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all but one of my mourning clothes to Bess.”

      Her mother’s maid? “Why?”

      “She found a buyer over on Tremont Street. An actress from Chickering Hall, in fact, who approached me last week, saying my mourning outfits would add to an upcoming play. Can you imagine the cheek of that woman? I brushed her off at the time, but after I saw Mr. Lacewood, well, I sent Bess to see her...”

      Victoria struggled to follow her mother’s words. Mr. Lacewood had been her stepfather’s solicitor, but what did he have to do with her mother’s mourning outfits?

      “...and she was able to get a pretty penny for them. Naturally, I retained this old thing for when I’m at home and one good one for—”

      “Why on earth did you sell your mourning clothes?” Victoria interrupted, all the while trying to refrain from gaping unbecomingly at her mother.

      “Do not interrupt. It’s terribly ill-mannered.” Abigail blinked before finishing her tale. “As for why, well, I did it for a train ticket!”

      “Where are we going?”

      Her mother looked away. “Not we, Victoria. Me. I’m going down to the Carolinas to stay with your aunt Eugenia until this dreadful mess blows over.”

      Victoria wanted to remind her mother that the “dreadful mess” was her second husband’s recent suicide. But since the marriage hadn’t been a happy union, what else would her mother call it?

      Still, something else was terribly wrong. Her mother had never been a loving woman who’d defend her only child to the death, but would she really abandon her own daughter? Would she plan her departure even before Charles was cold in the ground? Yes, Boston was talking about his suicide, and yes, Victoria had yet to shed a tear for the oily character, but his death was hardly a “dreadful mess.”

      Victoria moved to sit down beside her mother, her back straight, thanks to her corset, and her expression as firm as the bustle that she’d pulled up behind her. “I want the truth, Mother. You’ve just told me we’re broke and that you’re leaving. I know you met with Mr. Lacewood this morning about Charles’s affairs. And this?” She flicked at her mother’s skirt, receiving in return a sharp glare. “I can’t believe you still have this, let alone have it on. Now, Mother, it’s time for the whole truth. Every last detail.”

      Though Victoria was only twenty, she had inherited her father’s sensibilities instead of her mother’s shallow neediness. She loved her mother but couldn’t deny that the woman who’d given birth to her was not known for her warmth and compassion.

      Her mother edged away. “Charles had some heavy gambling debts. Ones that must be paid.”

      “Gambling debts! Why must they be paid if Charles commit—” She cut off her own words. No need to constantly repeat the words that were the unfortunate reality.

      Abigail’s voice fell to a whisper. “I gave him control over your estate. I’d given him everything. It isn’t good form for a woman to deal with finances and we both know that Charles proved me wrong whenever I made a suggestion about money.”

      Victoria wanted to interject that apparently Charles was the one who was proved wrong in the end, but the bitter comment lodged in her throat. There was no good reason to point out the obvious, and Mother was shamed enough.

      “Charles said that profit could be made with the right investments.” Abigail’s voice hitched as she continued, “A month ago, he promised me we would see changes in the investments. Only then did I suspect what type of ‘investments’ they really were.”

      Victoria gasped. “What were they?”

      “He was gambling. Heavily, I’m afraid.” Abigail’s chin wrinkled, her cheeks flamed. “Mr. Lacewood said, considering how he’d spent more than we owned, the best thing would be to liquidate the estate.”

      “Whose estate?”

      Her mother said nothing.

      Victoria smacked the settee beside her, causing the older woman to jump. “Mine! Given to me by my father for my future! Wasted because you think it unseemly for a woman to handle her own finances! Mother, how could you?”

      “I had no idea he was gambling!”

      With an unfeminine snort, Victoria stormed to the window and shoved open the curtains to let in the weakening October sun. While in mourning, one kept the draperies closed, but Victoria couldn’t stand the dimness.

      Then remembering that a good deal of the fine local population strolled past at this time of the day, she hastily yanked the drapes back together. Best not to appear unseemly. The black wreath on the front door of their Federal-style town house had limited their visitors. And thankfully, her mother had insisted on a small funeral. Just as well, considering the cause of death. Suddenly the white crepe at the neck of Victoria’s black dress all but choked her. Oh, she couldn’t wait to be free of this thing! Surely six months of mourning a thief was overdone.

      A thief! She spun and pushed her hands against her hips. “Now we have nothing?”

      Abigail sniffed. “I was as shocked as you are.”

      “So shocked he stole from us that you came home and sold all of your mourning outfits for a train ticket south.”

      “Not all of them and don’t make it sound so horrible, please. I saved one good outfit for when I travel.”

      “First class, I assume.”

      At the acid tone, Abigail bit her lip, but didn’t look up. “I can’t be seen traveling second class out of Boston. Please don’t make a fuss, Victoria. This house and the summer home in Portland will be put up for sale immediately.” Abigail finally looked up with a hollow expression. “And please don’t solicit your friends for money. Allow me to leave Boston gracefully. I need to be gone before the ad is published.”

      “What about Francis? He could help, surely?”

      Abigail shook her head. “No. You two weren’t engaged yet. Charles had promised he would make the arrangements, but he didn’t and I dare not ask now. Francis’s father doesn’t tolerate this kind of disgrace. He’s a Brahmin, after all.” She let out a shaky sigh. “We’ll never be able to secure a decent marriage for you here.”

      Victoria blinked. It had been her hope to marry into Boston’s highest class. Surely Francis would help; after all, their families had been considering a marriage between them. But even as she thought that, she knew the truth. Dutiful Francis would want nothing except to maintain propriety. He’d told Victoria decency and honor were values on which the United States were built. To discard them would be discarding all patriotism.

      “What am I to do, Mother?” Victoria asked quietly. “Have you given any thought to me?”

      Abigail’s expression softened and she leaned forward, all the while patting the space beside her on the settee. Victoria refused to comply. “My dear, if I could take you, I would. But Eugenia is trying to find good matches for your unruly cousins. Each is bent on having a career first, then after that, choosing their own husband.”

      “That’s not a new idea, Mother.”

      “At least you were going to allow us to arrange your marriage.”

      Of course. Why wouldn’t she? The men in the circles Victoria frequented were wealthy, Brahmin men with long, drawling accents and Old World charm. Who wouldn’t want to marry into that lifestyle? Victoria knew little of her cousins, but she could read the writing on the wall here. Aunt Eugenia was afraid of competition. And her mother would never risk her invitation by arriving with Victoria.

      She swallowed. Dear Lord in heaven, what am I to do? Then she asked her mother in a quiet, wobbly voice, “When do you leave?”

      Abigail stood. “This coming Saturday.”

      Three days hence, for it was Wednesday today. “And

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