“And you,” Georgie shot back, “are a mouse who reads filth.”
“It is French literature, Georgiana. And exceedingly educational.”
“You stole it from my bookshelf. It was hidden quite deliberately beneath Madame de Staël. I only purchased it to improve my French vocabulary.”
Mari turned a page calmly. “And did it?”
Georgie sniffed. “Immeasurably. I now know five different euphemisms for stockings.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Hetty muttered.
A tremendous crash echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of barking. Nell burst through the doorway an instant later. “I am borrowing Hetty’s fan! The one with the gold fringe. I require it to barter with Cook for a second pudding.” She marched straight to the vanity and began rummaging through the drawers without so much as a by-your-leave. “Also, the dogs have made off with someone’s slipper.”
“No!” Molly cried and fled the room as if her life – or at least Hetty’s left shoe – depended upon it.
Hetty pressed a hand to her temple. It was, she reflected, a marvel she had not already eloped with a footman, if only for the sake of silence.
—♥—
The Tolliver carriage was the very latest in Mayfair opulence, lacquered a deep green and adorned with gilt so polished one might be forgiven for seeking one’s reflection in it. No expense had been spared, for Lady Tolliver disdained nothing so much as being mistaken for a family of modest means.
London bustled outside, lamps glowing along the cobbled streets. Carriages jostled for precedence, liveried footmen shouted and horses stomped and snorted in the crisp spring air. The road to Lady Braithwaite’s townhouse was positively choked with traffic, and every fashionable family seemed bound for the same glittering destination. Within the carriage, however, the atmosphere was rather less glittering.
“You would be better served to attend in one slipper than that monstrosity, Henrietta,” said Lady Tolliver for the fourth time in ten minutes, fluttering her fan like a bird in distress. “It is simply not done. Think of the whispers! Think of theDuchess!”
“It was the dogs, Mama,” said Hetty. “They carried it off into the garden and buried it by the gooseberry bush. I am fortunate Molly unearthed it at all.”
The rescued slipper, still slightly damp and now smelling of earth, had been dabbed with lavender water and re-ribboned in haste. Hetty had declared it perfectly serviceable.
Her mother disagreed, of course – vehemently and with great feeling. “We ought to have ordered more! I said so at the time, did I not? I distinctly recall saying,‘Three pairs, at the very least!’But no one ever listens, and now – now you are to waltz before half of London with one foot smelling of gooseberries!”
“The others would not do,” said Hetty. “The yellow pair clashed most offensively with the trim of my gown, the ivory ones were scuffed, and the pink – if memory serves – were dismissed by you, Mama, as ‘insufferably girlish’ and unfit for a Tolliver daughter of marriageable age.”
Lady Tolliver groaned and resumed fanning herself. “Oh, my nerves. My poor, beleaguered nerves.”
In truth, Hetty might have worn the scuffed ivory pair and spared them all the trouble – but something perverse and ungovernable had taken hold of her the moment she saw the unearthed slipper with dirt still clinging to the silk. There was a dark satisfaction in watching her mother flinch each time it peeped out beneath her hem.
Across from them, Lord Tolliver dozed peacefully, snoring softly and clutching a folded Times, which he had not, at any point, opened.
“He is asleep,” Lady Tolliver hissed. “Naturally. I am one tremor from complete collapse, and he dreams of pheasant shooting.”
The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones as the Tolliver barouche turned onto Upper Brook Street, drawing closer to the light and music spilling from Lady Braithwaite’s townhouse. Footmen stood ramrod-straight in gold-trimmed livery and elegant ladies descended from their carriages like swans gliding into a pond of silkand diamonds. The gentlemen adjusted their cravats and puffed out their chests like peacocks.
“Now, I shall say this but once, Henrietta Tolliver, and I expect you to absorb it fully: the gossip columns may have found your conduct at the last ball rather charming – Heaven help me – but I warn you, Society’s indulgence is fickle at best. One moment, they are applauding your audacity as the very pinnacle of fashionable allure, and the next, you are whispered about behind fans at Almack’s and politely excluded from every respectable dance card in Mayfair.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You must understand,” she continued, warming to the theme, “you are no longer an inconspicuous debutante at the edge of the ballroom praying for a country dance. You are the Diamond of the Season. With that title comes expectations… dignity, grace and irreproachable conduct. One cannot go about dousing titled gentlemen in claret more than once per Season, no matter how offensive their remarks.”
“Of course not, Mama.”
“I am not, in principle, opposed to another dance with Lord Langley. He is – well, yes, he is a rake, but he is also an earl, and much to my astonishment, he appears to have formed a particular interest in you. I had once considered him wholly unsuitable, but should he possess genuine intentions, then naturally, we shall receive him. Carefully, and at a safe remove.”
“Naturally, Mama.”
“But not four dances again. It was entirely excessive. You may stand up with him twice this evening, and no more. That is sufficientto imply interest, without appearing desperate. If he should make an offer before the quadrille, all the better. But for heaven’s sake, do not force his hand. A lady does not pursue.”
“No, Mama – never. A lady wafts.”
