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  Chapter 1

  Clarissa, the Countess of Milford, was sorely in need of a project.

  Seated at the breakfast table, she buttered a slice of toast while reflecting on the dilemma. She had risen from the ashes to marry an earl. Then, as a young widow, she had enjoyed a scandalous love affair with a prince. She had led a full life as a doyenne of London society. Now, her fondest ambition was to give other women a chance at happiness, too.

  Clarissa reached for the morning newspaper. Turning the pages to the gossip column, she scanned the names of notable debutantes who had attended the previous night’s ball. Those pampered ladies, however, stirred no interest in her.

  She was hoping to find mention of a lowly chaperone or a penniless companion. Such women were the forgotten of society, too often ignored or mistreated. They were wallflowers doomed to spinsterhood by undeserved misfortune.

  Surely there had to be one in need of a matchmaker.

  In the few weeks since the start of the season, Clarissa had searched in vain for the perfect girl. There had been several possibilities, but none had seemed quite right. None had stirred a flash of intuition in her. And none had inspired her to lend out the enchanted garnet slippers.

  Sipping cream tea from a blue porcelain cup, Clarissa finished reading the news sheet. As she was closing it with a sigh, a man stepped into the dining chamber. Hargrove was the quintessential butler in a black tailcoat, pristine gloves, and cropped white hair. His harsh, stoic features masked his inner thoughts.

  Clarissa set down her teacup and regarded him with great interest. He never disturbed her breakfast without good cause.

  Hargrove reached the linen-draped table and inclined his head in a bow. “Madam, the one you were seeking has returned to England.”

  Clarissa gazed up at him in perplexity. Hargrove was a man of few words, and it took a moment to grasp his meaning. Then a frisson of interest prickled her skin. Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet. “Isabella Jones? Are you quite certain it’s she?”

  “Indeed.” Hargrove stepped forward to hand her a folded paper. “This arrived from Oxford not ten minutes ago.”

  The red wax seal had been broken, for the letter was addressed to Hargrove. The cheap paper felt rough to the touch. Opening it, Clarissa scanned the cramped penmanship, and the message brought a delighted smile to her lips.

  “Most extraordinary,” she said, returning the letter to the butler. “Miss Jones has been abroad for most of her life. For her to return now, and still unmarried at her advanced age … well, I must confess that I never imagined your search would be so fruitful. Or so swift.”

  “Perhaps, my lady, some things are fated.”

  Not for the first time, Clarissa wondered if Hargrove knew more than he let on. Although he was her most loyal servant, she had never revealed to him the mystical power of the garnet slippers. That secret had been entrusted to her long ago, when Clarissa had been an orphaned girl, disinherited by her wealthy stepmother and ridiculed by her two stepsisters. At the lowest moment of her life, banished to the kitchen as a servant after her dear papa’s death, Clarissa had taken pity on a Gypsy crone who had come begging at the back door. She had fed the old woman a hot meal, and in return, the Gypsy had presented her with the exquisite beaded shoes.

  The slippers would fit only a girl who was worthy of true love.

  Clarissa left the breakfast table and glided to the tall window overlooking the street. She gazed down at the carriages and pedestrians for a moment, then turned back to the butler. “I’ve another mission for you,” she said. “This one will require considerable finesse. The Duke of Aylwin must be convinced that he is in dire need of an assistant. Discreetly, of course.”

  “At once, madam.”

  With a bow, Hargrove departed the dining chamber. Clarissa knew that she could depend on him to take care of the matter. He had a far-flung web of contacts worthy of a master spy for the Crown—indeed, that had been his vocation during the Napoleonic wars.

  Her thoughts returned to the pleasure of the unexpected news. At last she had found the perfect wife for the reclusive Duke of Aylwin. Someone who could entice him out of his beastly guise and back into the world of the living.

  At least she hoped so.

  Would the slippers fit? Would Miss Isabella Jones become the newest member of the Cinderella Sisterhood?

  Clarissa could scarcely wait to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Bella Jones stopped to read the small card in the window of the dress shop in Oxford. She had been trudging along the busy street, not heeding the stylish gowns on display behind the glass panes, for such luxuries were far beyond her reach. Then her attention had been caught by the square of white pasteboard propped in the lower corner of the window.

  SEAMSTRESS WANTED. EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.

  A jolt of hope struck her heart. Bella desperately needed to earn a wage in order to support her brother and sister. She’d tried to be a tutor, but all of her inquiries had come to naught. Learned scholars abounded in this university town, men with advanced degrees in science and mathematics and literature. No one would hire a female whose education had consisted of studying archaic texts while trekking with her father through foreign lands. No one wanted a woman who could speak the Farsi language like a native Persian, or who could recite long passages from the Ramayana in the original Hindi.

  When Papa had died in Persia nearly a year ago, he had left his three orphaned children a cottage in faraway Oxford—and a promise of riches beyond their wildest imagination. So Bella had scraped together the funds to purchase passage to England. She and her siblings had left their tiny hut in the mountains, trekked by mule caravan across the Mesopotamian deserts, and sailed what seemed like halfway around the world in order to fulfill her father’s last request.

  Return to Oxford, Papa had gasped out on his deathbed, clutching at her hands. Promise me. Find Aylwin. Find the map. You have half … the pharaoh’s treasure.

  Amid her grief and worry, Bella had been sustained by a vision of gold and jewels. She had resolved to find Mr. Aylwin, ask him about the map, and demand Papa’s half portion of the pharaoh’s treasure. Then she would be free from the yoke of poverty. There’d be no more fretting about food or clothing or books or a dozen other household expenses.

  Upon their arrival the previous month, Bella had made inquiries among the townsfolk of Oxford. She had questioned the postmaster, the butcher, the vicar. But no one had ever heard of a man named Mr. Aylwin, and finally she had been forced to conclude that Papa must have been rambling nonsense. He had been incoherent from the high fever that had claimed his life.

  They had journeyed to England for nothing.

  There was no Mr. Aylwin. There was no treasure map, either. A pharaoh’s riches would not save them from the poorhouse. That bitter truth lodged like a stone in her craw. Ever since, Bella had scoured the newspaper advertisements f
or work. She had gone to dozens of interviews, but to no avail.

  Now, she lifted her gaze to the gold lettering on the window glass: FOTHERGILL’S FASHION EMPORIUM.

  Perhaps no one here would deign to employ a woman who knew little of English style. With a single glance at her brown skirt with its gold-spangled trim and the crimson blouse belted in the traditional Persian fashion, they would scorn her as a foreign bumpkin.

  Bella tugged the green knitted shawl tightly about her shoulders. Blast it, why should appearances matter so long as she could sew a straight seam? She certainly knew how to ply a needle—tedious though the task might be. Hadn’t she always mended Papa’s shirts and trousers? Hadn’t she stitched every article of clothing for Lila and Cyrus until her sister had grown old enough to undertake the chore?

  On that righteous thought, Bella pushed open the door of the dress shop and stepped into a beehive of activity. The buzz of conversation filled the high-ceilinged room. Swarms of ladies flitted from table to table, their lacy sleeves and kid-gloved hands fluttering over the displays of rich fabrics and lavish trimmings.

  As busy as it was, however, the shop had an aura of refinement unlike the crowded bazaars of the East. Instead of shouting merchants and haggling customers, the black-clad salesmen here looked as elegant as the ladies they served.

  Bella knew the moment one of those shop assistants spied her standing by the door. The scrawny man had dark beady eyes that narrowed directly on her. Beneath a long mustache, his lips pursed as if he’d bitten into an unripe pomegranate. He started toward her, but a lady stepped into his path and he turned with a pretentious smile to show her a tray of buttons.

  Bella had no desire to be ejected by an underling. She needed to find the owner of the shop.

  Keeping her head down, she slipped past the throngs of customers and made her way toward the rear where a door surely led to the offices. The variety of fine articles for sale dazzled the eye. Like women the world over, these English ladies liked to adorn themselves with myriad ornaments. There were boxes of colorful beads, cards of intricate lace, collections of ostrich and peacock feathers. Along the back wall, a display of multihued cloth drew her like a lodestone.

  There she paused, unable to resist touching a sheer bronze silk. The fabric was so light that it slithered through her fingers like falling water. A distant memory stirred in her. As a girl, she’d entered their hut one afternoon to find her mother wearing a gown sewn of a similar fabric. The precious garment had always been kept tucked away in a trunk during their travels. But on that particular day, Papa had been off on an overnight exploration, and Mama had remarked wistfully that it was their wedding anniversary. So she had donned her bride dress, the only link to her life back in England.

  A lump ached now in Bella’s throat. Mama had never had the chance to return home to Oxford. She had died some fifteen years ago, shortly after giving birth to the twins …

  “Remove your hands at once,” a male voice hissed from behind. “That is French silk from Paris.”

  Bella dropped the cloth and spun around. It was the man in the black suit. From close-up, he had taut shiny skin like the carapace of a beetle. When he curled his lips in disdain, the ends of his long mustache waggled like antennas.

  Bella lifted her chin. “I wish to speak to the proprietor.”

  The man snatched up the length of silk, turning it to and fro as if to assure himself it hadn’t been soiled or torn. “I am Mr. Fothergill and this is my establishment. You must depart these premises at once. There is nothing here that you could possibly afford.”

  “I came to inquire about the position of seamstress.”

  His scornful gaze crawled over her foreign garb. “The post has been filled.”

  He was lying, she could tell by his shifty manner. “But the sign is still there in the window.”

  “Do you dare to question my word? Out with you now. Gypsies are not permitted on these premises.”

  Bella stiffened. Even abroad, Gypsies were regarded as tricksters and thieves. “Sir, you are mistaken—”

  Her words broke off as Fothergill seized hold of her upper arm, his fingers biting like pincers. Without further ado, he hauled her toward the front of the shop.

  Many of the customers turned to stare, whispering and exclaiming, some arching their necks to get a better view of the spectacle. One young blond lady in a pink bonnet said something to her friends and they all laughed aloud. From them, the tittering swept the large room in a wave that inundated Bella and completed her humiliation.

  Heat burned her cheeks. During previous interviews, she had detected a certain suspicion in the faces of those to whom she had applied for a post. People had seemed wary of a woman in foreign garb. But none had been so scornful as these posh aristocrats who viewed her as an object of ridicule, as if she were dirt beneath their well-shod feet.

  Their laughter sliced deeply into Bella’s pride. The weeks of fretting and frustration already had eroded her confidence. A part of her wanted to cringe, to scuttle away in shame. Yet another part, a fierce primitive core, imbued her with a volatile fury. The force of it rose in her like a tide of fire.

  Nearing the front door, Bella reached beneath her robes and drew out an ivory-hilted dagger from its hidden sheath. The ancient metal blade emerged with a metallic snick.

  She pressed the tip beneath Fothergill’s chin. “Filthy dog! Release me at once!”

  The shopkeeper halted, paralyzed. His dark eyes bulged. The manacle of his fingers let loose of her arm.

  Gasps rose from the ladies. Several screamed. They shrank back in alarm, skirts rustling and feet scraping.

  Fothergill’s air of snooty authority had vanished. His face took on the paleness of a corpse. The trembling of his lips made his mustache quiver. “P-please!” he gurgled. “Don’t … don’t kill me!”

  Bella kept the tip of the knife beneath his chin. She relished his fear. She wanted the insect to squirm. It proved he was no more her superior than the bandit who’d crept into her tent in the deserts of Chaldea, intent on stealing her purse.

  That one had fled howling into the night, dripping blood.

  One of the onlookers let out a sob of fright. A glance around showed the ladies were staring at her in wide-eyed terror. She had lingered here too long. “I’ll spare your miserable hide this time,” Bella hissed. “But the next woman you mistreat may not be so generous.”

  She slid the dagger back into its sheath at her waist.

  Fothergill staggered sideways. He clutched at his throat, gingerly rubbed it, then examined his hand for blood. Seeing none, he drew himself up. “Blasted dirty Gypsy!” he sputtered. “The magistrate shall hear about this!”

  Magistrate.

  The word cast a chill over Bella. She could ill afford trouble.

  Turning, she yanked open the door and dashed outside into the cloudy spring afternoon. She took off down the busy street, zigzagging past housewives with shopping baskets, dons in black robes, and ladies peering into shop windows. Behind her, Fothergill alternately shouted for a constable and implored someone to stop her.

  Several tried.

  She evaded the grasping hands of a stooped old workman and then a white-aproned chemist who had stepped out of his apothecary shop. The other pedestrians gave her wide berth. Determined to elude arrest, she plunged into the heavy traffic on the cobbled road, dodging a wagon filled with large barrels. Too late, she spied a fancy yellow carriage coming along at a fast clip.

  It almost ran her down. The skittish chestnut danced sideways. Despite the efforts of the driver, the animal veered too close to the foot pavement. A stack of wooden crates in front of the greengrocer’s crashed to the ground.

  Fruits and vegetables rolled in all directions. The proprietor shouted curses as the hapless gentleman reined in the wild-eyed horse. People went scrambling after the goods. Several urchins began stuffing their pockets with strawberries and oranges.

  Bella seized advantage of the distracti
on by losing herself in the multitude of shoppers. She slowed her steps to a swift walk to avoid drawing attention. Making a quick turn at the nearest corner, she slipped down an alleyway, hurrying along before emerging into a tree-lined neighborhood.

  Clouds hung low, heavy and gray, swollen with rain. The cool air smelled of dampness and coal smoke. Bella cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to make certain that no one was following. There were only a few people outside, and thankfully, none paid her any heed as she headed rapidly past a row of brick town houses.

  The stone buildings of the university were visible over the rooftops, along with the tall pointy spire of St. Mary the Virgin’s Church. Though new to the bustling town, Bella had learned to orient herself by those landmarks to keep from getting lost during her hunt for work.

  Work. She was still unemployed. Having made a spectacle of herself, had she ruined any chance at all of securing a post?

  Her wild anger subsided, leaving a sick sensation in the pit of her belly. She should not have lost her temper. She should not have drawn a knife and threatened Mr. Fothergill, no matter how insulting he had been. If she were tossed into prison, how would Lila and Cyrus survive?

  At fifteen, the twins deserved the chance to continue their studies. They mustn’t be forced to labor for a living just yet. They would have the formal education that she herself had been denied. Bella had been the only mother they had ever known. She must not fail them.

  Her spirits sank lower. She’d have to stay out of sight for a time, in case the constable had been ordered to search for her. Thank heavens Fothergill did not know her name or where to find her. In a few days, perhaps it might be safe for her to venture out again to seek employment.

  She had to hope so. Her nest egg had shrunk to almost nothing.

  If only Papa’s deathbed rambling about a pharaoh’s treasure had been true. If only she had been able to find the elusive Mr. Aylwin. Then her troubles would have been over …