“I am sorry that she was disappointed,” Isabel said.
“I am not,” the duchess said acerbically. “Had she won that ring, I would have found it waving in front of my face forevermore. Now, to other subjects. I understood perfectly well that Mr. Vance arranged to have you seated at his table. It was no coincidence. He really does push things.”
“Yes, I know he does.”
“I have a mind to write Lady Tredwell and ask her to disinvite him from her masque.”
Isabel was disappointed to hear it, though she should not be. His absence would give her heart a rest and allow her mind to think more clearly. She had begun to notice that when she was within range of him, her thoughts muddled. When she was not, they cleared. Or if not cleared, then at least her rational mind stepped forward and took the reins once more.
The duchess sighed. “I cannot ban him, though. Especially not after Miss Rightstone very publicly poured a glass of wine in his lap. Were he to be suddenly absent, the two circumstances would instantly be connected. What was that girl thinking?”
Isabel did not respond, as she did not imagine anybody could guess what Miss Rightstone had been thinking. Or if Miss Rightstone had been thinking at all.
“I had the misfortune of being within hearing distance of Miss Rightstone’s table and she did not stop there,” the duchess said. “She went on to pronounce the mystery stupid, her partner stupid, Mr. Vance stupid, and the footmen stupid for failing to procure her the necessary amount of wine.”
“Lady Rembly must be very distraught,” Isabel said.
“Oh yes, poor Lady Rembly has been distraught for years. On top of that shame, Miss Rightstone has insisted on going to the masque as a queen, which is quite ridiculous as she has no claim to it. Now, I did think I might outfit you as a Plantagenet queen, but the headdresses, they really do not suit a young lady. Therefore,Iwill go as a Plantagenet queen in your stead, and you will go as Helen of Troy, she was a great beauty, you know.”
Isabel did not answer the winding logic of the duchess going as a Plantagenet queen in her stead, while poor Miss Rightstone was to have no claim to it. “I have never attended a masque, it seems like great fun to wear a costume,” Isabel said.
“Some do it well and some do not,” the duchess said. “Wedo it well.”
As always, Isabel was rather in awe of the duchess’ supreme confidence in her judgments. Perhaps that was what it was to be a duchess. Perhaps she would find out.
“Now, this evening we will go out, but it will be a quiet sort of affair. Cards, at Lady Fitzwallen’s house. Lady Heathway and I will play against my duke and Lord Heathway. We do so on a regular schedule and we always trounce our poor husbands. I’m afraid Lord Lymington will not have been invited, he is known to be rather dreadful at cards.”
Isabel could imagine poor Lord Lymingtonwouldbe dreadful at cards. He had not the head for it. But what of Mr. Vance? Would he be there?
She should not wish it, but she could not help wondering about it.
“At least I will not have to foist off any more of Mr. Vance’s impertinences,” the duchess said. “I have never seen him at Lady Fitzwallen’s annual card party. Does a tradesman’s grandson even play whist? One wonders.”
So there it was. He would not be there. She should be grateful for it, though she was no such thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Harry had convenientlyfound Lymington at White’s. He was not surprised. Lymington was a creature of habit and was there every morning for coffee in case anybody wished to talk about horses. Surprisingly, the fellow found such conversations more often than one might imagine, especially if a significant race loomed. Lymington might not be a scholar, but he did know his way around a horse.
It was time to deploy the next incursion in Lady Isabel’s war.
“What say you, old fellow?” he asked when he found him in a near-desolate coffee room. “Are you ready to write that poem we discussed?”
Lymington slowly nodded. “I suppose. So you say it is absolutely necessary in the courting business, then?”
“Quite,” Harry said. “How else is the lady to know your feelings?”
“Why, I might just say, you know, gad, Lady Isabel, you’re a very nice sort of person.”
Harry stared at Lymington. “You might,” he said, “but a lady likes to have things written down, where she can read them privately and reflect on them.”
“Do they? They’re rather deep creatures, eh?”
“Very deep. Now, I’ve brought all the writing materials. But first, before I can help you, you must list for me all the things you like about Lady Isabel.”
Lymington nodded slowly and began to count on his fingers. “She’s pleasant, she doesn’t tell me to shut up. And…well her hair is red, that’s nice. And then…well that’s all that comes to mind actually.”
And what a mind it was. Harry took out his quill from its case and dipped it in ink, poised to compose the most wretched poem possible.
