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She wasn’t alone.
She sat on a sofa flanked by two other young ladies, one with pronounced, angular features and the other all dimples and sweet smiles.
Lady Beatrice eyed him with a fleeting flare of some strong emotion, and then, as if a screen had been drawn over her eyes, an impassive expression of studied disinterest.
Her hair still glowed like a new copper piece in the noonday sun streaming through the windows, but the rest of her looked... different.
In Cornwall she’d been dressed simply. Something blue and soft that he’d approved of, even though the bodice could have been cut lower. Today she was trussed into enough ivory frills and lace that he had difficulty discerning the natural shape of her.
The diamond drops at her ears were obviously real, and probably cost more than he’d see in a lifetime.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Beatrice.”
“Wright,” she replied, with a frosty little nod.
Damn, he should have made a bow. No matter. He wasn’t a bower. No need to start now, just because she wore diamonds.
“What have you done to your hair?” There were two plump curls hanging down on either side of her face, and the rest of it was piled up and towering so high above her head that it must set her off-balancewhen she walked, like a ship listing under a heavy cargo.
She touched one of the spiral curls against her cheek. “This, I’ll have you know, is the very latest fashion.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
Sweet Smiles smothered a giggle with the palm of her hand.
“Why thank you so much,” replied Lady Beatrice. “What a pretty compliment.”
He’d already offended her. Nothing to be done about that. He’d already made it clear that he never followed the rules of propriety. But he was here to ask her about her brother and therefore he shouldn’t be insulting her. “What I meant to say was that such a towering coil of hair doesn’t look likeyou. The lady I knew in Cornwall—the one with ink-stained fingers.”
The one he’d imagined kissing so thoroughly that she forgot every word she’d ever entered in that dictionary of hers.
“That lady isn’t allowed to live in London,” she said.
What did she mean by that? “I’m sure the young bucks of London love the style of your hair. They’ll be showering you with proposals.”
“Don’t assume I wish to receive proposals.”
Ford cocked his head. She couldn’t be much more than twenty. “Isn’t that the usual goal for young ladies?”
“You presume to know the goals of young ladies?”
“Er . . .” He scratched his head. “One generally assumes that all of the dancing and opera-goingand folderol that happens in London this time of year is for the sole purpose of matrimonial arrangements.”
“I thank younotto assume that all young ladies wish to be married.”
“If you say so, it must be true. Young ladies can have other goals.”
“Oh we can, can we? How good of you to give us permission.” She pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. “I see you’ve finally learned how to tie a neck cloth and put on a coat.”
“I’ll take off this noose of a cravat if you tumble that uncomfortable-looking tower of hair. It must be giving you a headache.”
“Humph,” replied Lady Beatrice. “You’re giving me a headache.”
At this, Sweet Smiles giggled, and the one with the angular cheekbones wagged a finger at him. “Living up to your reputation already, Mr. Wright.”
What reputation? Had Lady Beatrice been telling her friends about him?
Not that he cared. Ask his question and leave. “Have you had word from your brother, Lady Beatrice? I’ve been making inquiries and no one knows his whereabouts.”
