LITMIR.BIZ

       For Katharine who asked, begged and otherwise pleaded. Being an author’s daughter can have its advantages … even if you still die of embarrassment when I go looking for my books in a bookshop.

Chapter One

       May 1852—Newcastle upon Tyne

      Why was it that some men only understood the application of a frying pan to the head? And why was it that one often met such men at balls when all one could carry in one’s reticule was a hair pin?

      Sophie Ravel glared at Sir Vincent Putney and took a step backwards, narrowly avoiding his outstretched hand. Perhaps this contrived confrontation of Sir Vincent Putney in a deserted conservatory was not one of her better ideas, but Sophie knew it was the only way to help one of her oldest friends avoid a fate worse than death. Tonight was the final opportunity to carry out her scheme and prevent Cynthia from being sacrificed on the altar of her parents’ ambition.

      ‘Not one step further, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie raised her reticule, ready to swat his hand away.

      ‘I have no desire to see you fall, Miss Ravel.’ The oily voice grated over her nerves. ‘I know how precious you are to my dear Miss Johnson. She sang your praises for weeks before we journeyed to Newcastle. Will Miss Johnson be joining us in the conservatory? Is that what she meant by a surprise?’

      Sophie’s eyes flew to the door. She’d been meticulous in her planning. Every eventuality covered, every solitary one except the one actually unfolding.

      She should know the answer to the question, but her mind was a blank. She hated lying; avoiding the full truth was a necessity in certain circumstances.

      ‘Miss Johnson has another matter to attend to before she can come to any conservatory.’ Sophie straightened the skirt of her ball gown so that the cascades of blonde lace fell neatly once again. The tiny gesture restored her confidence. Precise planning would once again triumph and produce the perfect outcome. ‘I’m sure she will appear when circumstances permit it.’

      ‘Said with such a disdainful look.’ Sir Vincent hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Despite your airs and graces, Miss Ravel, you have nothing to be proud about. I know all about your parentage and how your father acquired his considerable fortune.’

      Sophie fought against the inclination to laugh. The man’s accent was so entirely ridiculous, proclaiming about her parentage as if she was some brood mare.

      She backed up so that her bottom touched one of the shelves. A particularly large fern nodded over her left shoulder.

      ‘I suspect you have heard lies and half-truths.’ She feinted to the left, only to be stopped when he placed his paw on the railing. ‘Now, will you listen to what I have to say? Or are we going to have to play “Here we go round the mulberry bush” all night?’

      He waggled his eyebrows, but did not remove his hand.

      In the distance she could hear the faint strains of the orchestra as they struck up a polka. All she had to do was to calmly return to the ballroom after delivering her message. As long as she refused to panic, she was the mistress of the situation. Icy calm and a well-tilted chin. Poise.

      ‘I regret to inform you, Sir Vincent, that Miss Johnson has other plans for this evening.’ She ducked under his arm and wished she had chosen somewhere else besides the deserted conservatory to impart the news. Good ideas had a way of turning bad if not properly thought through. She should know that by now. ‘Indeed, she has other plans for the rest of her life.’

      ‘Other plans?’ Sir Vincent cocked his head and Sophie could almost see the slow clogs of his brain moving. ‘Miss Johnson arrived with her parents and me only a short while ago in my carriage. I know what her plans are. Her father has accepted my suit. They are watching her to ensure her reputation remains unsoiled. We are to be married come a week Saturday.’

      ‘Her note. Miss Johnson asked me to give it to you once we were in the conservatory.’

      He shook his ponderous head. ‘Mr Johnson and I have come to an arrangement. He knows what is good for him. His wealth will go a long way towards restoring my family home. He saw sense in the match in the end.’

      Sophie’s stomach revolted. What she had considered Cynthia’s fevered imaginings were utterly correct. Sir Vincent had used blackmail and threats to achieve his ends.

      Since Cynthia’s father had agreed to the marriage, Sir Vincent or her parents had hung about Cynthia like limpets. It was only at this ball that Cynthia stood any chance of escape. Sophie had brought the valise in her carriage. Hopefully Cynthia and her true love were now using the carriage to go straight to the railway station. The last train for Carlisle left in a half-hour. Then, at Carlisle, they would change trains and go to Liverpool, catching a boat to America leaving on tomorrow afternoon’s tide. She’d left nothing to chance.

      ‘Read the note, Sir Vincent, before you say anything we both might regret.’

      He froze and his pig-like

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