At the Danbury ball, the first major social event after Lady Whistledown’s Society Paper went live, Penelope Featherington found herself standing in a corner of the ballroom, smiling and feeling rather delighted with herself, despite of the horrendous lemon-yellow shade of the dress currently cutting painfully into the sides of her bosom. Save the young men and mamas with unmarried sons who were otherwise fawning over Daphne Bridgerton or staring in wonder at Marina Thompson, everyone in the ballroom was abuzz with excitement at the question of the identity of the mysterious Lady W, or incensed that they had been subject to some cutting commentary that was only too true; if truth be told, the grumbles delighted Penelope slightly more than the praises. Oh, she knew it wasn’t nice to be so chuffed that people felt so insulted by the equally not-very-nice things she wrote, but had she a man’s name and a man’s education, she might have been able to publish on some other, more worthy, subject and demand respect for it; as it was, publishing as a woman would gain her scorn regardless, surely there was no need to hide her own sharp teeth, especially when she had the delicious cover of such anonymity.