"What do you think Cousin Edward will be like?" Sylvia asked.

Rosalind raised her eyebrows. "Do you realize how often you have asked me that in the last year?" she asked with a sigh. "We both know only what the lawyer told us when he came to inform us of the contents of your papa's will. Your father's heir, and our guardian, is two and thirty, unwed, a fashionable man about town. He has made no attempt to see us or to visit his new property at Raymore. Until three weeks ago I hoped he had forgotten our existence. But he had not. To satisfy some whim, he has summoned us to town, and insisted that I accompany you, even though I wrote to ask if I might stay at home."

"He probably plans to find husbands for us during the Season," Sylvia said. "Oh, how splendid it will be, Ros. New clothes and balls and such"

Rosalind examined her ungloved hands, which were clasped in her lap. "There can be nothing there for me," she said with quiet resignation. "Do you think he will let me return home when he knows, Sylvie?"

Sylvia gazed with sympathy at her cousin. "It may not be as bad as you think," she said. "You are an heiress in a small way, after all, Ros, and somewhere there must be a man who does not care about the other."

She was still staring at her cousin's downcast face when her eye was caught by something different in the landscape beyond the carriage window.

"Oh, look," she cried, pointing, "London, Ros!"

Rosalind turned and looked, too, at the distant skyline of buildings. She felt none of the excitement that was bubbling from her companion. She felt only a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a threatening sense of panic.

It was all very well for Sylvia to be overjoyed, Rosalind thought, turning her gaze to her cousin, who had now moved to the seat opposite hers and was sitting with her face pressed to the window. Sylvia was beautiful, there could never be any question about that.