Chapter One

Today's Modern Woman should strive for personal enlightenment, independence, and forthrightness. The perfect place to begin this quest for assertiveness is in the bedchamber ...

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore

"Scandalous, that's what it is," came an outraged male whisper. "My wife has somehow secured a copy of that deuced Ladies' Guide."

"How do you know?" came another gruff male whisper.

"Damned obvious, what with the way she's been acting. Been spewing out nonsense about 'today's modern woman' and 'independence' like a steaming teakettle. Just yesterday she marched into my private study and proceeded to question me regarding my gambling markers and the amount of time I spend at White's!"

Sharp intakes of breath followed. "Outrageous," muttered the gruff whisperer.

"Precisely what I told her."

"What did you do?"

"Why, I marched her right out of my study, called for a carriage, and sent her to Asprey's to pick out a new bauble to occupy her mind."

"Excellent. I assume your strategy worked?"

"Unfortunately not as well as I'd hoped. Last night I found her awaiting me in my bedchamber. Gave me quite a turn, I tell you. Especially as I'd just left my mistress and was thoroughly worn-out. Bloody hell, a wife's not supposed to make such demands, or have such expectations."

"My wife did the same thing just last week," came a third aggrieved whisper. "Entered my bedchamber, bold as you please, pushed me onto the mattress, then ... well, I can only describe it as to say she jumped upon me. Completely deflated my lungs and damn near crushed me. As I lie there, immobile with shock, fighting for my very breath, she says in a most impatient tone, 'Bump your arse a bit.' Can you imagine such undignified goings-on? Then, just when I thought I couldn't be more astonished, she demanded to know why I'd never... "

The voice lowered further and Lady Catherine Ashfield, Viscountess Bickley, leaned closer to the Oriental screen that secreted her presence from the gentlemen on the other side.

" ... This Charles Brightmore must be stopped," whispered one of the gentlemen.

"I agree. A disaster of gargantuan proportions, that's what he's brought upon us. Why, if my daughter reads that cursed Guide, I'll never marry off the foolish chit. Independence, indeed. Completely insupportable. This Guide could well prove even worse than the uproar incited by that Wollstonecraft woman's writings. Nothing but ridiculous reformists' balderdash."

Murmurs of agreement followed that pronouncement. Then the whisperer continued, "And as for the bedchamber, women are demanding enough creatures as it is, always wanting a new gown or earbobs or carriage or the like. 'Tis outrageous that their expectations should extend to that. Especially a woman of my wife's age, who is the mother of two grown children. Unseemly, that's what it is."

"Couldn't agree more. Should I ever find myself in the company of this Brightmore bastard, I'll personally wring his bloody neck. Tarring and feathering is too good for him. Everyone I've spoken to feels certain that 'Charles Brightmore' is a pseudonym, and coward that he is, he's refused to step forward and identify himself. The betting book at White's is a frenzy of wagers on the subject of his identity. Damn it all, what sort of man would think, let alone write, such unseemly ideas?"

"Well, I stopped at White's just before coming here, and the latest theory proposes the possibility that Charles Brightmore is in fact a woman. Indeed, I heard ... "

The gentleman's low-pitched words were drowned out by a trill of nearby feminine laughter. Catherine inched closer, all but pressing her ear to the screen.

" ... and if it's true, it would be the scandal of the century ... " She heard some more unintelligible mumbling, then, " ... hired an investigator two days ago to get to the bottom of this. He comes highly recommended ... ruthless, and will ferret out the truth. In fact -- oh, bloody hell, my wife's caught sight of me. Hang it, look at her, fluttering her eyelashes at me. Shocking, that's what it is. Appalling. And altogether frightening."

Catherine peeked around the edge of the screen. Lady Markingworth stood at the edge of the dance floor, her rotund proportions ensconced in an unfortunate shade of yellowish green satin that cast her complexion with a distinctly jaundiced hue, her brown hair arranged in a complicated coiffure involving sausage curls, ribbons, and peacock feathers. With her attention fixed on the opposite side of the screen, Lady Markingworth was batting her eyes as one might if caught in a dust-ridden windstorm. Then, with an air of determination, she marched toward the screen.

"Egad," came a horrified, panic-filled whisper that Catherine assumed belonged to Lord Markingworth. "She's got that damnable gleam in her eye."

"And it's too late to escape, old man."

"Bloody hell. A plague on that bastard Charles Brightmore's house. I'm going to find out who this person is, then kill him -- or her. Slowly."

"There you are, Ephraim," said Lady Markingworth, her greeting followed by a girlish giggle. "I've been searching for you everywhere. The waltz is about to start. And how fortunate that Lords Whitly and Carweather are with you. Your wives anxiously await you near the dance floor, my lords."

Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet floor as the group moved away.

Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection. Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very unexpected turn. All she'd wanted was to avoid the approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom had dogged her footsteps since the moment she'd arrived at her father's birthday party and separately attempted to maneuver her into a tête-à-tête ...