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“Don’t spout twaddle, Margaret,” scoffed Lady Eliza. “Margaret reads romances, you know. What gentlemen will fall in love with the girl at all? She has no fortune. I don’t suppose you have any of the usual accomplishments, do you girl? Languages? Drawing? The pianoforte?”

“I speak Arabic and Greek and read Latin.” Jane did not mention certain other skills her father had taught her, like detecting when one was being followed and relying on tact when under verbal assault.

“Humph. You might as well be mute as let a man know you’ve outdone him in the schoolroom.”

Hazelwood laughed and turned from the window. “She does that every time she opens her mouth.”

Lady Eliza made a most unladylike snort in reply. Jane shot Hazelwood a glance to say that he wasn’t helping. In reply he crossed to her side with his lazy stride.

Lady Eliza fixed her sharp gaze on Hazelwood. “The girl’s too solemn, too colorless, too old. Men like flutter and vivacity.” She paused to pick up the water glass at her side. “And what is my granddaughter doing in your scandalous company, young man, if she hopes to enter London society?”

“You must blame the government, ma’am. I am Miss Fawkener’s protocol officer.”

“Impudent jackanapes, you and protocol have never been remotely acquainted.”

A racking cough seized Lady Eliza. Jane reached out to steady the glass of water wobbling in her grandmother’s hand. Competing scents from the silver tray assaulted her nose, a strong vinegary smell from a pierced silver box, something salty like the sea from an open jar, saffron and cloves, and sweet wine and boiled meat. In the warm room the combination was quite overpowering. Her father would never approve of her grandmother dosing herself with half a dozen questionable remedies that must be at odds with one another in her slender frame.

When Lady Eliza had recovered from the coughing fit, she stared at the fire, her thin hands fretting the folds of her wrapper. “I suppose you expect me to launch you in society.”

Jane shook her head, but her grandmother appeared not to see the gesture.

“At my age, I can’t do a thing.”

“I thought, Grandmother, that you might have some of my father’s things, his books or his boyhood treasures.”

“Why would I keep maps and heathen gewgaws? Your father should have made arrangements for you before he went off on some fool trek in the desert.” Lady Eliza stared into the fire with unseeing eyes for a long moment before she turned back to Jane. “I suppose I could present you as a novelty. You probably ate lamb brains and wore next to nothing.”

“Not at all, ma’am, I assure you. A modest woman in Halab must be covered from head to toe at all times in public places. I wore the veil.” Jane was being provocative, but she couldn’t help it. Her grandmother’s ignorance of Papa’s world was appalling.

Lady Eliza shuddered, and the coverlet over her shoulders slipped. Margaret rose and crossed the room to right the fallen cover.

“You could take her to services on Sunday, ma’am,” Margaret suggested.

Lady Eliza sagged against the chair back. “Go to services in my condition? I’ve not been in months.”

“Not been to services, Grandmother?” Jane asked. Somewhere inside the cross and hurting woman in front of her was a teta, and Jane wanted to find her. “An outing will do you good, I’m sure, and I’d be happy to accompany you.”

“Hah! If you think you’ll meet some eligible beau on the back bench of Grosvenor Chapel, you’re as romantic as Margaret. What’s that group of yours called, Margaret?”

“We’re the Back Bench Lending Library. We have the last pew, you see, and we do have three single gentlemen members of our group.”

“Foolishness,” commented Lady Eliza. “What was Fawkener thinking to die in some heathen country and leave a perfectly good fortune to those wretched Walhouses? In two years’ time, Teddy Walhouse will burn through what has taken generations to build.”

“Ma’am, if I may be so bold,” Hazelwood interrupted.

“You’ve always been a bold one, boy.”

“The king himself has taken an interest in your granddaughter. He intends to bestow the Order of St. Michael and St. George on your late son. Miss Fawkener will receive the honor in her father’s name.”

“The king favors her, does he?”

Jane stiffened at the sly gleam that came into her grandmother’s eye. Her chin came up. “I do not plan to attend any investiture ceremony.”

“Not attend when the king is honoring your father? You will if you want me to have anything to do with you.”

“Of course she will, ma’am,” said Hazelwood, turning to Lady Eliza. “She has a gown for the investiture ceremony. You will receive an invitation, and Miss Fawkener will be glad to accompany you for Sunday services.”

Her grandmother looked from one to the other of them. “Well, you’d better bring her round, boy. Be off with you now. I’m tired.”