Chapter Fifteen
Lilith was notentirely sure what she had unleashed. She had simply meant to turn Lord Wembly from Lady Verity. She supposed she had, though it seemed to be accompanied by some unintended consequences.
It seemed there was a new print going round that she’d had nothing to do with and it was very unfavorable to Lord Wembly. Certainly it must be aimed at him. It was a red-haired gentleman with his posterior in flames who appeared to be running from the doors of The Royal Society. It said: “Not very stoic.”
Was it a comment on Lord Wembly’s courage? Was he to be expected to carry on his courting of Lady Verity despite her being named Lady Fiction? She had really not predicted that as a consequence.
What if he discovered she had been the author of the original print naming Lady Verity as Lady Fiction? It would ruin everything.
She must not allow that to happen. The only other gentleman who had taken an interest in her was Mr. Grantley. He was rich, very rich, but he was ten years too old. And, worst of all, his money came from trade. He had some sort of factory near Bristol that made yarn and thread.
Lilith knew very well why she was of interest to that gentleman. She was an earl’s daughter and Mr. Grantley had aspirations. He was well read and well mannered and wasinvited to certain things, but there would be places where the doors would always be shut against him. He imagined that an earl’s daughter would polish him up in the eyes of theton. Or perhaps his children would benefit.
It was not what she wished for, though. It would be a step down when she was determined on a step up.
Her temporary maid, Clara, was snorting over the print. “I guess a person never knows how a thing will take effect,” she said. “According to this, Lord Wembly ran the other direction from Lady Verity, but then he’s also revealed himself to be a feckless lothario.”
“Lord Wembly is not feckless and certainly not a lothario. He is sensible,” Lilith said. “Whoever sent this print around is an idiot.”
“It’s still funny, though,” Clara said. “His posterior in flames is funny.”
Lilith did not answer, as she did not think Clara had the least understanding of the situation.
*
Henry could notwork out what was happening. Was he shunned? Was Lady Verity ill? He did not know.
He had called on the duke’s household twice and not been admitted. He wished to apologize and take full responsibility for the damnable print that had gone round naming her Lady Fiction. If he’d not said anything of the matter, the print would not exist.
Certainly she must have concluded the fault was his, but he must be allowed to state it aloud and take responsibility for it.
And yet, both times he’d gone to the house, the housekeeper, Mrs. Right, had met him at the door. That was odd enough in itself. That lady had positively glared at him and told him LadyVerity was not at home to visitors. He supposed that meant she was at home, but he was not to be let in.
If he would only have an opportunity to apologize.
Would she come to Lady Darlington’s masque? If she did not, that would indicate a retreat from society. The duke might well pack up his family and return home for the year.
Perhaps he should send flowers? What could he send to indicate regret? Marigolds? Or send a note and hope it got past the duke?
As for the duke himself, how did he view his daughter’s current circumstances?
He would ask Lady Pegatha her opinion of it all.
Just now, he was milling round Lord Ledwell’s rout. He had no prior indication that Lady Verity would attend, as he did not have access to her full calendar. However, it was one of those parties people liked to call ‘the event of the season.’ Henry was not certain why. The only thing this crush of an event had to offer was a punch Ledwell served each year of rum, sugar, lime, and nutmeg. However, he could be reasonably assured that the duke and his family had received an invitation. If there was the smallest chance she would turn up, he would not miss it.
Sir Reginald, a loud and voluble member of his club, suddenly slapped him on the back. “What’s it all about, Wembly?” he asked.
Henry presumed he inquired into the Lady Fiction print. It seemed there were so few lords in Town with any shade of red hair that he’d been easily identified.
Before he could compose an answer, Sir Reginald said, “Pants on fire, eh?”
What on earth did he say? What pants on fire?
“Mind you, nobody can blame you for running from a lady inventing strange stories about fish. I understand the duke hasraised them all in the wilds, somewhere up north—no surprise they come out of it with strange habits.
Lord Frederickson pushed his way into their conversation, though Henry had not much of an idea of what they were talking about to begin with. “Wembly, brave lad,” he said.
“Brave? Why?”
