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husband in the same way she chose all her accouterments. It had taken a long time to find her perfect object. She was twenty-five years old. Every year the competition was fiercer, her rivals younger, richer, nicer. This year more than ever, she needed a propitious match.
    Bad luck at the gaming tables was a common disaster. No shame there, of course, but the debts coupled with her dwindling personal assets had affected her self-confidence. She would bring only beauty and connections to a marriage, and one of those was not secure.
    In the last year, she’d watched her skin lose youth’s freshness. Her hair had dulled, and there seemed to be less of it. Whether her mouth smiled or frowned, her eyes always showed the same flat expression. Her appearance benefited greatly by the quality of her garments.
    The great mark of her fading bloom was the number of her would-be lovers. This year had brought only one proposal—the one she received every year from Millie.
    In August she’d accepted his invitation to the country, resigned to accept him at last, when everything changed. Lady Whitley told her about the young foreigner also visiting Millam Hall, Mr. Leopold Singer from Austria, here to attend Oxford—or was it Cambridge? His family had a fortune but no title; he was a ripe plum. She resolved to pick that plum the moment she saw him.
    A shock of pleasure had shot through her. He was simply lovely. Muscular and earthy brown in contrast to the refined pretty pastel creatures she was used to. To give that man children would be no sacrifice. He’d left Millam Hall before she could secure him, but no matter. Tonight, she’d maneuver Mr. Singer into her net. He wouldn’t turn her down any more than a dressmaker would turn down her custom.
    Still. He’d snubbed her own late supper last night, and after she’d invited him particularly. Lady Delia was always honest with herself, if no one else. This seduction was not going well.
    “I’ve discovered the root of your Austrian problem, D.” Delia’s friend Sir Carey Asher offered his arm to walk her in to dinner.
    “Whatever can you mean, m’dear?” she said, she knew exactly what he meant.
    “Apparently the object of your affection prefers to dip his oar in less exalted waters.” Sir Carey nodded toward one of Millie’s servants speaking with the butler at the door.
    Miss Gray. Delia knew her name. She wasn’t even the head housekeeper, but she carried herself in a manner above her class. She shot an angry glance toward Mr. Singer, across from Delia and down the table. He saw and answered with an apologetic expression, following her fondly with his eyes as she left the room.
    Sir Carey was right; something was going on between the two. She was neither young nor pretty. It was vaguely humiliating.
    “But surely that,” Sir Carey purred, “presents no great obstacle.”
    Lady Delia was not so confident. She lifted her glass to Mr. Singer. He returned the gesture politely but without enthusiasm.
    She hated him then. She saw him with new eyes. He was one of those horrible idealistic young men of the bourgeoisie, likely a republican, noble in character all out of proportion to his station. Were he fool enough to fall in love with a servant, he might accord to her honors of a lady—even the unthinkable, marriage. You couldn’t count on a foreigner to know what isn’t done.
    “Dear D,” Sir Carey said. “I don’t know why you won’t have me instead of that earnest fellow. He could never appreciate you.”
    “You don’t like me all that well,” she said. “Anyway, neither of us can afford the other.” She wondered if there would be cards later, and if she might risk a hand or two.
    ***
     
    Susan Gray went down the servants’ stairs, trying to calm her nerves. She never should have gone upstairs during the duke’s supper. There was no call for her to be there. She just wanted a glimpse of Leopold Singer. It had only brought her grief.
    He’d followed her