Somebody is definitely out to unnerve stunning seventeen-year-old Sara, who's been living comfortably in London with Uncle Arthur, Aunt Rachel, and the cousins since mum and pa died in The Fire (was it her fault?) ten years ago in 1858. Consider those creaking stairs, those anonymous obscene letters, those faces at the window, that razor on the pillow, that now-you-see-her-now-you-don't cursing old crone in the street--plus the pervasive hints that Sara's a sleep-walking weirdo who's bound for the madhouse. And then her suitors start succumbing: cousin Simon is pushed down the steps, dimpled Matthew has poisoned tea, cousin Sidney is kidnapped on their wedding day. It's just as well, therefore, that Sara prefers Lord Westerbrook, a suave rake who'll save the day, clasp Sara firmly, and rid himself of Jane Biggs, a possessive courtesan--and the only half-fresh character in this unusually unconvincing swirl of sweet young things, jealous females, and dirty old uncles.