The hackney coach that carried the Beaumont women into Mayfair was a rattling, drafty contraption that smelled of wet straw and the previous passenger's cheap gin. For Helena Beaumont, sitting upright on the threadbare bench, it was a far cry from the sleek, well-sprung carriages that glided through the streets of London like silent predators. But Helena was not one for self-pity; she was a woman of ledgers, lists, and the sharp, cold reality of their dwindling bank account.
"Do sit back, Catherine," Helena said softly, reaching over to pull her younger sister's hand away from the grime-streaked window. "The more you stare at the shops, the more the shopkeepers will mark up the prices once they see us coming."
Catherine Beaumont turned away from the window, her face pale but undeniably luminous even in the dim light of the coach. She was, as their mother Ruth frequently reminded them, the family's only remaining asset. With eyes the color of woodsmoke and a complexion like fine porcelain, Catherine possessed the kind of beauty that made men forget their own names—a fact that seemed to cause the girl nothing but profound distress.
"I don't like it here, Lena," Catherine whispered, her voice trembling. "The buildings are too tall. They feel like they're leaning in to listen to us."
"They're just buildings, Cat," Helena replied, though she privately agreed. London in 1816 was a city of scrutiny, a place where a frayed hem or a hesitant step could be the death of a reputation.
Opposite them, Ruth Beaumont adjusted her bonnet with a sharp, bird-like motion. Once a beauty herself, Ruth had transitioned into a state of permanent, high-strung vigilance. Their arrival in London was not a holiday; it was a military campaign, and they were dangerously low on ammunition.
"Helena, did you ensure the trunks were marked for the lodgings?" Ruth asked, her eyes darting between her daughters. "And the velvet for Catherine's first ball gown—did the moths get to it?"
"The trunks are secure, Mother, and the velvet is intact," Helena said, her tone patient but firm. "I've accounted for every shilling. We have enough for the season's entrance, provided we are... economical."
"Economical," Ruth huffed, looking out at the grand facades of the houses they passed. "We are Beaumonts. We shouldn't have to be economical. If your father hadn't been so 'economical' with his common sense, we wouldn't be in this position."
Helena didn't reply. Discussing her late father's gambling debts was as productive as shouting at the rain. Instead, she shifted her weight, feeling the familiar, heavy pressure against her shin. A low, guttural growl erupted from the floorboards.
"Hush, Brittany," Helena murmured, reaching down to scratch the head of the creature huddled at her feet.
Brittany was, by any objective standard, a catastrophe of a dog. A corgi of questionable lineage, she was remarkably short-legged even for her breed, with a torso that resembled an overstuffed sausage and a jaw that sat at a permanent, rakish tilt. One of her ears stood at attention while the other flopped over her eye, giving her the appearance of a perpetually disgruntled pirate.
"I still don't know why we brought that... that gargoyle," Ruth said, drawing her skirts away as if she feared contagion. "She's deformed, she smells of old ham, and she's bitten three grooms in the last month."
"She's not a gargoyle, she's a companion," Helena defended. "And she only bites people who have ill intentions. Or people who move too quickly. Or people who exist in her general vicinity."
As if to prove the point, Brittany let out a sharp, snapping bark at a passing lamplighter, her entire body vibrating with a hatred for the world that only a small, misshapen dog could harbor.
"She loves me," Helena added, as Brittany immediately turned and rested her heavy, wet chin on Helena's boot, offering a rare, toothy grin that looked more like a threat than an expression of affection.
"She's like a tiny, furry fortress," Catherine noted, a small smile finally touching her lips.
The coach slowed to a halt in front of a narrow, respectable-looking house on Upper Orchard Street. It was a "limited funds" address—clean, polite, and painfully honest about its inhabitants' status.
Helena stepped out first, her boots hitting the damp cobbles with a decisive click. She looked up at the grey sky, feeling the weight of the coming months. Her mother was counting on Catherine. And Catherine... Catherine was looking at Helena as if she were the only thing keeping the world from spinning off its axis.
"Listen to me, Cat," Helena said, turning to help her sister down. Catherine's hand was ice-cold. "You are the most beautiful woman in this city. You don't have to do anything but be yourself."
"I can't," Catherine whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "I won't do it, Lena. I won't marry a stranger just because Mother says we need the money. I won't marry anyone unless you like him."
Helena paused, her hand still holding Catherine's.
"If you don't approve of him—if you don't think he's good, and kind, and right for us—then I'll stay a spinster," Catherine declared, her voice gaining a rare edge of steel. "I'll go to the poorhouse with you and Brittany before I marry a man you don't trust."
Helena felt a lump form in her throat. She was the manager, the protector, the one who saw the world for what it was—a series of ledgers and risks.
"I won't let you marry a villain, Cat," Helena promised. "I'll vet every one of them. If they aren't worthy of you, they won't get past the front door."
At that moment, Brittany leaped from the coach, landed with a heavy thud, and immediately took a defensive stance, growling at a stray cat three blocks away.
"See?" Helena said with a faint, weary smile. "Between me and Brittany, no one is getting through who hasn't earned it."
The drawing room of their rental house became a staging ground. It was a chaotic sea of white muslin, silk ribbons, and the sharp, metallic scent of heated curling irons.
"Chin up, Catherine. If you slouch, the lace will pucker," Helena commanded, her mouth full of pins. She was on her knees, adjusting the hem of the gown they had spent the last forty-eight hours reviving. Every stitch was an act of deception; Helena had even unpicked silk flowers from an old bonnet to transform a modest dress into something that might pass for a Parisian original.
"Are you sure this is necessary, Lena?" Catherine whispered. "Could we not just tell the landlady we've had a change of heart and head back to the country?"
"And face the creditors perched on our doorstep like vultures?" Ruth asked, appearing in the doorway. "No, Catherine. You will go to that ball, you will dance, and you will secure a future for this family."
"I will only dance with the men Lena approves of," Catherine reminded her mother.
"Actually, Mother, it is exactly like a horse trade," Helena said, spitting out the pins and standing up. She wiped a smudge of charcoal from her cheek. "Except the stakes are higher and the 'horses' have better cravats. I will be watching from the edges. If I see a man with a reputation for the card tables or a wandering eye, I'll find a way to intervene."
"And how will you do that?" Ruth asked. "You'll be a wallflower, Helena."
"The beauty of being a wallflower is that no one notices you watching them," Helena replied with a sharp smile. "I can hear the gossip and see which men treat the servants with disdain. It's the perfect vantage point for a scout."
A sudden, sharp yapping erupted from beneath the settee. Brittany scrambled out, her mismatched ears flopping wildly as she lunged for a loose thread on Catherine's hem. Helena scooped the dog up, and Brittany let out a low, vibrating growl aimed directly at Ruth's ankles.
"She knows," Catherine said, patting the dog's lopsided head. "She knows we're preparing for battle."
"You look like a Diamond, Cat," Helena whispered, finally stepping back. The transformation was complete. Catherine was radiant—a masterpiece of light and shadow.
"And you look like a General," Catherine replied.
Helena nodded, her eyes turning hard and cold. "Good. Because tonight, the Beaumonts aren't just arriving. We're surviving."
The hired carriage sat idling at the curb. Inside the house, the atmosphere was thick with lavender water and nervous energy. Helena stood by the flickering candle, a lavender-colored sheet of paper held firmly in her hands.
"We are not going in blind," Helena said, tapping the paper—a smuggled copy of Lady Ravenscroft's Sheet. "London is a minefield of 'Great Northern Oaks' and predatory fortune hunters. This 'Lord N.' they speak of is looking for a consort, not a wife. He wants someone 'sensible' who won't bother him with 'vapors'."
"Helena, stop frightening her," Ruth pleaded.
"An ambush is exactly what it is, Mother," Helena countered. "Listen to me, Cat. If a man approaches you with a predatory smile or treats the evening like a tactical briefing, you are to be as cold as limestone. Do not be swayed by a silver tongue. Many of these men have hearts encased in ice."
At the mention of cold hearts, Brittany let out a muffled bark from her crate.
"Even Brittany knows," Helena murmured. "The world outside these doors is fundamentally altered from the one we knew. You must be the Diamond—polished and impenetrable."
Catherine looked up, her woodsmoke eyes wide. "But what if I'm just... me?"
Helena reached out and cupped her sister's face. "Then you stay close to me. I will be your stone foundation. If the wind picks up, we take shelter together. Remember your vow: no one gets past me unless they are worthy of your heart."
"I remember," Catherine whispered.
Ruth checked the mantel clock. "The carriage is waiting. First impressions are the only currency we have left."
Helena folded the gossip sheet and tucked it into her reticule like a hidden dagger. She straightened her sensible grey skirts. "Then let us go. We have the work of a century to do in a single season. We observe, we filter, and we do not engage in the 'poetry of the heart' until I say it is safe."
As they stepped out into the damp London night, the heavy oak door of the rental house closed behind them with a final, echoing thud.