Page 12 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

He’d seen her already, of course. No doubt he’d marked her the moment she’d entered the room. Hadn’t he said he noticed everything?

She came to an uncertain halt, faced with a dilemma: to acknowledge the man or to ignore him. The latter course might be rude, but the former would surely be foolish beyond permission. To acknowledge Teddy Hayes would be to encourage him. And Stella had no desire to do that.

Did she?

Four

Stella’s dilemma was resolved by the timely arrival of Anne.

“There you are!” She materialized at Stella’s side. “You’re becoming as difficult to keep track of as Eris. Every time I avert my gaze, you disappear. I feared you’d gone back to your room.”

Stella turned to face her friend, at once relieved and—to her shame—a bit annoyed. She nevertheless smiled at the comparison. Anne’s adopted feral kitten—recently given over into Mr. Hartford’s custody—was known for slipping into forbidden rooms, shredding the wall coverings, and climbing the draperies.

“Not so unpredictable as that,” Stella said. “I only wanted a bit of air. It was becoming rather close.”

“Don’t think for a moment that you can fob me off with that nonsense,” Anne replied. “You forget that I stood exactly where you are while Evie and Julia married. It’s dreadful to be the odd person out when all of one’s friends are pairing off.” She took hold of Stella’s gloved hand in a firm grip. “But I won’t let you drift away. I mean to hold on to you, tight as ever.”

Stella squeezed Anne’s hand in return. “And I to you.”

“One wouldn’t know it by the way you keep vanishing.”

“Hardly vanishing. I merely know when I’m surplus to requirements.”

“You’re nothing of the sort. This is a house party, not a honeymoon cottage. We Furies are meant to stick together.”

Stella laughed despite herself. They had often been called that during her first season, when she, Anne, and Julia had ridden together in Rotten Row.

The next year, when Evie had joined their small band of equestriennes, the name had sometimes been changed to the Four Horsewomen. Though coined in a spirit of good-natured jest, both labels had ultimately served to single them out as oddities. But Stella and her friends hadn’t received the appellations as such. The Furies were formidable women. And the Four Horsemen were a quartet to be reckoned with. In the end, as Anne often said, it was better to be powerful than to be popular.

“Only one Fury now,” Stella said. “I shall be on my own.”

“Rubbish. Furies are forever. And who says they can’t be married? Marriage doesn’t change a lady’s identity—only her name.”

Stella wouldn’t know anything about that. She doubted she ever would. Chances were, she’d be taking the name of Hobhouse to her grave. It was either that or Smalljoy.

An involuntary shudder coursed through her.

Stella Smalljoy? Never. Not for any inducement. She would die, rather.

“Speaking of names…” Anne cast a discreet glance at the alcove. “I see you’ve found Mr. Hayes.”

“I have.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

Stella didn’t answer. Not directly. She hadn’t yet told Anne about Mr. Hayes’s unseemly proposition. She was uncertain if she would. It was still too fresh. Too private. “I can hardly do so. We’ve yet to be introduced.”

“That would have been easily remedied had you lingered a trifle longer at breakfast,” Anne said.

“I never linger over breakfast. You know that.”

Stella was accustomed to rising early in order to take Locket out for the first of the mare’s twice-daily gallops. Intensive exercise was necessary to keep a horse of Locket’s temperament in check. Stella often rode off in the mornings, with nothing but a cup of tea to sustain her.

It hadn’t occurred to her to alter her habit while she was at Sutton Park. Breakfasts at country house parties were informal affairs, with the various dishes arrayed in warming trays on a server, and guests coming and going as they pleased. They filled their own plates and sat where they liked, unconstrained by the order of precedence.

Stella had joined Anne, Mr. Hartford, and Lady Arundell only briefly before marching off to the earl’s stables, sketch pad in hand, to visit the horses. Their warm, snuffling breaths against her cheek had served to dull the ache of emptiness she always felt when she passed too many days out of Locket’s company.

She’d remained for nearly two hours, first at the loose boxes and then at the rails of the paddocks, committing her impressions of the horses to paper with broad strokes of her pencil.