A Lady's Guide to Ruin by Kathleen Kimmel

Martin’s orders, for fear that Joan’s brute of a brother might accost them before they reached the city limits.
    The carriage jounced along the road, its course so rough that Joan could not help but stare at Mrs. Wynn, who had already nodded off on the bench opposite. Fixing her eyes on the old woman at least gave her something to focus on other than the riotous mix of giddiness and dread fermenting just south of her breastbone.
    She had listened at the door while Martin and Elinor spoke; she had heard every word. She ought to have cursed herself as a fool for letting Martin glimpse anything other than flighty, silly Daphne. But she did not regret that moment in the hall. It was the first moment she had not felt as if she were still within the walls of Bedlam. And if she had let that sensation goad her into bold speech when she should have been demure, surely she could be forgiven. It was only with daylight that she had feared for her guise,and felt the stirrings of a kind of guilt she would never have allowed herself before Bedlam.
    Martin had promised her safety. He had thought he was making the promise to another girl, a girl who perhaps deserved it more. Joan hoped Daphne
was
safe, cradled in the arms of her lover. She had not thought until now, with her own freedom so close she could almost wrap her arms around it, that Daphne might be in some great trouble of her own. Joan had stolen Martin’s promise from her. She wished that look, both tender and impossibly fierce, was truly meant for her. But she was only a pretender.
    A pretender with no choice. She could not turn back now. Not until she was free of Moses. As soon as she reached this Birch Hall, she would flee. They would find the real Daphne in time. All would be set to right soon enough.
    She sighed, the sound doubled by Elinor’s exhalation. They glanced at one another with matching smiles, and if Elinor’s was a bit forced, she covered it well.
    â€œI suppose,” Joan said, pulling herself free of her circling thoughts, “that I should entertain you with lively conversation.”
    â€œI had imagined you would be too traumatized by your recent misfortunes,” Elinor said. She arched one brow regally. They were a family of active brows, Joan thought, but Elinor had the more skilled approach to their wielding. “You seem somewhat more composed than when Martin brought you home.”
    â€œDo I? A hot soak and several hours’ sleep have that effect on me, I find,” she said. Should she sniffle, collapse in the corner? Daphne would—at least the Daphne she had constructed in those first moments in Martin’s company. But she had long since learned that it was more effectiveto give a mark what they wanted—not always what they expected. After her conversation with Martin, Elinor would be eager to find some hidden depth to her cousin. Joan might as well indulge the impulse. “I am quite appalled at myself, really. I had always thought I would be more stalwart in the face of misadventure. And I am afraid I have never been terribly entertaining company in the morning.”
    â€œMisadventure ought to be embarked upon properly clothed, rested, and fed,” Elinor said. “Else we cannot be held responsible for excess emotionality. Don’t you think?” It was clever, the way she spoke, leaning in to give the impression that the rest of the world did not exist. Her voice was an invitation to trust, a portrait of openness. What secrets she must hear. She might have made an excellent criminal. “In any case, tears can be so very useful.”
    â€œDo you often employ them, then?”
    Elinor’s eyes dropped to her hands. They were such elegant things, folded in a way that made Joan think of the wings of a swan. “No,” she said. “My tears are honest to the last.” And then a slight, wicked smile. “And I am not often honest.”
    Joan let out a startled, pleased