham, whose name was on every card and whose roof sheltered many of the county’s most fastidious, presided at the center of the company. She was a woman of moderate years, with a countenance that betrayed the habit of receiving intelligence as an occupation. “A gentleman of his rank to depart thus without due notice suggests a matter of urgency or of distress.”

“Or of pecuniary embarrassment,” Mrs. Delamere said. She was wont to make money the root or effect of everything, and this was to be no exception. “There is much commerce in rumor concerning debts and foreign ventures. The Americas are a convenient place to hide from creditors.”

There was a pause for murmuring as some of the women pondered the validity of such a claim.

“Surely, you do not suppose the duke would allow his heir to flee for want of money?” Mrs. Cavendish asked with apparent naivety.

There was another pause as the women’s reflections exchanged glances.

“It is not the duke whom one must consider,” Lady Albright said. “It is the sort of repute that spreads. If he is seen to be rash, to be in flight, reports will take many shapes.”

“Have you heard anything of Persephone herself?” Lady Davenant asked, addressing the question to the company as though the particulars of Persephone’s behavior might alter the moral calculus entirely.

“She remains in town,” Miss Trent said. “Her mother is at her side. They maintain their appearance with commendable firmness.”

And you know this for a fact, I suppose? A lone figure shifted in their seat in the room, but no one seemed to notice.

“I saw her at the opera last week,” Miss Smythe said. “She wore a black silk and did not seem distracted. Yet there was an odd set to her mouth that suggested inward strain.”

The women began muttering again, their soft-spoken speculations overlapping one another.

“She has been a most dutiful daughter,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “Her compliance in the matters of family cannot be doubted. It is known she consented to the engagement for reasons of advantage rather than of the heart.”

“That is so often the case,” said Miss Smythe. “We in this room have all exchanged on that subject, I dare affirm.”

“It is not for any speculated reason for the betrothal dissolution that I pity her,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “A woman whose name is the subject of conjecture suffers in reputation, whatever benefit might follow in private feeling.”

“Think of the invitations withdrawn,” Miss Smythe said with a small laugh.

“Think of the things people will whisper about Lady Persephone,” she said. “Many will wonder what about a woman could cause such a quiet, messy departure.”

There was a longer cessation of conversation, silent except for the shifting of some of the women in their seats with tangible discomfort. As much as they enjoyed gossip, it seemed that none of them were willing to add speculation to that particular theory until someone else did.

“They will say he sailed for adventure,” Mrs. Delamere said at last. “That the New World drew him with its promise. There will be those who will find heroism in his flight.”

“There will be those who will say he is a coward,” Miss Trent said. “He left without explanation, thus rumors of desertion will follow, and they will have their mouths full.”

“It is the silence that invites severity,” Lady Wrentham said, folding her gloves and considering the company. “Had a letter been left, had some formal notice been published, the world would have words to keep itself busy. It is the gap that society fills.”

“The Fairbornes will be the subject of much observation,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “Lady Fairborne will have to show proper composure. She will be compelled to decline invitations and to maintain an air of impeccable sorrow.”

Funny that you think you know what a family apart from your own will have to do…

“It will not end with the family,” Miss Trent said. “Houses will be shut against them in certain circles. The army of etiquette is swift.”

“I saw in the paper this morning a mention of a ‘sudden change of plan,’” Lady Albright added. “They take care to use neutral phrases, and yet neutral phrases are most dangerous.”

“Poor Persephone,” whispered Miss Trent      with a softness that suggested an attempt at sympathy.

“Poor for what?” Miss Smythe asked with a soft scoff. “She will be free of an obligation she apparently never desired. She will not be bound to a man whom she did not love.”

Poor Persephone, you say… and yet you speak as if this brings you nothing but joy…

“It is not only the matter of love,” Mrs. Cavendish said thoughtfully. “It is the disadvantage that a scandal presents in a country accustomed to neat arrangements. A misapprehension spreads, and the consequences multiply.”

“And what of Lord Loxley?” Mrs. Delamere asked. “He must bear the brunt of this. To leave as he has is to cast a shadow across all who know him.”

“They say he was seen early, his face pale, and his servant with a cloak over a package,” Miss Trent said, as if the retelling of events that were not confirmed facts might add precision to the moral judgment.

“A fatal haste is seldom well-counseled,” Lady Wrentham said, and in that tone, she implied that haste itself carried guilt.

“So many conjectures,” Mrs. Cavendish said with a sigh. “So little proof. Yet the society of London will have its opinion within the hour.”

“And the Americas will be his refuge or his ruin,” Miss Smythe said with a certain theatricality. “They will make him a figure of romance or of disgrace according to the temper of anecdote.”

The talk continued in this strain until the tea was cold, and the silver tray nearly emptied. Each conjecture found a listener and each listener found a new conjecture to nourish. They shaped Theodore Loxley into various figures; from the gallant to the profligate, to the coward, and to the adventurer. They shaped his abandoned fiancée into the passive object of fate or into the cunning architect of her own escape. The room hummed with the activity of minds that practiced on scandal as a means of passing an hour with purpose.

The women chattered on, none of them suspecting that the subject of their words sat near, her face half shaded beneath the hood of a dark cloak. She had entered with the rest, taken a place by the drapery, and there held herself in reserve. Lady Persephone Fairborne listened as her peers spoke of her as if she were some abstraction, a pair of initials, or a sensation that affected the day. She listened with the discretion of one who has observed that the noise of society is sometimes necessary to reveal its nature.

Percy, as she was called by those who knew her best, kept her head turned from the circle. The hood of her cloak concealed the pale profile that might have given the women pause. Her mother had insisted that she begin attending tea parties again to avoid adding spinster hermit to her reputation, yet now she sat in the midst of the exact situation she had sought to avoid. In that posture she became, for the moment, invisible to the ladies who had come prepared to pass judgement and to pass the sugar plate in civilized sequence. They continued as if they were alone in a world of their own making, and the threads of their words fell about her like leaves before an untroubled pool. Perhaps she was an interloper in a place where no one even noticed the silent cloaked woman sitting alone and not speaking. Perhaps it was her eavesdropping that was the crime. Yet she sat listening with a bitter-tinged fascination as she witnessed the birth of fresh gossip right before her eyes.

She heard every woman speaking distinctly. Each syllable entered her understanding with the clarity of instruction. They spoke of Theodore with a mixture of censure and speculation. They spoke of herself with the politeness of people who were convinced that compassion may be traded for the intrigue of an anecdote. She heard the most charitable among them justify his absence as a liberation and the most severe attribute to it an act of shame. She heard suggestions that she had accepted the match out of duty and nothing more. She heard that she would be forced from assemblies. She heard the inferential warnings about invitations curtailed, about the effect upon her mother’s prospects, about the awkwardness of Sunday pews and the small cruelties of acquaintance.

As each observation reached her, she committed them to memory. None surprised her beyond the ordinary measure, for she had long since learned the ways in which society constructed and deconstructed its own narratives. She acknowledged in her mind the plausibility of each conjecture and the manner in which the world would rearrange itself to accommodate the story now in vogue. She felt no immediate urge to contradict them. Her silence was not borne of fear but of calculation and of the quiet that attends those who possess the knowledge of their own reason.

She thought, with a steadiness that surprised even herself, of the engagement and of its nature. Theodore had never been to her what a tender companion might be. He had been suitable in station and obedient to the demands of families. He had represented an advantage that weighed more heavily upon her than delight. She had accepted because compliance had been expected and because refusal would have wrought discomfort upon a house whose well-being mattered to her. In the small ledger of her decisions, she marked that acceptance as an account paid in the currency of duty.

When the news came that he had fled, there was a rush of relief so genuine that it seemed almost indecent to the lessons of her upbringing. Relief was a feeling dressed in private clothes; one was not accustomed to parade it in company. Yet she felt it plainly, an unclasping within her that allowed a breath to expand where it had been restrained. He had taken with him the prospect of a life that would have been convened from convenience. He had removed himself as a prospective obligation.

However, she was concerned as well. The scandal that trailed after him was not a thing contained to his person alone. The Fairbornes would be observed and judged. The Duke of Tremaine would be commented upon. She perceived, with the same practical mind that had governed her consent to the engagement, that the good name of those she loved might suffer because a man had abandoned his visible station. The world would create stories which necessitated detail—details that might wound the reputations of those who were innocent of any transgression. Thus, she remained, seated and silent, her face a crescent of calm in the shadows, while the room made her a subject and a spectacle in equal measure.

 

Chapter One

The Fairborne garden was lavishly filled with flowerbeds and trimmed borders arranged with a gentle, loving hand. Gravel paths traced pale lines between clusters of late summer blooms, and a low box hedge framed a small lawn whose greenery was steadfast rather than boastful. At its center, a stone sundial stood proudly, as if time itself might be coaxed into stillness beneath the sun. Beyond the garden wall, London’s rooftops and distant smoke lay muted, a reminder of the city’s hum that here sounded like someone else’s story. A rose-laden trellis leaned against the west wall, its scent drifting through open shutters to lend the house a quiet perfume of propriety.

Percy sat beneath the apple tree at the northern edge with a book open on her lap and a soft air of leisure around her. She wore a simple gown of summer muslin that fell to her ankles, designed for comfort rather than display. A tray of small apples sat beside her; crisp and pale, each quarter carefully pared and eaten with the courtesy her mother taught. In the ease of solitude, she read with steady focus, letting the words settle upon her mind. It had been two months since Theodore’s abrupt departure, and in that time, she had cultivated a calm that outlasted fleeting distractions. The whisper of scandal had brushed her like a wandering shadow, failing to mar her composure, despite the gossip she had overheard when Theodore had first left.

A light footstep on the gravel disturbed her peace. Callista appeared between the sundial and the rose trellis, her anxiety written upon her face. She wore a pink gown and moved with nervous haste, as though every pace risked unwanted notice.

“Percy,” she said without preamble, her voice catching in the warm air. “I am so very weary.”

Percy closed her book and offered her sister a seat beside her as well as one of her apples.

“You should not exhaust yourself on such warm days,” she said.

Callista huffed, shaking her head.

“I am not tired,” she said. “I am vexed.”

Percy nodded firmly.

“And vexation requires a cause,” she said, gesturing toward the empty seat on the bench again. After a pause, Callista accepted the apple and seated herself with careful courtesy, her earnest gaze almost comical in its intensity.

“People are treating me differently,” Callista said. “I pretend not to notice, but I cannot help it. And I cannot recall the last time Mother mentioned a ball I was invited to. Or you, for that matter.”

Persephone’s expression remained calm. 

“This will pass, Sister,” she said. “New entertainments will follow fresh fashions. It will not be long before no one knows anything except for how beautiful you are.”

Callista shook her head again, looking sullen.

“It is not that simple,” she said. “People love reasons for everything. They whisper in corners and at church. They hear I attend assemblies and then step away, as if my presence would stain them.”

Percy rubbed her sister’s arm gently, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Association does not alter your worth,” she said quietly.

Callista’s eyes brimmed with tears of frustration. 

“A whisper subtracts more than a dozen good qualities add,” she said. “It changes a gentleman’s glance, a mother’s approval, and the hopes of every matchmaking woman in town.”

Persephone gave a small, firm smile. 

“Then we shall provide many favorable particulars,” she said decisively. “You play the harp exquisitely. Mrs. Pelham will regret excluding you once your music graces her soirée. You study Italian, and you excel at needlework. Any man seeking a partner with talent and grace would be lucky to meet you.”

At this, her sister’s face softened. 

“You are the sister every young lady needs,” Callista said. “You make solutions seem effortless.”

Percy shrugged, though the kind compliment made her blush.

“Effortless, yes,” she said lightly. “Society’s attention is brief. There are enough trifles to occupy it. Remember Lady Lindstrom’s scandal? She was the town’s amusement until the Lord Mayor’s illness shifted eyes elsewhere. A new distraction always arrives.”

Callista bit her lip, but she nodded, albeit slowly.

“I hope you are right,” she said softly, biting into the apple with a more relaxed air.

Persephone tilted her head. 

“Did Sir Miles speak to you?” she asked.

Callista nodded, her expression turning from worried to sour, as if the apple she had just bitten was bitter on her tongue.

“He did,” she said, placing the apple aside. “He is awkward and pompous. I do not think him unkind, but… he made an elaborate address and waited for me to exclaim my gratitude, though I had no formed opinion.”

Percy giggled as her sister’s expression transformed into a sour grimace.

“Did he propose?” Percy asked.

Callista’s eyes widened.

“Did he propose?” Percy asked, teasing her sister.

Callista’s eyes widened.

“He certainly did not,” she said, glaring at her sister. “However, I am certain that he would have been delighted to propose to you, had he seen you.”

Percy rolled her eyes, her smile wilting.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” she said dryly.

Callista nodded, her nose wrinkling.

“You refused him once, I recall,” Callista said. 

Percy nodded, looking at her sister with wry bemusement.

“You are merciless in your memory,” Percy said.

Callista shrugged.

“How can I not be, when you went on about the proposal for a week?” she asked.

Percy gaped at her sister in mock horror, even though she recalled that week well.

“I just find it abysmal that he struts around like he is a grand treasure,” she said, her own expression twisting. “One would think he was doing me a favor by offering to take my hand, which was never offered to him.”

Callista rose and moved closer under the apple branches, as though seeking counsel. 

“You do not fear that you will not receive another proposal?” she asked.

Percy sighed. She did not care as much for the idea of marriage as her sister did. She certainly did not relish the thought of being wed to a pompous cad like Sir Miles. However, she knew that Callista’s prospects were at stake, and she did not want Callista to believe she did not care.

“Return to your music and needlework, Sister,” she said fondly. “Fret not about my future, and even less about yours. Let society’s whims pass. I will contrive enough company to reverse your arithmetic losses. I promise.”

Callista studied her, her eyes hardening.

“You speak as if you care little for this whole affair,” Callista said, half accusingly.

Percy looked at her sister with wounded eyes.

“I am not indifferent,” Persephone said. “I feel relief that duty has been lifted. I do not parade my contentment, but it is genuine. I was willing to be married. But I am truly not devastated that I am not.”

Callista studied her for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of her words.

“Did you ever love him?” Callista asked at last.

Persephone’s reserve flickered in her eyes. 

“No,” she said. “He was suitable and dutiful, but my heart was never engaged. I intended duty to guide our union, nothing more.”

Callista nodded, her brow furrowing.

“I thought, perhaps, that you might have felt something deeper, given how you once accepted,” she said.

Percy shrugged again.

“I accepted because it was prudent,” she said. “I had no dislike that warranted refusal for its own sake, but neither did my inclinations lean toward him.”

Callista sighed. 

“It seems a good fortune,” she said.

Percy nodded, smiling.

“It does,” she said. “More a release than a triumph.”

Callista was silent for another moment, but Percy could feel her sister’s question before it came.

“Will you be ashamed?” Callista asked.

Percy shook her head, bewildered.

“Why should I?” she asked. “A woman may be sought and refuse. She may refuse and still be regarded with respect. Family alliances are not always matters of the heart. I will conduct myself plainly and speak candidly if questioned. I will not accept shame that does not belong.”

Her sister nodded, mollified. They sat in comfortable silence, the apple tree’s shade patterning their hands. The day’s quiet gave even the memory of Theodore softened edges.

They had not been long in that repose when Eliza Fairborne appeared upon the gravel, her stately composure marking urgency. The Countess of Granby wore darker silk than her daughters, distinguished yet understated. A fine line at her mouth spoke of time’s severity, her eyes measured the air with economical motion.

“Mother,” Callista said, rising to greet their mother.

Percy followed suit, noting their mother’s strict expression.

“You will both come inside,” Lady Granby announced, her voice firm as judgment. “I must speak with you.”

They followed her across the threshold into the cool hush of the passage, where the servant lowered his gaze in shared gravity. The drawing room, though smaller than most in a city house, held the propriety expected of their name. Curtains were drawn to temper sunlight, preserving privacy as much as comfort.

Once seated, their mother removed her gloves and folded them with a slight tremor she strove to conceal. 

“There are letters,” she said, and the room seemed to pause at her words.

Callista took them hesitantly, flipping through them as her face grew increasingly pale.

“Declined invitations?” Callista asked, voice taut.

Their mother shook her head, her expression falling, matching her youngest daughter’s.

“Worse,” she said, letting the word linger. “Whispers have begun against your sister’s character. They claim Theodore’s withdrawal was not from the heart and that there are deficiencies requiring explanation.”

Persephone met the accusation with practiced calm. 

“His departure was his own,” she said. “He relieved me of a compact I never cherished. How does a private act stain my reputation?”

Their mother looked at her eldest daughter helplessly.

“Society makes private matters public,” their mother said. “Silence breeds conjecture. His manner of leaving invites suspicion. You must understand that these things are not trivial when they spread unchecked.”

Persephone nodded. 

“I will speak to whom I must,” she said. “I will be frank without embellishment. There is no reason why this should affect Callista, and I shall let everyone know that.”

Their mother sighed.

“Invitations are already rescinded,” she said, continuing “Lady Merton excludes you from the upcoming assembly. Mrs. Pelham’s entertainments have been advised against. A single apology cannot mend this.” She paused, her brow twitching. “There has been enough scandal and unpleasantness surrounding our family, even before this. Please, understand that there is far more at stake than your own future.”

Percy felt a chill, particularly at the mention of past ‘unpleasantness.’ She knew what her mother meant; it was the one thing no one spoke about anymore. Not even her family. But her situation with Theodore was different, was it not? She had believed absence alone would dissolve rumors. Now, she saw the gravest cost of Callista’s season and future. Why would people—some who did not even know Callista, be so quick to judge her without even knowing the facts?

“Why punish Callista?” she asked. “She is not of age to bear responsibility for my decisions.”

Their mother sighed again, shaking her head sadly.

“They hold her by family ties,” she said. “Mothers guard their sons carefully. They calculate prudence in companionship. Your sister’s prospects hang in the balance.”

Persephone thought swiftly. The scandal gathered momentum, which was the opposite of what she had expected. Something drastic would need to occur if there was to be any hope of helping Callista. 

“What do you propose?” Percy asked. “I cannot abase myself to elicit pity in place of dignity.”

Their mother nodded, though her expression lamented her eldest daughter’s determination.

“My remedies require discretion,” their mother said. “We must forge alliances that distract attention. Seek favors from those whose influence endures.”

Persephone weighed the plan as one might rearrange furniture for a better view. 

“You suggest influence and favor,” she said slowly. “Does that mean entreating patrons to restore Callista’s invitations?”

Their mother nodded, seemingly relieved that Percy understood.

“I will write to Lady Merton and Mrs. Pelham,” she said. “I will enlist Mrs. Davenport’s circle. We will remind them of our family’s standing and the proper conduct expected.”

Callista huffed.

“And if they refuse?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Their mother exhaled heavily.

“Then we require a public clearing,” she said. “Percy, you must attend Lord Ainsworth’s Matins in the third week. You will be accompanied by the right company. Your untroubled comportment will render gossip a poor substitute for your presence.”

Percy felt a prickle of reluctance at staging her own virtue, yet she measured Callista’s hopes against her own independence. 

“I will do as you advise,” Percy said. “I will be orderly, avoid any hint of weakness, and attend Lord Ainsworth’s morning with the names you select.”

Their mother’s gratitude was quiet but unmistakable. Persephone’s thoughts turned to Theodore Loxley. His flight had been a private relief. Yet now, it loomed as a public burden. She felt compassion for the reasons he left, the potentially unseen burdens that might deserve pity. 

“It is unfortunate,” Percy said softly. “I do not relish its effect on either family.”

Their mother gave her a sad smile.

“Kindness alone will not amend public opinion,” their mother said. “We move with readiness. I will summon Lady Davenport this afternoon and write to those whose opinions carry weight. We shall present your conduct as exemplary, treating the matter as a trifle rather than a scandal.”

Percy felt responsibility settle on her. She was the one who had been abandoned shy of her wedding, yet she was the one left clearing up misconceptions, without a clue as to why her betrothed had just vanished. She would present herself as she was, for her sister’s sake.

“What shall I say if questioned?” she asked. “Invent excuses? Confirm incompatibility?”

Their mother thought deeply for a moment.

“Speak truth within bounds,” she said. “Say he departed of his own accord for private reasons. Declare yourself unfree to offer particulars. Do not invite curiosity. Be firm and unaffected.”

Persephone nodded again, comforted by the clarity of measured honesty.

“And if rumors persist, we shall engage a gentleman to assert the departure was due to necessary business,” she said. “It will be a narrative of inconvenience, not impropriety.”

Percy imagined a well-placed gentleman dispelling scandal with a single authoritative phrase. She thought of Theodore and the weight of others’ choices. A small ache touched her, neither sorrow nor reproach, but rather the knowledge that decisions echo beyond their makers.

“I will do as you advise,” she said. “I will not be the cause of gossip’s life. I will remain calm and direct.”

Their mother’s face illuminated with her relief.

“That is all I ask,” she said. “Callista’s season must not be lost.”

Callista squeezed her mother’s hand with anxious hope. 

“We will do what is required,” she said.

Percy watched them plan, her mind arranging every detail with the good sense of her mother’s arithmetic and a private resolve. She would fulfill public duties that diverted attention, attend the houses that lent favor, speak with necessary firmness, and let her family’s reputation serve as the ledger of judgment.