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The other Cinderellas were not like her. Persephone used the rules to render her unmarriageable so she could continue her antiquarian pursuits—that was, until Lord Northwyck married her anyway. Meg used them to help her duke transition from being a millhouse manager in the north of England to one of the most titled men of the peerage. Tamsin utterly disregarded them, excused by the privilege of both rank and beauty. And Priya used them as a tool, as she used everything.

Clara used them as a shield.

There were precious few afforded to her, and one used what was at hand. That was a lesson she had learned all too well. And no one would ever suspect the truth about her. They would never consider it possible that she might stray from rules and etiquette and the holy temple of good manners. She’d seen to it.

It was not enjoyable.

She was as bored of parroting proper behavior as anyone listening to her.

More. Definitely more bored. So very, very bored.

She had hoped her help with Sybil at the ball would have Priya offering her more missions that did not involve pasting papers to privacy screens or delivering messages.

Apparently not.

She was not a beauty like the others, passable perhaps, but not enough to catch the eye of an earl or even a viscount, not with her particular reputation. Those who would esteem her for it, ironically, she could not abide. Even her parents had not been particularly fond of her. Her father thought her far too rule bound, her mother not nearly enough. And then they died and she was left with small annuity.

And her reputation, of course.

Popular opinion had it that it was worth more than gold.

It was not.

And it did not put food on the table. Or friends in her parlor. Or adventures at her door.

“I would not have let you drink the laudanum,” Clara assured the young Miss Cunningham. “It was only to show that if you act exactly as expected of a lady, no one will bother with anything else you do. They will not suspect you.”

It was more useful than she could adequately explain. No one thought Lady Clara Prescott interested in amusement, but she had dreams and goals and interests like everyone else.

Well, maybe not like everyone else.

She had enjoyed climbing down a house in the middle of a glittering social event. Much more than the social event itself. She had promptly begun a series of exercises designed to strengthen her arms. The next time she dangled from the side of a house, she would be able to pull herself back up.

And she had also spent an extra quarter of an hour scrubbing ink stains off her fingers this morning. Just in case. Not that anyone paid attention to her. Or would guess what she did when no one was watching. Not in a thousand years.

That was useful too. If a bit wearying.

Never mind.

You couldn’t have everything, and she had what she wanted most. Two things, if you counted the Spinster Society, and though it surprised her, she did. It helped fill a void in her life that had begun to ache like a bad tooth. But it was nudged to the side, a wallflower even among wallflowers.

“Miss Comfrey is waiting for you in the pool,” Clara told Miss Cunningham. Punctuality, after all, was another one of those bothersome rules.

The pool was set under a glass dome, with pipes running below that heated the water to a comfortable degree. Too comfortable for Miss Peony Comfrey, who preferred the ocean and ponds in midwinter. She had been recruited for her remarkable athleticism. Running, scaling cliffs, swimming across the Thames—all were entertainment for her. She was small in stature but strong enough to kick in a door. As she loved to demonstrate for new members. One never knew what skills might be required of a Spinster.

“Thank you, Miss Cunningham,” Priya said. “Don’t let Peony swim you to death. She forgets that not all of us can breathe underwater.”

Miss Cunningham bobbed a curtsy and fled, eyes wide.

“Oh dear,” Priya sighed, annoyed. “Do you think we frightened her? I thought she was made of sterner stuff.”

“If she survives two hours with Peony, I don’t think you have to worry,” Clara said.

“True enough.”

The war with France might be over, but the battles raged on in the heart of Mayfair. There were far fewer men who had returned than had left to fight. Memorials were held in every church, black bombazine wrapped the door knockers to many a fine house, ladies wore black. But it had been a year now, and the usual objectives rose to the surface. Establishing alliances between families, saving estates, growing coffers. Ensuring the family line continued now that so many second and third sons had been plucked from the world.

In short, marriage. Between too few gentlemen and too many ladies.