“Well?” she asked. “Read it.”
Frances unfolded the sheet more fully and began.
“Well, first,” Frances said, glancing down the page, “we have Lady Barham, who has apparently receivedfar too manyflowers from a gentleman who is regrettably not her husband.”
Sophia straightened at once. “Flowers are never innocent in these papers. Who sent them?”
“It does not say,” Frances replied. “Which, of course, means everyone will supply a name by dinner.”
Their mother gave a knowing hum. “I always suspected she was a bit too…freewith her attention.”
“You always suspect everyone,” Frances said.
“And am I so often wrong?”
Frances did not answer that. Instead, she continued. “The lady in question has lately developed such a fondness for roses that one cannot help but wonder whether she means to cultivate a garden or a scandal.”
Sophia gave a delighted little gasp. “Oh, that is wicked!”
“It is lazy,” Frances frowned. “But I admit, it is effective.”
She moved lower on the page. “Now we come to Lord Henshaw, who has lost a distressing sum at cards.”
“That is hardly uncommon,” their mother shrugged.
Frances lifted one finger. “Ah, but he has also lost what the writer calls ‘the last fragile remains of his dignity,’ which apparently occurred when he attempted to accuse an elderly viscount of cheating and was instead made to apologize before half the club.”
Sophia laughed outright. “No!”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
Frances scanned the line again. “According to this, he turned so red that one lady feared for his health.”
Their mother shook her head. “That family has never possessed proper restraint.”
“Indeed not,” Frances murmured. “The paper seems to think restraint was denied them at birth.”
Sophia leaned closer. “Read the next one.”
Frances obliged. “‘An esteemed widow of mature years has lately shown such patriotic devotion toward our military gentlemen that she has entertained three officers in as many evenings, though whether for conversation or consolation remains unclear.’”
Sophia pressed a hand over her mouth, scandalized and thrilled. “Goodness!”
Their mother’s brows rose. “French brandy and officers, I should think.”
Frances looked up. “You know of her, then?”
“My dear, everyone knows of her. She has been outrageous since 1809.”
Sophia was laughing now. Frances let her eyes move easily over the columns. She knew this language too well. She knew the sly turn of phrase, the insinuation that let a writer wound while pretending merely to observe, and finally, the art of saying just enough to set a room ablaze.
She turned the page.
“Now here,” she divulged, “is where our anonymous oracle grows especially venomous.”
Sophia drew her feet beneath her on the settee. “Is someone eloping?”
