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‘I will put some ointment on my feet while I’m waiting,’ said Prudence, going to the dressing table on which Mrs Hoskins had placed the pot.
The minute she’d gone Prudence plonked herself down and plunged her fingers into the pot of greenish salve. Right, then. She’d use the time until Milly had made her presentable enough to appear in public to prepare a speech in which she’d explain that she couldn’t marry Gregory, not now she knew who and what he really was.
But she hadn’t come up with anything much before Milly returned with the scissors. And also a maid with a tea tray. And Lady Mixby.
‘I hope you don’t think of this as an intrusion,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘I just thought I would check that you have everything you need. Particularly that cup of tea you didn’t drink downstairs. And just one or two little sandwiches and cakes, since you looked close to fainting. There is nothing worse, I find, than a hot bath if one is already a touch light-headed.’
There was nothing Prudence could do but say thank you.
Lady Mixby beamed at her. Then went across to the little table on which the maid had set down the tea tray. ‘I shall just pour you a cup and bring it to the dressing table while Milly makes a start on your hair. And then you can sip it and nibble at these few dainties while she works. Oh,’ she said, setting the cup on the dressing table. ‘I see Mrs Hoskins has found you a gown. I hope you don’t mind that it appears to be dreadfully behind the fashion.’
Milly pulled her lips together and carried on doggedly combing out Prudence’s tangles.
‘Oh, no, I am very grateful for the dress. It is lovely to be in something clean and respectable again.’
Which was the absolute truth. Milly’s Sunday best had turned out to be a rather lovely gown of mossy green wool, with a demure neckline and long sleeves. Since it was exactly the sort of thing she was used to wearing, it made her feel much more like herself instead of some kind of impostor creeping in where she had no right to be and pretending to be something she wasn’t.
Milly flashed her a grateful look in the mirror as Lady Mixby went to the window seat.
‘I am sure it must be,’ said Lady Mixby, hitching herself up onto the cushions. ‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was to see you and Halstead standing on the threshold of my drawing room looking like a pair of gypsies. Oh, but only for a moment. For then, you see, I recalled the Hilliard portrait of the First Duke. And saw that Halstead wanted only a pearl earring and a lace ruff and he would have passed for an Elizabethan privateer.’
He would, at that.
‘Though I hear he has shaved now,’ Lady Mixby continued, ‘which is a great pity. He looked dangerously attractive with that hint of a beard.’ She sighed. ‘Milly, are you sure you should be using the scissors quite so freely? Poor Miss Carstairs will not have any hair left at this rate.’
‘I have given Milly leave to do what is necessary,’ Prudence explained when Milly’s nimble fingers stilled for a second. ‘It is much kinder for her to cut out the worst of the knots than attempt to remove them with the comb.’
‘Well, if you are sure...’
‘Oh, yes. It has been several days since I’ve had use of a comb, you see, and my hair has always been difficult to manage, even with regular brushing.’
Prudence had only refused to have it cut before out of a perverse determination to thwart Aunt Charity. She wouldn’t mind having it all cut off now, while Milly was at it. Only just as she opened her mouth to make the suggestion she recalled the look in Gregory’s eyes as he’d wound one curl round his finger. One curl of what he had called ‘russet glory’.
‘Several days! How perfectly frightful,’ Lady Mixby was saying. ‘And what kind of thief would steal a lady’s comb? My goodness—what wickedness there is in the world. You must have a macaroon,’ she said, hopping to her feet, going to the tea table and putting one on a plate. And then adding a couple more dainties and bringing them across.
‘There. Three cakes. I was just saying to Benderby this morning how things go in threes. First Hugo came to visit, which he only does when he is quite rolled up. And then that strange Mr Bodkin person arrived, in possession of Halstead’s ring. His very own signet ring, which was handed down from the First Duke—the one I told you he resembles so nearly. Or would if he would only keep the beard and get himself a pearl earring.’
She sighed wistfully, giving Prudence the impression she had a rather romantical notion of pirates. Or Elizabethans. Or possibly both.
