“Rather than sing Mr. Vance’s praises, or,” she said, looking darkly at Lady Mendleton, “revisit the irritating subject ofBwandbaba, perhaps you would like to know what he has done.”
This was said in the duchess’ most regal and noble tone, effectively communicating that her simmering temper was in danger of going on the boil.
Lady Redfield looked near faint. Lady Featherstone examined the inside of her teacup.
“All right, tell us,” Lady Heathway said, the only lady who was not cowed by the duchess whether she was simmering or boiling.
“First, Carlson brought me this note from Lord Lymington,” the duchess said, passing it to Lady Heathway. “Naturally, as her guardian it is my duty to review any communication coming from a gentleman. I had hoped for something that hinted at a proposal.”
Lady Heathway had read the note and appeared ready to guffaw. She passed it on to Lady Redfield, who held it out as if it had been dipped in poison, then it went on to Lady Featherstone, who whispered, “What an idea,” and then ended with Lady Mendleton, who only stared at it wide-eyed.
“You see how bad it is? I thought, what is this about well-fed pheasants?” the duchess asked.
“Or the gentle diet of a new hatched bird?” Lady Heathway said, snorting into her napkin.
“As you can imagine, I had no intention of allowing Lady Isabel to view such drivel. But that was not the end. No, not the end at all.”
The ladies leaned forward to hear what more was to come.
“My duke came home from his club, and it seems that Lord Harrington was in the coffee room reading his paper this morning. The duke was told all about how Lord Lymington and Mr. Vance were in there together over a sheet of paper. It was not Lord Lymington who wrote this, it was Vance, convincing the poor lord that the mention of birds had some sort of romance to it.”
Lady Featherstone erupted in laughter. The duchess glared.
“Come now, Theodosia,” Lady Featherstone said. “It is rather funny.”
The duchess did not see anything funny in it at all.
Lady Heathway shrugged and said, “Well, Lymington is a bit of a dolt, and it seems Mr. Vance is an enterprising sort.”
“I do not wish Lady Isabel to become interested in an enterprising sort. I wish her to take on Lord Lymington,” the duchess said. “The question is, what am I to do about Mr. Vance?”
Though the ladies so often had much to say on this or that subject, none of them had an idea to put forth on this particular problem.
What on earth to do about Mr. Vance?
*
Not for thefirst time, Harry reflected on the value of being a single gentleman with a willingness to assist a hostess. He’d just received a note from Lady Fitzwallen, a personage he was acquainted with but did not know well.
It seemed her card party was this evening and Lord and Lady Langley had been called away on the queen’s business. Would he mind stepping in? Miss Thompson’s mother had already been attending and so would bring her daughter, leaving just one spot open for a gentleman.
He was at loose ends this night, and this might provide an opportunity. He might find the chance to hint to Miss Thompson that if she wished to get anywhere with Lymington, she would have to be direct about it. No, that was not even the right description. She’d have to hit him over the head with it.
Miss Thompson’s overtures, coupled with the worst poem ever written in the history of time, might be enough to tip the scales in his favor. Miss Thompson could gently pull Lymington away from Lady Isabel, while the poem should act as a shove to assist her.
Harry of course wondered if there was the smallest chance that Lady Isabel would attend the card party, but he doubted it. At Ryland’s ball, he’d asked her about her engagements, determined to muscle into some affair she would go to if there were a way to do it.
The next thing she would attend was the Tredwells’ masque on the morrow.
He supposed she stayed in with the duchess this evening.
Harry could not imagine anything more tedious. The lady would likely spend hours talking about how wonderful Lord Lymington was and how awful Harry Vance was. She’d probably be sinking under that outsized tiara while she did it.
No matter, he would have his own say on the morrow.
*
Lady Fitzwallen’s housewas well-appointed and the mistress of it a rather jolly sort of woman. Isabel had been introduced to her and the lady had said, “Ah, the Plantagenet girl I’ve heard so much about. Very charming.”
