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“Take them,” Lady Quinseley ground out, “to the kitchen.”
Goose nodded and disappeared with the bag.
The countess tossed an apple to Bianca. “I saved the best one for you.”
“You did?”
Bianca caught the blood-red apple in her skirts. It looked ripe and delicious. Perhaps she’d been wrong about Lady Quinseley. Or rather, perhaps her initial girlish hope of someday being friends had not been as foolish a dream as she had been led to believe.
She started to shine the apple on the muslin of her skirt.
“Don’t rub it!” the countess commanded, then smiled. “It’s already ready for you, dear.”
Bianca set her darning aside and rose to her feet. “Should I ring for tea?”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I cannot stay.”
“Why have you come?” Perhaps to wish Bianca a belated birthday? Lady Quinseley had only missed it by a single day.
The countess’s eyes glittered. “I have news I thought would be of interest.”
“News of what?” Bianca’s breath caught. “Has something happened to Harry?”
“Who? You cannot mean Eagleton. How wouldIknow what that scheming fortune-hunter is up to? He says one thing and does the opposite. You should do well to forget him.”
Bianca swallowed. Was that what had happened? Harry had said one thing, but would do the opposite? Was even her dowry not enough to tempt the Huntsman into wedlock?
“Then why have you—” she began.
Before she could finish the question, noise spilled out from the far end of the corridor. Mr. Gladwell had been enjoying a glass of sherry and a game of cards with Mr. Somers, Peavy’s father. He and Mr. Gladwell were good friends.
As the men approached, Lady Quinseley tossed an icy blond ringlet over her shoulder.
“Well, isn’t this a happy accident?” she cooed in a voice Bianca had never heard her use before.
“Lady Quinseley,” Mr. Gladwell said stiffly. “Does my wife know you’re here?”
“I’m afraid she’s out, and I’ve missed her,” Lady Quinseley replied in a tone that indicated she rarely missed anything at all. “Besides, I wasn’t speaking to you. I was talking to Mr. Somers.”
“Me?” the solicitor said in surprise. “We haven’t seen each other in decades.”
“Good heavens, don’t make me soundold,” the countess scolded him. “Then again, I should like to rely on your memory.”
Mr. Somers narrowed his gaze. “What’s this about?”
“Our dear Miss White, of course.” Lady Quinseley held her long fingers out toward Bianca. “She thinks she’s an heiress.”
Bianca frowned. “Iaman heiress.”
“Youwerean heiress,” the countess corrected her with another ingratiating smile. “I thought you’d like to know that your status reverted to nothing at all on your birthday.”
“W-what?” Bianca stammered. She hadjustlearnt of the dowry. It couldn’t be gone already!
“If you don’t believe me, ask our friend Mr. Somers.” Lady Quinseley crossed her arms under her bodice and gave the solicitor a pert look. “He’s the one who drew up the contract.”
“Years ago.” Mr. Somers ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I haven’t seen a copy of it since Miss White was a baby, but now that you mention it… I do recall a clause having to do with her twenty-first year. If memory serves, the earl made the dowry expire on that date to encourage Miss White to choose a husband sooner rather than later.”
“But I’ve just found out about it this week,” Bianca protested, her heart beating far too rapidly.
