“And again during an amateur staging of The Fair Penitent. The second act.”
“Did she recover?” Elizabeth asked. “Or is she still weeping somewhere in Cumberland?”
He blinked. She smiled.
He bowed.
She nodded.
And the moment he left, she turned to Jane with barely contained irritation.
“Why,” she whispered, “does he think I have opinions on lutes?”
Jane pressed her lips together politely.
The third gentleman—tall, sunburned, and too cheerful by half—had been foisted upon her by Aunt Gardiner with a littlenudge and a meaningful look. Mr. Denby. A friend’s nephew, or possibly a cousin’s ward, with land in Essex and a fondness for the outdoors. His coat was a little too tight across the shoulders, his grin a little too wide, and his voice an octave louder than necessary.
But he was speaking to her. Kindly. With interest. That was more than enough.
Elizabeth straightened her posture and adopted the mildest expression she could summon.
“It must be lovely,” she said, “to spend so much time in the country.”
“Oh, it is!” Mr. Denby boomed. “Open air, good dogs, and clean boots at the end of the day. No better life, I say.”
She nodded. “And your dog is a sporting breed, I believe?”
“Spaniel! Excellent nose. Knows when someone’s coming ‘round before I do. Caught a footman sneaking pastries last month. Not mine, mind—my aunt’s footman. Good lad. Just hungry.”
“Very enterprising,” Elizabeth said.
“Named him Jupiter. The dog, I mean. Not the footman.”
“I assumed.”
“He once chased off a pair of geese and saved a picnic. Never seen a goose look so offended in my life.”
Elizabeth smiled. She could do this. She could make it through one conversation without—
Mr. Denby reached for a glass of cordial from a passing tray and, in the process, caught the edge of his sleeve on the table. A splash of red arced through the air and landed squarely on the front of his cream-colored cravat.
He looked down. “Ah. Blast.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, meaning to say something soothing. What came out was: “At least your dog has company in the matter of graceful manners.”
There was a pause.
Mr. Denby blinked. Twice.
“I meant—” she began, a bit too brightly, “only that he seems such a clever companion. A credit to his master.”
He smiled, or something close to it. “Right. Yes. Very good.”
He dabbed at his cravat with a handkerchief that did nothing at all.
Another pause.
Then he said, “Excuse me. I believe that sculpture of the bear requires a closer look.”
