Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society #1) - Jennifer Moore

Prologue

April 19, 1873

Lady Sophronia Bremerton glanced toward the ballroom doors, calculating her chances of a discreet exit. Her Ladyship the Marchioness of Molyneaux’s invitation to her annual ball held the Saturday after Easter was the most coveted of the Season; therefore, Sophie could hardly claim boredom as her reason for wishing to leave.

The Viscount of Kensington and Lord Hawthorne had already claimed a waltz, and three separate countesses had offered to accompany Sophie to A Private View at the Royal Academy. But Sophie didn’t flatter herself that her charms or others’ desire for her company were to be credited for the attention. Rather, her position as a society reporter for the Illustrated London News made the members of England’s upper class either seek her out or deliberately avoid her.

The grand clock echoed through the ballroom, chiming eleven. She’d arrived just after nine. Two hours of dancing and socializing should sufficiently please her parents. She looked across the room, trying to catch a glimpse of the feathers in her mother’s hair. Truth be told, her parents would likely not notice her absence—not when her sister had waltzed with the future Duke of Norwood.

Moving at a quick pace, Sophie made her escape. She hurried along the edge of the crowded ballroom toward the entrance, giving only polite nods and avoiding direct eye contact with anyone who might hope to bend her ear with a whisper of gossip.

Reporting rumors, scandals, and on-dits of the upper class was her occupation, but tonight she had no interest in discovering a story. She already knew what her next report would be, and it was hardly news. She smirked, certain the young lady involved would feign adequate surprise when the announcement was made, as would the other guests. London Society kept a secret as effectively as a wicker basket held water.

Tonight the Marquess of Molyneaux was to announce the engagement of his son and heir, Lord Ruben. The identity of the lucky young lady who would one day become the marchioness was, of course, taken for granted. Lord Ruben and Miss Dahlia Lancaster had carried on the most intentionally visible and highly gossiped-about courtship in decades. Sophie had written so many articles and created enough illustrations of the pair that she was relieved the nonsense would finally come to an end. She would, however, need to endure a conspicuous engagement . . . and then the wedding.

Sophie blew out a breath as she neared the doorway. How she longed to move away from the society columns and turn her skills to uncovering a real story—an important story about something that mattered, not just which member of high Society wore the most extravagant gown or had deliberately avoided a particular soiree to spite a rival. Unfortunately, Mr. Leonard, the editor of the broadsheet paper, valued Sophie’s artistic ability and access to high-Society events above her investigative skills.

“Lady Sophronia?”

Drat. The voice was too near for Sophie to pretend she hadn’t heard. She masked her irritation with a pleasant smile and turned.

Lord Everleigh stepped around a group of matrons. When he reached Sophie, he took her hand and bowed stiffly. “Good evening.”

As usual, the man’s clothing was impeccable. Slender and pale-skinned, he wore his fair hair short, parted smartly on the side. A waxed mustache graced his upper lip. Sophie inclined her head. “Lord Everleigh.”

“I’d hoped to engage your sister for the next waltz.” He released her hand and clasped his own behind his back, glancing toward the dancers. “Have you an idea where I might find her?”

Sophie should have guessed his reason for stopping her. She and the future Earl of Kirkham had only exchanged the briefest greetings in the past, and although they moved in the same social circles, she would hardly call the man more than a very remote acquaintance.

“I believe she is there, near the west windows.” Sophie lifted her chin toward the far side of the ballroom, where a cluster of young ladies gossiped and preened. Her younger sister, Priscilla, was no doubt the very center of the group. “At least, that is where I last saw her.”

“Very good. Thank you.” He moved as if to leave but stopped, perhaps thinking it rude not to bestow a compliment or at least engage in some conversation.

For her part, Sophie was perfectly happy to forego niceties and hasten her departure.

“I, ah, enjoyed your latest article, my lady.” Lord Everleigh ran a finger over his mustache and glanced across the ballroom again. “Something about spring fashions on the Brighton