She had attended enough gatherings as her aunt’s shadow to know how quickly conversation among ladies of the ton could turn sharp, particularly toward the unfamiliar. But Lady Marchmont’s parlor, airy and scented with lavender, had a gentler rhythm to it. The circle of women gathered that morning were not cruel, merely interested. And in Sommer-by-the-Sea, curiosity wore civility like lace gloves.
Before leaving, Leticia had braced herself for a gauntlet of veiled scrutiny.
Her aunt met her in the front drawing room, offering no comment on Leticia’s choice of gown but watching with a faint smile as she adjusted her gloves.
“Lady Marchmont’s teas are not known for their heat, but for their precision,” Lady Eastbury murmured. “You’ll find the company more mannered than merry.”
Leticia glanced over. “And what role am I meant to play? The curiosity. The scandal.”
“The newcomer,” her aunt said. “Which, in this village, is all three.”
She moved to fasten Leticia’s locket, her mother’s, worn for luck, and rested her hand lightly on her shoulder.
“You’ll manage. Just remember who you are. And whose house you return to.”
There was no unkindness in it. No comfort either. It was a warning disguised as care. Sommer-by-the-Sea might not rival London in grandeur, but the women here had their own hierarchies, their own customs, and quiet codes. Her aunt had offered little guidance beyond a thin smile and a perfectly timed squeeze of the hand.
She had chosen a gown in soft blue, neither too fine nor too plain. Let them talk, she had thought. But now, seated among them, she found the atmosphere less combative than she expected.
Leticia sat with her gloves folded neatly in her lap, answering polite questions about her time abroad, the suddenness of her engagement, and whether she had any interest in joining the village’s charitable society. She gave mild, agreeable answers and learned far more by listening than speaking.
They were more curious than critical. Lady Marchmont presided gently, keeping the conversation flowing. Mrs. Dennington had a ready laugh and a fondness for embellishing even the smallest local scandal. A younger woman, Miss Elwood, asked Leticia whether the proposal had taken place in public or private. Leticia offered the mildest version of the truth, omitting mention of masks, confusion, and unexpected kisses. She watched as their eyes lit with delight, eager to embroider her story into something finer than the reality. They spoke of the proposal as if it had been orchestrated. It had, of course, just not in the way they imagined.
It wasn’t until the third round of tea that the conversation shifted.
“Have you heard about Lady Tewksbury’s theft?” asked Mrs. Dennington, her voice pitched just above genteel astonishment. “Brazen, really. Right out of her sitting room.”
“Her ruby ring, wasn’t it?” said another. “I would’ve thought they’d go for her sapphires. Those are heirlooms.”
“No, not the ring,” Mrs. Dennington corrected. “It was that old garnet brooch. The one she rarely wore.”
A flutter of conversation followed. Leticia kept her expressionpolitely neutral, but her attention sharpened. A garnet brooch over heirloom sapphires? That was no random choice. She made no remark, but her mind turned over the oddity like a stone she could not set down.
Lady Marchmont shook her head. “We haven’t had anything like this in years. Not since the silver was lifted from the vicarage.”
Mrs. Dennington laughed. “That was a fox, not a thief.”
“It snatched the entire fork from the windowsill and vanished into the hedgerow like a phantom.”
Miss Ashford let out a peal of laughter. “Ah, but what had the fork speared? A fine piece of mutton, I suppose!”
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Lady Marchmont allowed a rare chuckle. “It took the vicar a week to stop blaming the curate.”
“Regardless,” Lady Marchmont replied, “this is altogether unsettling. One can’t help but feel watched.”
Leticia glanced toward the window. The street beyond was calm, shaded by trees, as ordinary as any other. She reached for her teacup again just as the parlor door opened and Erica entered, cheeks flushed from the morning air. Watched. Yes. That was precisely how it felt.
“Forgive me, ladies,” Erica said with easy charm, pulling off her gloves. “I was delayed at the milliners. The shop was quite lively today.”
She took the empty seat beside Lady Marchmont and cast Leticia a pleasant glance. “It seems all anyone can talk about is your engagement. I’m beginning to feel unfashionably out of date for arriving without a question or a theory.”
A ripple of soft laughter passed through the room, and the conversation turned, predictably, to the proposal once more.
*
The gathering hadbegun to thin when Leticia made her farewells, offering practiced smiles and half-promises to call again soon. By the time she reached home, the afternoon light had turned golden across the garden walls, and her thoughts, so carefully ordered during tea, had begun to drift. Not toward the theft. Not even toward the laughter. But toward a man whose silence she understood more than she cared to admit.
She had not meant to write him.
