Serenity dabbed at a tear in her eye. Mrs. Right could not imagine what set her off, but the girl was easily touched. She had wept over more sunsets than could be counted.
“Just be careful, Felicity,” Winsome said. “Do not be taken in by a rogue.”
“Are there rogues at Almack’s?” Valor asked, twisting her hands together. “What are rogues?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself over at your young age, I’m sure,” Mrs. Right said. “It’s the vipers, the feckless gentlemen, and the fan-waving furies a person’s got to look out for.”
“Oh yes,” Valor said, “I remember you saying that, Mrs. Right. Be careful of them, Felicity—do not let any of them sneak up on you!”
“I will be on my guard,” Felicity said.
“I forgot to say,” Grace said, “our aunt is toe-tapping in the drawing room and Papa just poured himself a second glass of brandy.”
“Gracious, we’d better get you dressed, girl,” Mrs. Right said. “It would not be well to send your father to Almack’s after he’s gone a bit under the table.”
At that idea, Felicity jumped from her seat and was quickly buttoned into her ballgown.
*
Percy gazed roundAlmack’s ballroom. So far,Operation Sadly Hopelesswas humming along at a good tick. There had been the question hanging in the air of whether his family would receive vouchers. As much as his mother would like to forget it, they were only a second-generation title, and his father was only a viscount.
However, the viscountess was the daughter of an earl and had long been acquainted with the Countess of Westmoreland—they squeezed in that way.
His father had been pleased to see his son put his name down on a number of lady’s cards. Though, the viscount would be less pleased if he understood his son was on the hunt for a key player in the theater troupe primed to perform inOperation Sadly Hopeless. Percy was keeping an eye out for the deranged daughter of a deranged duke as being one of the more promising candidates.
“I say, Father, I’ve heard the Duke of Pelham brings his eldest daughter to Town this year.”
“Pelham?” his father said. “I’d hoped he’d got himself lost on the moors and was dead by now. I do not suppose I am alone in that wish either.”
Percy nodded knowingly. “Because he’s deranged?”
“The man is a danger to society.”
“Who cares?” the viscountess said. “He’s a duke—she’ll have a pile of a dowry.”
The viscount seemed to consider this. “True, true,” he said. “In any case, if you brought her home you would not be bringinghimhome. As long as she’s nothing like him!”
“That’s very good sense,” Percy said, knowing his father was particularly fond of hearing about his good sense.
His mother practically snorted at the idea. His father whispered heatedly, “I warn you!”
“In any case,” Percy said, “do you see him?”
The viscount scanned the ballroom. “There he is, the unpleasant fellow. Probably still laughing about setting fire to Lady Vanderwake’s curtains. I suppose the young lady standing by him is the daughter. And there is Lady Marchfield, the duke’s sister, just turned to speak to Lady Westmoreland.”
Percy had no idea how Lady Vanderwake’s curtains had gone up in flames, nor did he much care. He followed his father’s eyes and his gaze landed on an older gentleman with the sort of generous middle that advertised a friendliness with port. A stunner of a lady stood by his side.
She was positively cracking. What a pile of hair, and those large dark eyes set in such a delicate face. She looked the bright ingenue, but was she deranged? He had really become convinced that it would be far easier to draw a deranged lady intoOperation Sadly Hopelessthan a not deranged lady. At least, so claimed Magnon and Wiles, mostly because they thought he was himself becoming deranged.
This woman did not look deranged. For that matter, the duke did not look particularly deranged either.
Of course, he was not positively certain what derangement looked like in every case. All he had to go by was Lord Bakerston from his own neighborhood. That old fellow liked to ride roundon his horse shouting at people. All the things he complained about seemed to center around “they.” Nobody knew who “they” were, but supposedly “they” were after his money, his coveys, his horses, his silver, his wine cellar, and sometimes his wife, though that lady was long dead. Other than that, he was a cheerful sort of fellow and would come in for a cup of tea and be satisfied not to mention “they” once he’d been assured that all the doors were locked against them.
“The duke doesn’t look deranged,” Percy said.
The viscount snorted. “Oh really? Last he was in Town, aside from setting curtains afire, he stumbled, spilled a brandy on a baron from Cornwall, demanded satisfaction from the fellow though it was his own fault, and then slept through the appointed time. Apparently, when he was finally roused, he said he could not be bothered with it. Go and talk to him. Then you’ll see.”
“I believe I will. Where has Lady Westmoreland got off to—I must get on the card of the deranged duke’s daughter.”
