My brother, Julien, liked to say I was our father’s penance made flesh. A dramatic sentiment, but Julien was prone to theatrics. I was not so very terrible—not as a daughter, a sister, or a friend. My only true crime, at least in the eyes of my family and all of London society, was that I was quite thoroughly mad.

Some claimed a careless maid had dropped me on my head. Others insisted I was divine retribution for my father’s sins. If anyone had asked my opinion, I would have told them the truth: London had simply never known what to do with a woman who wanted more for herself than a dull husband with a fondness for port—and an even greater fondness for my inheritance.

And so, I had developed a reputation. But what else was I to do? Accept my fate like a docile lamb? I thought not. Instead, I made it my mission to send my suitors fleeing. There had been wigs. Excessive chewing at dinner. My personal favorite: pretending to be possessed by the vengeful ghost of an ill-used maiden who loathed men. That gentleman had very nearly fainted.

Unfortunately, not all men were so easily discouraged. I realized this when, at my brother’s regrettable insistence, I was introduced to Nathaniel Blackford.

Of all the humorless men in London, my brother had chosen the most humorless of them all. He was a former colonel, a war hero, and quite possibly allergic to joy. He did not laugh. He did not smile. He only observed the world with the tired patience of a man who had long since given up on being pleased with anything at all.

And so, with the utmost solemnity, I widened my eyes and whispered, “You must leave at once, my lord. I am quite dreadfully haunted.”

Most men grew flustered under my scrutiny, but Lord Hawthorne was made of sterner stuff. He only regarded me with the same impassive boredom one might reserve for an ill-trained dog.

“Oh, but they believe in you,” I murmured, leaning forward. “Just last night, one told me you were the most frightfully dull man in all of England. Is it true?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.