Chapter 1

When someone drops a pearl in your palm, make a fist.

London, the last decade of Victoria’s reign

“But how can I?” Lady Agatha Whyte asked Henri Arnoux in a hushed undertone, painfully aware of the other passengers waiting in the lobby to board trains. “The Bigglesworths are depending on me. They fear that unless they make some sort of statement with the wedding ceremony and postnuptial celebration, the Marquis of Cotton’s family will never accept young Miss Bigglesworth as their equal, and she will be forever marked as socially inferior to her new in-laws.”

“But, how is this your problem, my dear, my darling, Lady Agatha?” M. Arnoux begged in his wonderful French accent.

Lady Agatha stared at him helplessly, trying to think of some way in which to phrase her unique position, and subsequent power, in Society. It would be immodest to call attention to her undoubted influence, but she had to make him understand just how important her services could be ... couldn’t they?

Perhaps she was deluding herself, she thought in alarm, and what influence she had was not as extensive as she herself had been led to believe.

“The Bigglesworths are convinced only the cachet of my involvement will gain Miss Angela entrée into Society. Indeed,” she said apologetically, “they say the only reason Society will venture to so remote and provincial a place as Little Bidewell is because I will have planned the postmatrimonial celebration. As I did for your daughter, sir.” She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. How many years had it been since she’d blushed?

“And a lovely celebration it wa...