Having long listened to London’s ton, Ethel Jane Van Helsing well knew her faults. She had skin marred with freckles, a nose too snub, and hair of a brown that reflected neither red nor gold highlights. She was plain. And yet, at a masquerade ball an ugly duckling could become a swan.
If only tonight were for fowl play. But Jane came from distinguished and determined stock. Where other young ladies denied monsters under the bed, Jane’s clan sought them out and snuffed them—under, beside or on top. She was expected to do the same. Her father, the Major, had shown her very early how to use the sharp end of a stick where and when the sun didn’t shine. And tonight, seeing Neil Asher, the dreamy, rakish and oh-so-delicious Earl of Wolverton, her name was at stake.
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