Chapter 2

The dining room was silent, save for the scrape of silver against china.

She wore blue. A pale, powder blue morning dress that Kenney had always claimed was his favorite. It made her look docile. Harmless. Like the perfect accessory he believed her to be.

Across the table, her mother-in-law, Lady Lloyd, was inspecting a strip of bacon as if it were a personal insult.

"Burnt," she muttered, dropping the fork with a clatter. She looked at Imogene, her eyes narrowing. "You're late, Imogene. A proper mistress of the house is seated before the tea is poured. Sloth is not a virtue."

In her past life, she would have apologized. She would have stammered about the nightmare, about checking on Emily.

Today, she didn't.

She pulled out her chair and sat down. Her movements were fluid, deliberate. She didn't look at Lady Lloyd. She looked straight ahead.

"Good morning, Mother," she said. Her tone was polite, but flat.

Kenney was hidden behind his newspaper. He didn't even lower it. "Jam," he commanded, extending a hand without looking.

She stared at his hand. It was soft, manicured. The hand of a bureaucrat who had never done a day of hard labor in his life. The urge to grab the heavy jar of strawberry preserves and smash it down on his fingers was so strong her arm twitched.

She took a breath. Inhale. Exhale.

She picked up the jar and placed it gently near his fingers.

"Thank you," he mumbled, finally folding the paper. He looked at her, his gaze critical. "You look pale. Put on some rouge tonight. We can't have you looking like a corpse at the ball."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, picking up her knife. She sliced into a sausage. The serrated edge cut through the meat with a satisfying resistance.

"And wear the sapphire set," Kenney added, spreading jam on his toast. "The big one."

She paused. The sapphires. She knew for a fact they were paste. The real stones, part of her dowry from her merchant father, had been sold by Kenney months ago to cover gambling debts, replaced with glass. Her father taught her to spot a fake at ten paces. Kenney never realized. But he needed the illusion of wealth.

"Of course," she said. "Whatever you wish."

Kenney took a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. Then, he dropped the bait.

"Rumor has it," he said, feigning nonchalance, "that King Alaric might make an appearance tonight. Incognito, of course."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He was testing her. He wanted to see if she would swoon, if she would show the appropriate amount of awe.

She kept cutting her meat. Scrape. Scrape.

"The King?" she asked, keeping her voice bored. "Why would a man like that care about a party like this?"

Kenney smiled. It was a predatory smile. "Because he gets bored, my dear. And when a King gets bored, he looks for... entertainment. If we could just catch his eye, Imogene. Just for a moment. Think of what it would do for us."

"For us," she repeated.

"Your waist looks thick," Lady Lloyd interrupted, pointing a crust of bread at her. "Lace that corset tighter tonight. Don't embarrass us."

She looked from Lady Lloyd to Kenney. They were discussing her like she was a prize heifer at a county fair. Check the teeth, check the hips, polish the coat.

Kenney reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm and slightly damp.

"Imogene," he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity. "You are my most precious treasure. You know that, don't you? You would do anything for our future. For Emily's future."

Her stomach turned over. It was a physical lurch, a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the food.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over and gripped his. She squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. She let her nails press just enough to leave a faint crescent mark, a promise he wouldn't understand until it was too late.

"Anything, Kenney," she said, locking eyes with him. "For our future."

He flinched, surprised by the sharpness of her nails, but he didn't pull away. He took it as passion. The fool.

Sophie entered the room, bobbing a curtsy. "Mr. Lloyd, the dress has arrived. The one you ordered."

"Excellent." Kenney wiped his mouth. "Go try it on, Imogene. It's the latest Parisian style. Off the shoulder."

"Off the shoulder?" Lady Lloyd sniffed. "Scandalous."

"Fashionable," Kenney corrected. "Go on."

She stood up. As she walked past Kenney, a scent hit her. It was faint, clinging to his jacket. Rosewater and musk.

It wasn't her perfume.

It was hers. The mistress he kept in an apartment in Chelsea. She hadn't known about her until years later in her first life. Now, the smell was like a neon sign.

She walked out of the dining room, her spine straight.

Upstairs, the dress was laid out on the bed. It was a deep, rich velvet, the color of a bruised plum. The neckline was low. Too low. It was designed to display, not to cover.

"It's beautiful, Madam," Sophie said uncertainly.

"It's a sales pitch," she muttered.

She walked over to the sewing table and picked up a pair of shears. The cold steel felt heavy and good in her hand.

"Madam?" Sophie gasped as she approached the dress. "What are you doing?"

"Making improvements," she said.

She didn't destroy it. She wasn't a child throwing a tantrum. She was a soldier preparing her armor.

She carefully snipped away the excessive lace around the bust. She altered the line of the shoulder, making it cleaner, more severe. She remembered the portrait she had seen once in the Royal Gallery-the portrait of Adella Lynn. Adella wore her dresses simple, letting her skin do the work.

If Kenney wanted to sell her, she would make sure she fetched the highest price. But the payment wouldn't go to him.

She looked at herself in the mirror, holding the altered dress against her body.

"Sophie," she said, her voice steady. "Pack the sewing kit away. We have work to do."