The morning sun spilled into the upper corridors of Farrington House, painting the pale yellow wallpaper with streaks of gold. It was a Tuesday, a day that usually promised nothing more exciting than embroidery circles and perhaps a walk in Hyde Park if the weather held.
But for Lady Celine Farrington, this Tuesday was the beginning of everything.
She picked up her skirts—a scandalous breach of decorum for a young lady, even in her own hallway—and ran. Her feet, clad in soft morning slippers, made little pat-pat-pat sounds against the plush runner rug.
She reached the door to her mother's private solar and burst through it without knocking.
"Mama!"
Lady Farrington was seated at her writing desk, a formidable structure of mahogany and brass. she was reviewing the weekly menus with the housekeeper. At the sudden intrusion, she looked up, her quill freezing in mid-air. Her expression was one of mild reproof, the look of a general whose strategy meeting had been interrupted.
