Chapter 1


    Prologue


    Everyone knew that Sophie Beckett was a bastard.


    The servants all knew it. But they loved little Sophie, had loved her since she’d arrived at Penwood


    Park at the age of three, a small bundle wrapped in a too-big coat, left on the doorstep on a rainy July


    night. And because they loved her, they pretended that she was exactly what the sixth Earl of Penwood


    said she was—the orphaned daughter of an old friend. Never mind that Sophie’s moss green eyes and


    dark blond hair matched the earl’s precisely. Never mind that the shape of her face looked remarkably


    like that of the earl’s recently deceased mother, or that her smile was an exact replica of the earl’s


    sister’s. No one wanted to hurt Sophie’s feelings—or risk their livelihoods—by pointing that out.


    The earl, one Richard Gunningworth, never discussed Sophie or her origins, but he must have known


    she was his bastard. No one knew what had been in the letter the housekeeper had fished from


    Sophie’s pocket when she’d been discovered that rainy midnight; the earl had burned the missive mere


    seconds after reading it. He’d watched the paper shrivel and curl in the mes, then ordered a room


    made up for Sophie near the nursery. She’d remained there ever since. He called her Sophia, and she


    called him “my lord,” and they saw each other a few times a year, whenever the earl returned home


    from London, which wasn’t very often.


    But perhaps most importantly, Sophie knew she was a bastard. She wasn’t entirely certain how she


    knew it, just that she did, and probably had her entire life. She had few memories of her life before her


    arrival at Penwood Park, but she could remember a long coach journey across Ennd, and she could


    remember her grandmother, coughing and wheezing and looking terribly thin, telling her she was going


    to live with her father. And most of all, she could remember standing on the doorstep in the rain,


    All content ? N/.?vel/Dr/ama.Org.


    knowing that her grandmother was hiding in the bushes, waiting to see if Sophie was taken inside.


    The earl had touched his fingers to the little girl’s chin, tipped her face up to the light, and in that


    moment they both knew the truth.


    Everyone knew Sophie was a bastard, and no one talked about it, and they were all quite happy with


    this arrangement.


    Until the earl decided to marry.


    Sophie had been quite pleased when she’d heard the news. The housekeeper had said that the butler


    had said that the earl’s secretary had said that the earl nned to spend more time at Penwood Park


    now that he would be a family man. And while Sophie didn’t exactly miss the earl when he was gone—


    it was hard to miss someone who didn’t pay her much attention even when he was there—she rather


    thought she might miss him if she got to know him better, and if she got to know him better, maybe he


    wouldn’t go away so often. Plus, the upstairs maid had said that the housekeeper had said that the


    neighbors’ butler had said that the earl’s intended wife already had two daughters, and they were near


    in age to Sophie.


    After seven years alone in the nursery, Sophie was delighted. Unlike the other children in the district,


    she was never invited to local parties and events. No one actually came out and called her a bastard—


    to do so was tantamount to calling the earl, who had made one deration that Sophie was his ward


    and then never revisited the subject, a liar. But at the same time, the earl never made any great attempt


    to force Sophie’s eptance. And so at the age of ten, Sophie’s best friends were maids and footmen,


    and her parents might as well have been the housekeeper and butler.


    But now she was getting sisters for real.


    Oh, she knew she could not call them her sisters. She knew that she would be introduced as Sophia


    Maria Beckett, the earl’s ward, but they would feel like sisters. And that was what really mattered.


    And so, one February afternoon, Sophie found herself waiting in the great hall along with the


    assembled servants, watching out the window for the earl’s carriage to pull up the drive, carrying in it


    the new countess and her two daughters. And, of course, the earl.


    “Do you think she’ll like me?” Sophie whispered to Mrs. Gibbons, the housekeeper. “The earl’s wife, I


    mean.”


    “Of course she’ll like you, dearling,” Mrs. Gibbons whispered back. But her eyes hadn’t been as certain


    as her tone. The new countess might not take kindly to the presence of her husband’s by-blow.


    “And I’ll take lessons with her daughters?”


    “No point in having you take your lessons separately.” Sophie nodded thoughtfully, then started to


    squirm when she saw the carriage rolling up the drive. “They’re here!” she whispered.


    Mrs. Gibbons reached out to pat her on the head, but Sophie had already dashed off to the window,


    practically pressing her face up to the ss.


    The earl stepped down first, then reached in and helped down two young girls. They were dressed in


    matching ck coats. One wore a pink ribbon in her hair; the other yellow. Then, as the two girls


    stepped aside, the earl reached up to help onest person from the carriage.


    Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for the new countess to emerge. Her little fingers


    crossed and a single, “Please,” whispered over her lips.


    Please let her love me.


    Maybe if the countess loved her, then the earl would love her as well, and maybe, even if he didn’t


    actually call her daughter, he’d treat her as one, and they’d be a family truly.


    As Sophie watched through the window, the new countess stepped down from the carriage, her every


    movement so graceful and pure that Sophie was reminded of the delicaterk that asionally came


    to ssh in the birdbath in the gard


    en. Even the countess’s hat was adorned by a long feather, its turquoise plume glittering in the hard


    winter sun.


    “She’s beautiful,” Sophie whispered. She darted a quick look back at Mrs. Gibbons to gauge her


    reaction, but the housekeeper was standing at strict attention, eyes straight ahead, waiting for the earl


    to bring his new family inside for introductions.


    Sophie gulped, not exactly certain where she was meant to stand. Everyone else seemed to have a


    designated ce. The servants were lined up ording to rank, from the butler right down to the


    lowliest scullery maid. Even the dogs were sitting dutifully in the corner, their leads held tight by the


    Keeper of the Hounds.


    But Sophie was rootless. If she were truly the daughter of the house, she’d be standing with her


    governess, awaiting the new countess. If she were truly the earl’s ward, she’d be in much the same


    ce. But Miss Timmons had caught a head cold and refused to leave the nursery ande


    downstairs. None of the servants believed for a second that the governess was truly ill. She’d been fine


    the night before, but no one med her for the deception. Sophie was, after all, the earl’s bastard, and


    no one wanted to be the one to offer potential insult to the new countess by introducing her to her


    husband’s by-blow.


    And the countess would have to be blind, stupid, or both not to realize in an instant that Sophie was


    something more than the earl’s ward.


    Suddenly ovee with shyness, Sophie shrank into a corner as two footmen threw open the front


    doors with a flourish. The two girls entered first, then stepped to the side as the earl led the countess


    in. The earl introduced the countess and her daughters to the butler, and the butler introduced them to


    the servants.


    And Sophie waited.


    The butler presented the footmen, the chef, the housekeeper, the grooms.


    And Sophie waited.


    He presented the kitchen maids, the upstairs maids, the scullery maids.


    And Sophie waited.


    And then finally the butler—Rumsey was his name—presented the lowliest of the lowest of maids, a


    scullery girl named Dulcie who had been hired a mere week earlier. The earl nodded and murmured his


    thanks, and Sophie was still waiting,pletely unsure of what to do.


    So she cleared her throat and stepped forward, a nervous smile on her face. She didn’t spend much


    time with the earl, but she was trotted out before him whenever he visited Penwood Park, and he


    always gave her a few minutes of his time, asking about her lessons before shooing her back up to the


    nursery.


    Surely he’d still want to know how her studies were progressing, even now that he’d married. Surely


    he’d want to know that she’d mastered the science of multiplying fractions, and that Miss Timmons had


    recently dered her French ent, “perfection.”


    But he was busy saying something to the countess’s daughters, and he didn’t hear her. Sophie cleared


    her throat again, this time more loudly, and said, “My lord?” in a voice that came out a bit more squeaky


    than she’d intended.


    The earl turned around. “Ah, Sophia,” he murmured, “I didn’t realize you were in the hall.”


    Sophie beamed. He hadn’t been ignoring her, after all.


    “And who might this be?” the countess asked, stepping forward to get a better look.


    “My ward,” the earl replied. “Miss Sophia Beckett.”


    The countess speared Sophie with an assessing look, then her eyes narrowed.


    And narrowed.


    And narrowed some more.


    “I see,” she said.


    And everyone in the room knew instantly that she did see.


    “Rosamund,” the countess said, turning to her two girls, “Posy,e with me.”


    The girls moved immediately to their mother’s side. Sophie hazarded a smile in their direction. The


    smaller one smiled back, but the older one, whose hair was the color of spun gold, took her cue from


    her mother, pointed her nose in the air, and looked firmly away.


    Sophie gulped and smiled again at the friendly girl, but this time the little girl chewed on her lower lip in


    indecision, then cast her eyes toward the floor.


    The countess turned her back on Sophie and said to the earl, “I assume you have had rooms prepared


    for Rosamund and Posy.”


    He nodded. “Near the nursery. Right next to Sophie.”


    There was a long silence, and then the countess must have decided that certain battles should not be


    conducted before the servants, because all she said was, “I would like to go upstairs now.”


    And she left, taking the earl and her daughters along with her.


    Sophie watched the new family walk up the stairs, and then, as they disappeared onto thending, she


    turned to Mrs. Gibbons and asked, “Do you think I should go up to help? I could show the girls the


    nursery.”


    Mrs. Gibbons shook her head. “They looked tired,” she lied. “I’m sure they’ll be needing a nap.”


    Sophie frowned. She’d been told that Rosamund was eleven and Posy was ten. Surely that was a bit


    old for taking naps.


    Mrs. Gibbons patted her on the back. “Why don’t youe with me? I could use a bit ofpany, and


    Cook told me that she just made a fresh batch of shortbread. I think it’s still warm.”


    Sophie nodded and followed her out of the hall. She’d have plenty of time that evening to get to know


    the two girls. She’d show them the nursery, and then they’d be friends, and before long they’d be


    as sisters.


    Sophie smiled. It would be glorious to have sisters.


    As it happened, Sophie did not encounter Rosamund and Posy—or the earl and countess, for that


    matter—until the next day. When Sophie entered the nursery to take her supper, she noticed that the


    table had been set for two, not four, and Miss Timmons (who had miraculously recovered from her


    ailment) said that the new countess had told her that Rosamund and Posy were too tired from their


    travels to eat that evening.


    But the girls had to have their lessons, and so the next morning they arrived in the nursery, trailing the


    countess by one step each. Sophie had been working at her lessons for an hour already, and she


    looked up from her arithmetic with great interest. She didn’t smile at the girls this time. Somehow it


    seemed best not to.


    “Miss Timmons,” the countess said.


    Miss Timmons bobbed a curtsy, murmuring, “Mydy.”


    “The earl tells me you will teach my daughters.”


    “I will do my best, mydy.”


    The countess motioned to the older girl, the one with golden hair and cornflower eyes. She looked,


    Sophie thought, as pretty as the porcin doll the earl had sent up from London for her seventh


    birthday.


    “This,” the countess said, “is Rosamund. She is eleven. And this”—she then motioned to the other girl,


    who had not taken her eyes off of her shoes—“is Posy. She is ten.”


    Sophie looked at Posy with great interest. Unlike her mother and sister, her hair and eyes were quite


    dark, and her cheeks were a bit pudgy.


    “Sophie is also ten,” Miss Timmons replied.


    The countess’s lips thinned. “I would like you to show the girls around the house and garden.”


    Miss Timmons nodded. “Very well. Sophie, put your te down. We can return to arithmetic—”


    “Just my girls,” the countess interrupted, her voice somehow hot and cold at the same time. “I will


    speak with Sophie alone.”


    Sophie gulped and tried to bring her eyes to the countess’s, but she only made it as far as her chin. As


    Miss Timmons ushered Rosamund and Posy out of the room she stood up, awaiting further direction


    from her father’s new wife.


    “I know who you are,” the countess said the moment the door clicked shut.


    “M-mydy?”


    “You’re his bastard, and don’t try to deny it.”


    Sophie said nothing. It was the truth, of course, but no one had ever said it aloud. At least not to her


    face.


    The countess grabbed her chin and squeezed and pulled until Sophie was forced to look her in the eye.


    “You listen to me,” she said in a menacing voice. “You might liv


    e here at Penwood Park, and you might share lessons with my daughters, but you are nothing but a


    bastard, and that is all you will ever be. Don’t you ever, ever make the mistake of thinking you are as


    good as the rest of us.”


    Sophie let out a little moan. The countess’s fingernails were biting into the underside of her chin.


    “My husband,” the countess continued, “feels some sort of misguided duty to you. It’s admirable of him


    to see to his mistakes, but it is an insult to me to have you in my home—fed, clothed, and educated as


    if you were his real daughter.”


    But she was his real daughter. And it had been her home much longer than the countess’s.


    Abruptly, the countess let go of her chin. “I don’t want to see you,” she hissed. “You are never to speak


    to me, and you shall endeavor never to be in mypany. Furthermore, you are not to speak to


    Rosamund and Posy except during lessons. They are the daughters of the house now, and should not


    have to associate with the likes of you. Do you have any questions?”


    Sophie shook her head.


    “Good.”


    And with that, she swept out of the room, leaving Sophie with wobbly legs and a quivering lip.


    And an awful lot of tears.


    In time, Sophie learned a bit more about her precarious position in the house. The servants always


    knew everything, and it all reached Sophie’s ears eventually.


    The countess, whose given name was Araminta, had insisted that very first day that Sophie be


    removed from the house. The earl had refused. Araminta didn’t have to love Sophie, he’d said coolly.


    She didn’t even have to like her. But she had to put up with her. He had owned up to his responsibility


    to the girl for seven years, and he wasn’t going to stop now.


    Rosamund and Posy took their cues from Araminta and treated Sophie with hostility and disdain,


    although Posy’s heart clearly wasn’t into torture and cruelty in the way Rosamund’s was. Rosamund


    liked nothing better than to pinch and twist the skin on the back of Sophie’s hand when Miss Timmons


    wasn’t looking. Sophie never said anything; she rather doubted that Miss Timmons would have the


    courage to reprimand Rosamund (who would surely run to Araminta with a false tale), and if anyone


    noticed that Sophie’s hands were perpetually ck-and-blue, no one ever said so.


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