“Oh, the usual stuff,” Posy said with a wave of her hand. “Really, it can be quite humdrum, you know.”

Sophie tried to smile and failed. She’d like nothing more than to live a day of Posy’s humdrum life. Well, perhaps she wouldn’t want Araminta for a mother, but she wouldn’t mind a life of parties, routs, and musicales.

“Let’s see,” Posy mused. “There was a review of Lady Worth’s recent ball, a bit about Viscount Guelph, who seems rather smitten with some girl from Scotland, and then a longish piece on the upcoming Bridgerton masquerade.”

Sophie sighed. She’d been reading about the upcoming masquerade for weeks, and even though she was nothing but a lady’s maid (and occasionally a housemaid as well, whenever Araminta decided she wasn’t working hard enough) she couldn’t help but wish that she could attend the ball.

“I for one will be thrilled if that Guelph viscount gets himself engaged,” Posy remarked, reaching for another biscuit. “It will mean one fewer bachelor for Mother to go on and on about as a potential husband. It’s not as if I have any hope of attracting his attention anyway.” She took a bite of the biscuit; it crunched loudly in her mouth. “I do hope Lady Whistledown is right about him.”

“She probably is,” Sophie answered. She had been reading Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers since it had debuted in  1813, and the gossip columnist was almost always correct when it came to matters of the Marriage Mart.

Not, of course, that Sophie had ever had the chance to see the Marriage Mart for herself. But if one read Whistledown often enough, one could almost feel a part of London Society without actually attending any balls.

In fact, reading Whistledown was really Sophie’s one true enjoyable pastime. She’d already read all of the novels in the  library, and as neither Araminta, Rosamund, nor Posy was particularly enamored of reading, Sophie couldn’t look forward  to a new book entering the house.

But Whistledown was great fun. No one actually knew the columnist’s true identity. When the single-sheet newspaper had debuted two years earlier, speculation had been rampant. Even now, whenever Lady Whistledown reported a particularly  juicy bit of gossip, people starting talking and guessing anew, wondering who on earth was able to report with such speed  and accuracy.

And for Sophie, Whistledown was a tantalizing glimpse into the world that might have been hers, had her parents actually  made their union legal. She would have been an earl’s daughter, not an earl’s bastard; her name Gunningworth instead of Beckett.

Just once, she’d like to be the one stepping into the coach and attending the ball.

Instead, she was the one dressing others for their nights on the town, cinching Posy’s corset or dressing Rosamund’s hair or polishing a pair of Araminta’s shoes.

But she could not—or at least should not—complain. She might have to serve as maid to Araminta and her daughters, but at least she had a home. Which was more than most girls in her position had.

When her father had died, he’d left her nothing. Well, nothing but a roof over her head. His will had ensured that she could not be turned out until she was twenty. There was no way that Araminta would forfeit four thousand pounds a year by giving Sophie the boot.

But that four thousand pounds was Araminta’s, not Sophie’s, and Sophie hadn’t ever seen a penny of it. Gone were the fine clothes she’d used to wear, replaced by the coarse wool of the servants. And she ate what the rest of the maids ate—  whatever Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy chose to leave behind.

Sophie’s twentieth birthday, however, had come and gone almost a year earlier, and here she was, still living at Pen-wood House, still waiting on Araminta hand and foot. For some unknown reason—probably because she didn’t want to train  (or pay) a new maid—Araminta had allowed Sophie to remain in her household.

And Sophie had stayed. If Araminta was the devil she knew, then the rest of the world was the devil she didn’t. And Sophie had no idea which would be worse.

“Isn’t that tray getting heavy?”

Sophie blinked her way out of her reverie and focused on Posy, who was reaching for the last biscuit on the tray. Drat. She’d been hoping to snitch it for herself. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, it is quite. I should really be getting to the kitchen with it.”

Posy smiled. “I won’t keep you any longer, but when you’re done with that, could you press my pink gown? I’m going to  wear it tonight. Oh, and I suppose the matching shoes should be readied as well. I got a bit of dirt on them last time I wore them, and you know how Mother is about shoes. Never mind that you can’t even see them under my skirt. She’ll notice the tiniest speck of dirt the instant I lift my hem to climb a step.”

Sophie nodded, mentally adding Posy’s requests to her daily list of chores.

“I’ll see you later, then!” Biting down on that last biscuit, Posy turned and disappeared into her bedchamber. And Sophie trudged down to the kitchen.

A few days later, Sophie was on her knees, pins clamped between her teeth as she made last-minute alterations on  Araminta’s masquerade costume. The Queen Elizabeth gown had, of course, been delivered from the dressmaker as  a perfect fit, but Araminta insisted that it was now a quarter inch too large in the waist.

“How is that?” Sophie asked, speaking through her teeth so the pins wouldn’t fall. “Too tight.”

Sophie adjusted a few pins. “What about that?” “Too loose.”