Miss Penelope Prestwick stood in the middle of the conservatory of her father’s Upper Brook Street home and stared at the roses. The roses were a disaster.

The roses, purchased to make a pleasing and, one hoped, impressive display of her horticultural talents to the marriageable men of the ton, none of whom had any need to know she did not possess horticultural talents until one of their number was securely married to her, had not done the job at all. All her roses had done was to somehow become involved in getting Lady Amelia Caversham married to the Earl of Cranleigh.

Which, actually, was perfectly lovely as Lady Amelia had been rather obviously on the market for a duke. As Penelope was also on the market for a duke, it would certainly have become awkward very quickly. Her roses, ruined now, had done a good bit of work, now that she considered it.

Penelope Prestwick was a girl who considered everything, a trait she found quite admirable, and certainly useful. Her future husband had no need to know that either. Men were so much more pleasant, which is to say, manageable, when they did not understand too much.

“What will you do to them now?” her brother George asked her, rather ironically, given the direction of her thoughts. “Throw them down some distant well?”

“Don’t be absurd, George,” Penelope said stiffly. “How can I get rid of the evidence of my spectacular talent at roses? I must save them, somehow. I can’t simply get rid of them, can I?”

“They did serve their purpose. What point in keeping them, Pen?”

“George,” she said in strained patience, “everyone at our ball, indeed, everyone in Town, knows that I keep roses and that they dwell in my conservatory. Having played a part in Lady Amelia’s marriage, how can I ever be rid of them now? Besides, everyone thinks I’m rose mad. I shall have to continue on with it, shan’t I?”

“I don’t suppose you could simply inform people that they’d died of some malady. That would be too simple by half.”

“Who would ever believe a word of that? These roses are famous. I can’t be rid of them now. No, the thing to do, obviously, is to use them somehow. I wish I could think how.”

“As to using things, there’s that shawl.”

Yes, there was that shawl. Of course, it was quite well known, what with the satire and all, that Lady Amelia, a duke’s daughter, had behaved in quite questionable fashion and that a scandalous satire had been done of her, and of the Penelope’s roses, and that as a result of all of it, or part of it, no one was quite certain, Lady Amelia had been promptly married to Cranleigh.

It was, to put it mildly, a scandal.

Penelope had the shawl, ripped, and the roses, ruined, and knew she had to do something with both, but was not at all sure what.

Lady Dalby would know.

Yes, that was undeniable. Something had to be done. And when something had to be done, particularly concerning men, Sophia Dalby was the precise person one should see. Of that, Penelope had no doubt whatsoever.

“George, we’re going to see Lady Dalby,” Penelope said firmly. “You, of course, will wait for me outside. I do not think this will be an appropriate conversation for a gentleman to hear.”

“Going to talk marriage, are you?” George said wryly.

“Precisely,” Penelope said as she walked away.

She was going to change her dress. She was not going to face Sophia looking even slightly less than perfect. That it was coming on five and the Duke of Edenham had an appointment with Lady Dalby for six o’clock was not a coincidence to be ignored. Indeed, Penelope did not believe in coincidence. All could and should be arranged to suit oneself beautifully. Relying on coincidence was for spoilt girls and she was no such thing. She was a determined, logical, precise sort of girl, and she had determined to marry a duke, or an heir apparent at the very least. Logically, she had made it a point to overhear Edenham make his six o’clock appointment with Sophia. She planned to arrive at Dalby House at precisely half five. There was no need to look too precise about running into the Duke, was there?

Of course not.

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