They discussed the possibility as they walked.
“What if she doesn’t want to see me, though?” Effie asked. It was hard to imagine, given the tenor of their meeting yesterday, but shehaddecisively turned down his invitation to dinner.
“I feel certain she will want to see you,” Simon said with a bit of a guffaw.
Effie wasn’t sure what was so amusing. “How? How are you sure?”
“Because there she is.”
Effie nearly tripped again.
“Good heavens, so she is,” Archie said.
Sure enough, about thirty or so yards down Hove Street, dressed in a navy spencer and the same gray-beribboned bonnet as yesterday, was Julianna.
Effie was aware he should not be surprised by anything Julianna did. She was, after all, possessed of uncommon intelligence and wit. But to see her striding down the street here, where they’d purposefully hidden themselves from the bustle of Brighton, positively stopped him in his tracks.
She was wearing a dress of blue gray under the spencer—not the same purely gray dress as yesterday—and carrying an unadorned black reticule. She had a very . . . decided sort of walk, a long, strong gait, and she kept her gaze on her destination. Which, in this case, was apparently him. She looked like a governess intent on reaching a wayward charge.
“How wonderful!” he exclaimed.
“My lords,” she said briskly, dipping into a curtsy as she came to a halt in front of them.
He wanted to tell her to stop that. She needn’t curtsy. Sheshouldn’tcurtsy. Something about it felt terribly, terribly wrong. But before he could object, the boys were sweeping into bows, and what could he do but follow suit?
“Good morning, Miss Evans,” Archie said solicitously. “How lovely to see you.”
Instead of returning his greeting, Julianna said, “My lords, I have secured a tour of the Pavilion’s interior. The public areas, anyway.”
“You have!” Simon exclaimed. “How?”
“I merely called and introduced myself to the servant who answered the door as the editor ofLe Monde Joli, a respected and respectable ladies’ magazine, and explained that my readers, possessed of exquisite taste and being interested in decor and the latest fashion, would be delighted to read an account of the place. He invited me in and asked me to wait. Eventually, the butler appeared, and, after some conferencing with the housekeeper, it was decided that a tour could be offered tomorrow morning.”
Effie beamed like a proud papa. She was so resourceful.
“How marvelous, Miss Evans,” Simon said. “I would remark upon how lucky you are, but clearly it is enterprise and not luck at work here.”
Exactly.
“Yes, and I thought you all might like to come. That’s why I’m here, to invite you.”
Simon came as close to having a fit of the vapors as Effie had ever seen—which was admittedly not very close, but still, his delighted gasp was so very un-Simon-like.
“Did you walk here?” Archie peered in the direction of Brighton.
“I did. It is not far.”
“How were you planning to find us, had we not encountered each other here?” Simon asked.
“Lord Featherfinch told me you were staying at the home of one of your friends, Lord Marsden. I deduced that the friend in question must be Lord Haffert. You and he have voted the same on all matters I am aware of in Lords, and you are both engaged in trying to draft legislation related to prison reform for next year’s session.”
Simon’s eyebrows flew skyward.
“And, knowing Lord Haffert has a house in Hove, a place I believe he became acquainted with thanks to his work in Parliament against smuggling, I thought when I got to the village, I would merely ask someone where it was.” She shrugged as if this remarkable bit of sleuthing were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps, for her, it was. Perhaps that was why her magazine was so good.
“And you were merely going to knock at the door and ask for us?” Archie asked.
She looked between the three of them. “Should I not have? Would I have been unwelcome?”
