As twilight descended, the men who had gone hunting returned to the manor, each carrying their spoils.

Gentlemen and ladies, dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns, gathered in the drawing room after a sumptuous dinner. They mingled in small groups, sipping wine, engaging in card games, and enjoying piano performances, savoring a leisurely evening.

Miss Dora Lance sat alone in a corner.

Her friends had retreated to the billiard room to bond over their shared Orson lineage, leaving her by herself. Normally, being isolated at such gatherings would have been unbearable, but tonight, she found her solitude oddly comforting.

Since their walk through the long gallery, her friends had begun to seriously suspect a connection between two individuals. If feelings were indeed developing between Mr. Ian Dalton and Miss Laura Pendleton, it would be a grave matter. It would mean her friend’s prospective suitor was being stolen by an insignificant, illegitimate spinster.

Miss Lance coldly dismissed their concerns and forbade them from speaking of it. The two ladies obeyed their queen’s command, but Miss Lance knew. At this moment, they were likely pacing around the billiard table, cue sticks in hand, freely speculating about the very things they had restrained themselves from saying in her presence.

Seated in a secluded spot behind the curtains, Miss Lance leaned deeper into the sofa. Her gaze fixed intensely on a woman she had been observing for some time.

Miss Laura Pendleton wore a blue evening gown, as light and pure as a piece of autumn sky woven into fabric. Large sapphire earrings adorned her ears, and a diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist.

She conversed with an easy grace, smiling at those who approached her, occasionally glancing around the drawing room to ensure the wine was replenished, no one was bored, and the servants were performing their duties.

Miss Lance’s eyes shifted to a gentleman standing by the window. Leaning against the wall in a tuxedo, surrounded by young men, was the man she had dreamed of reuniting with for months—her prince, Mr. Ian Dalton.

As he spoke with the gentlemen, his gaze occasionally drifted across the room to Miss Pendleton, who stood with her back to him. Each time he looked at her, a faint smile crossed his lips.

Miss Lance’s heart sank deeper with every moment.

Soon, Miss Pendleton excused herself from her conversation and approached the servants, issuing quick instructions. The servants bowed slightly and hurried out. Shortly after, an impromptu stage was set up in the drawing room.

Guests, who had begun to grow slightly bored as the evening dragged on without events, gathered around the stage. A game of charades soon began.

Miss Lance lowered her eyes. Everything reinforced a growing certainty in her mind. Miss Pendleton was acting as the mistress of this household. And that authority, no doubt, had been granted by Mr. Dalton—along with his mother’s dress.

How?

Miss Lance had a vague understanding of their relationship. There had been signs of friendship blossoming into affection. But when Miss Pendleton’s origins were revealed, Mr. Dalton had abandoned her.

Afterward, Miss Pendleton was cast out by her family and soon employed as a governess for the Fairfax household. Hearing the rumors, Miss Lance had assumed Mr. Dalton, out of guilt for abandoning her, had arranged the position. It was the kind of noble, warm-hearted gesture she expected from him.

Yet now, Miss Pendleton stood in Mr. Dalton’s home, wearing his mother’s dress and adorned with lavish jewelry, playing the role of hostess. Miss Lance struggled to make sense of it.

Perhaps he had merely asked for her help in entertaining the guests. But if so, it would have been proper for her to assist behind the scenes, not to parade herself at such an event in her current station.

Was it because she was the daughter of his childhood tutor, and he wished to show her kindness? Then Miss Pendleton should have refused. No matter their past connection, it was utterly inappropriate for her to assume such a role, dressed so extravagantly, as if she belonged.

Observing Miss Pendleton’s natural demeanor, Miss Lance grew suspicious of the confidence it concealed. That suspicion, allied with jealousy, gave rise to a startling theory.

Could it be… could Miss Pendleton have become Mr. Dalton’s mistress?

It was entirely plausible. Such things were not uncommon in London’s high society. Noblemen often brought their mistresses to social events, even inviting friends to households where their paramours played hostess. It was immoral, but so frequent among the elite that society turned a blind eye.

No, surely not Mr. Dalton and Miss Pendleton! How could a man as honorable and gentlemanly as Mr. Dalton, and a woman as good and upright as Miss Pendleton, stoop to such a thing?

Miss Lance tried to dismiss the thought, but no other rational explanation presented itself. In her worldview, a man like Mr. Dalton could never intend to marry someone like Miss Pendleton.

Oh, to think Mr. Dalton could be so depraved. To take advantage of Miss Pendleton’s vulnerable position and toy with her. Unwilling to marry her, yet desiring her body… and so, luring her into his bedchamber!

Miss Lance felt a wave of horror. Despair mingled with a burning jealousy that seared her heart.

Her idealized image of Mr. Dalton dimmed slightly. He was immoral. He had done what no gentleman should.

Yet, her resentment kept turning toward Miss Pendleton.

Glaring at Miss Pendleton, who smiled on the stage where the charades game was in full swing, Miss Lance’s thoughts raced.

How could someone worldly enough to know better fall into such a trap? How could she crumble so easily under Mr. Dalton’s temptation? Doesn’t she realize that in these situations, the woman always suffers the greater loss?

Miss Lance’s chest tightened with pity and contempt.

Did he promise to marry her? Or perhaps offer financial support, as lovers often do? Whatever the temptation, Miss Pendleton should have resisted. The moment he made his advances, she should have packed her bags and left. To think a woman once called a lady would enter such a scandalous arrangement. Her reputation as a woman is ruined!

Miss Lance thought of Miss Pendleton’s mother—a tragic earl’s daughter who, at seventeen, left home, bore a child out of wedlock, and died. What cruel fate, that her daughter seemed doomed to repeat her life.

What if she becomes pregnant?

The thought sent a chill through Miss Lance’s body. She might even end up raising Miss Pendleton’s illegitimate child!

Such things were common in society. Wives often raised their husbands’ illegitimate offspring, praised for their virtue. But no woman wished to display her goodness in such a way. An illegitimate child was, frankly, an enemy one might wish to drown.

Miss Lance’s suspicious gaze fixed on Miss Pendleton’s waistline. Though still slender and graceful, it might already conceal Mr. Dalton’s child.

No. Absolutely not.

Miss Lance clenched her fists. For the sake of a stable marriage with Mr. Dalton, she had to intervene. This immoral relationship must end, and each must go their separate way.

If Mr. Dalton proposed soon, she could confront Miss Pendleton openly. But her position was still too precarious. Moreover, Miss Pendleton was under the protection of a powerful Yorkshire family, making reckless action risky.

After some deliberation, Miss Lance decided to handle the matter as Miss Pendleton had once advised her—with subtle hints to point out her recklessness.

As the night deepened, the guests dispersed. Mr. Dalton approached Miss Pendleton, and they began conversing.

Miss Lance rose from the sofa and walked toward them.

As she neared, she overheard their hushed discussion about tomorrow’s schedule. The sight of them standing together, so well-matched, made her blood boil.

At the sound of her approach, their conversation paused.

“Miss Lance, it’s been a while. We haven’t had a proper chance to talk tonight,” Miss Pendleton said kindly.

Miss Lance responded with mechanical politeness, hiding the anger simmering within, especially in Mr. Dalton’s presence.

“Miss Pendleton—or rather, Miss Sheldon—it’s so good to see you after so long. Shall we catch up over a stroll on the veranda, gazing at the stars?”

Miss Pendleton looked puzzled. They weren’t close enough to seek each other out for private chats. Still, she nodded amiably.

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening,” Mr. Dalton said tactfully, bowing before leaving the drawing room.

The two women walked toward the open veranda.

The cool early autumn air made both ladies shiver. Their dresses, with shoulders and upper chests exposed, left their skin vulnerable to the night’s chill.

Miss Pendleton excused herself briefly, returning with two cozy shawls in hand.

“Just in case any lady feels the cold, I had these prepared. Please, take one, Miss Lance.”

Miss Lance’s scornful glare softened. Miss Pendleton was a kind person. She had been in London, and she was here, too.

Perhaps her fall was due to that very kindness. Unable to refuse Mr. Dalton’s desires, she had been drawn into his grasp.

Miss Lance began speaking in a tone far gentler than she had planned.

“Your sudden disappearance from London surprised me. Leaving without a goodbye—how heartless.”

“Please forgive me. Circumstances unfolded so quickly, I had no time to look back.”

“How is life here?”

A sincere conversation about rural life followed. But Miss Lance was determined to read between the lines, convinced that hints of a romance with Mr. Dalton were woven into Miss Pendleton’s words.