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Penelope browbeating Papa again through their cracked bedroom door.
    Once more, it seemed Daphne’s refusal of Albert was the cause of their marital strife. She winced, knowing she had made her peaceable father’s life more difficult.
    â€œHonestly, George, you are too sentimental by half! When is she going to grow up? All little birdies have to leave the nest eventually!”
    â€œMy dear woman, why do you work yourself into these tizzies? You know that I require a tranquil household.”
    â€œOh, George, you’ve got to do something about her!”
    â€œDo what, dear?” he countered wearily.
    â€œFind the girl a husband! If you don’t, I will!”
    â€œYou already tried that, Pen. I don’t think it warrants a repeat,” he said archly.
    â€œWell, it will take a fearless gentleman indeed to brave her scorn after her latest refusal! That’s three suitors now she’s rejected!”
    Oh, you can’t even count those other two , Daphne thought with a scowl as she leaned quietly against the wall outside their bedroom—not eavesdropping, mind you, just waiting for the right moment to make her presence known.
    â€œGeorge, you’ve heard the talk. People are beginning to say she is a jilt.”
    â€œYou mustn’t listen to gossip, my dear. When the right fellow comes along, she’ll know. We all will know.”
    â€œI hope you’re right, or she is going to end up a spinster.”
    â€œNonsense. She is far too beautiful for that.”
    Oh, Papa . Daphne fought a smile and leaned her head against the wall, still grateful to him from the depths of her soul for not forcing her to marry Albert in spite of Penelope’s pressure.
    Penelope had all but accepted Albert’s offer on her behalf, but thankfully, Daphne’s frantic arguments over the match had roused her vague and distant papa from his waking slumber for once. At last, he had heard her plea not to be handed over to that spoiled cad.
    Good old George, Lord Starling, had ambled over to White’s, his club and second home whenever he needed to escape the drama of an all-female residence, and had quietly taken Lord Albert Carew’s measure for himself.
    Papa had returned promptly with his judgment. It was rare for him to make a show of strength, but when he did, he was as immovable as Gibraltar: “No. I will not have my daughter tied to that shallow, empty-headed coxcomb. I am sorry, Penelope. He will not do. Not for my little girl.”
    Daphne had been overjoyed, and had hugged her father tearfully. Having spoken, Papa retreated once more into his pleasant, unassailable fog.
    As for Penelope, losing her little game had sharpened her spite. To be sure, she had made her husband pay for it every day since then.
    â€œTry not to show so much favoritism, George,” she said in withering reproach. “My daughters might not be as pretty yet as your golden girl, but they will blossom in due course. Lud, you’re lucky you married me before you had spoiledDaphne entirely,” she added. “You already indulge her far too much as it is.”
    He does not . Glancing discreetly through the angle of the open door, she caught a glimpse of her stepmother pacing. Penelope Higgins Peckworth Starling was a woman of formidable energies, capable of doing many things at once.
    She was small and dark-haired, in her early fifties, but the strain of her existence as a navy wife before she had married Papa was written in the lines on her tense face, pursed mouth, and the excitable temper reflected in her always worried, darting eyes.
    Daphne often wondered if part of Captain Peckworth’s fighting spirit had remained behind in his widow, for she certainly ran a tight ship and loved giving orders, but one wrong word could flare up a war.
    Sometimes Daphne felt sorry for her, because it was plain that Penelope had never really settled into her new, vastly raised station as a