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“Beg pardon?”
    The marchioness cleared her throat, then motioned at her husband. “Your father has something to tell you.”
    Howard Carlisle shook his head. “This is not my idea. I’m here under protest.”
    “Howar—Fine. Fine.” Sending a scowl at her husband, the marchioness sat forward. “You know that your father and I settled in India with the idea of staying there, and that his position with the East India Company…benefited from his ability to gain the trust of the local citizenry.”
    “I know all that,” Sarala replied. “I certainly have no regrets about growing up in Delhi, if that’s what’s troubling you.”
    “It is. I —we—have regrets about the way we raised you in Delhi. As I was saying, we never expected to return to England, and so when your father insisted that we give you a native name, I didn’t object too strongly. Now, however, we are here, and you are an English marquis’s daughter. It’s not Indians whose trust and cooperation we need to cultivate any longer.”
    Deep worry burrowed into Sarala’s chest. This sounded more serious than the what-to-wear talk, or the how-to-be-demure lecture. “Yes?” she prompted after a moment.
    “We—that is, your father and I—have decided that in order to ease your path into proper London Society, you should be known by and referred to as Sarah, rather than Sarala.”
    Sarala’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?” she stammered, while her father pretended to be elsewhere.
    “Sarah is an English name. It will serve you well, and you’ll have an easier time making friends and meeting eligible young gentlem—”
    “You’re changing my name ?”
    “As I said, it’s better for y—”
    “This was the idea of those gossiping friends of yours, wasn’t it?”
    The marchioness put out a hand. “Please do not insult my friends. Think of it as everyone else does, Sarah. What’s the f—”
    “Sarala,” Sarala broke in.
    “Sarah,” her mother countered in an equally firm voice. “What’s the first thing everyone says when you’ve been introduced?”
    “Here? They comment on what a pretty and unusual name I have.”
    The marchioness gazed at her. “And then what? Why have you only danced a half-dozen times since we arrived here? Why haven’t you been invited out to tea or to go walking? Why don’t you have any friends in London?”
    “Mama, that’s not fair. We’ve been here less than a fortnight. Both you and Papa have friends from before you left London. I don’t.”
    “And you won’t, if the first impression everyone has of you is that you’re odd. It’s bad enough that your skin is so dark—I always said you should wear a bonnet and carry a parasol, and you never listened to me.”
    Obviously her mother had made up her mind. Sarala turned to her father. “Papa, you can’t be seriously considering this. It’s absurd. You named me Sarala.”
    The marquis shifted. “Consider that we’re only shortening your name. Sarah can be your pet name, except that it’s how everyone will know you. I know it’s a difficult thing, but in this instance I do think your mother has the right of it.”
    Sarala backed to the doorway, feeling as though someone had drugged her and spun her into some outlandish nightmare. “I like my name. I’ve had it for two-and-twenty years. I’m not giving it back.”
    “You’re going to have to, Sarah. We haven’t made this decision lightly. You will have to, unless you want to be miserable here in England. And there must be other changes, as well. I’ve already discussed your wardrobe with your maid, and don’t think your father and I didn’t notice that paint on your face night before last.”
    “It’s fashionable in Delhi.”
    “For the last time, Sarah, we are not in Delhi any longer! And we never will be again, unless you marry some peer who wants to make his living there. When you return, then you may change your name back, but not until then.”
    “I cannot believe you