“Because of what you said,” Effie said. “Because the female release is not necessary to the . . . proceedings.”
“Correct. And perhaps also because the release in question can be elusive. One must apply oneself. Be prepared to settle in, perhaps for quite a while.”
Effie could think of nothing more enjoyable than applying himself to Julianna for quite a while.
“I would suggest, though,” Simon went on, “that the gentleman whodoespay attention, who devotes himself to the cultivation of the female release, will be greatly appreciated by the female in question.”
“I quite agree,” Archie said.
“Good. Good.” This was the kind of information Effie needed. He still could not believe that he had attained eight-and-twenty years with no knowledge of this world of feminine mystery.
It occurred to Effie to wonder how Simon knew to make such a suggestion. Archie they had both seen making a fool of himself over Clementine last fall—and in the months sense. But what lady had been the recipient of all this knowledge of Simon’s?
“How are you, Simon?” Effie asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How have you been? What is new in your life?”
“I am fine. Nothing is new.”
“Are you sure?”
“What are you on about?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Effie paused, ashamed that he had been so self-centered this trip. They’d talked and talked and talked about him and his woes, but he hadn’t asked Simon a single question. He racked his brain. “The gaols act! That is new, isn’t it?”
“You want to talk about the gaols act? Talking about parliamentary matters is against the rules of Earls Trip, is in not?”
“That never stopped you before.”
“Effie, why don’t you just go to Miss Evans?”
Effie looked at Archie, who nodded his agreement and said, “We will still be here in the morning for you to interrogate.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
* * *
“Hello, my dearest,” Effie said a few minutes later as he slipped into Julianna’s room—but not before going into his own and turning the covers down and mussing the bedclothes so it would look as if he’d been there. If anyone came in later tonight, he hoped they would think he’d had a bout of sleeplessness and had gone for a walk. There was precedent for that. “How is your head?”
“My head is fine.” She gestured him to the bed, as she’d done earlier, but this time she was wearing only her shift, the same one she’d worn to the beach.
“The headache was a ruse, wasn’t it?” he asked, as he sat, his pulse kicking up.
“It was a ruse.” She had been reading a sheaf of papers, and she set them on the night table.
“You were determined not to be seen as a gate-crasher.”
“I was determined to have a nap!”
“And did you?”
“I did not. I meant to, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“I found myself too aflutter with anticipation.”
