The Secret Mistress

admirers—or admirers of her fortune anyway. For she went to Hookham’s Library with Maria and Martha, and all three of them took out a subscription and borrowed books, a lengthy process that involved a great deal of talking and laughing. And then they rounded the corner of one high bookcase and came face-to-face with Miss Goddard, who appeared to be making her choice of books with considerably more serious intent. But she smiled warmly at Angeline and consented to be introduced to Maria and Martha, and then, at Angeline’s suggestion, the four of them proceeded farther along the street to a tearoom, where they spent a whole hour drinking tea and talking.

Perhaps she ought not to have chosen Martha and Maria as friends, she thought ruefully during that hour as she looked from one to the other of them. Although they did not really look alike, both were small and fair and dainty and exquisitely pretty. She must look like a gypsy in contrast. Not that she had anything against gypsies. Indeed, there had been a time when she almost seriously considered running away to join a group of them who settled for a while a mile or two from Acton in their gaily painted caravans with their brightly colored clothes and their lively, toe-tapping music. But her papa would have come in hot pursuit if she had done so, and though he had never once lifted a hand to her, she was wary of provoking his wrath. His tongue was as lethal as Tresham’s was now.

Anyway, she liked her two new friends, their looks notwithstanding, and they appeared to like her. They had mulled over yesterday’s triumphs while at the library together and discussed the merits and demerits of their various dancing partners. Maria thought Lord Heyward a little on the dull side, though perfectly well bred. Angeline thought Mr. Griddles would be rather handsome if he did not appear to have twice as many teeth as he was supposed to have. Martha could talk only of Mr. Griddles, whose teeth as far as she was concerned were his finest asset, and Angeline had to admit that they were at least white.

They had shared information about how many bouquets they had received this morning. Angeline had received the most, but she was quite willing to concede—even to be the first to suggest— that the reason was that it had been her come-out ball.

Now with Miss Goddard their conversation was altogether less giddy. They talked about books. Angeline and her friends favored novels, but only if they had happy endings. They were all agreed upon that.

“I can tolerate soaking a dozen handkerchiefs while I am reading a book,” Maria said on behalf of them all, “but I absolutely cannot abide weeping at the end unless it is with happiness. What is the point of sad stories? They ought not to be allowed. Or there ought at least to be a warning on the covers, and then no one would bother reading them and getting depressed by them.”

Miss Goddard also read novels, but not often. When she did, she also preferred a happy ending provided it was a believable one and not of the happily-ever-after variety. She preferred reading that was instructional and educational, however, on a subject that made her think, that stretched her mind, that told her something interesting about life and the world that she had not known before.

She ought to have been an utter bore, Angeline thought. And she ought to be detestable for other reasons—not least the fact that she was Lord Heyward’s friend and that he called her Eunice. Her father was a Cambridge don, for heaven’s sake. She spoke quietly and with very precise diction. She never giggled, and when she smiled, it was with quiet warmth rather than with a bright sparkle.

Angeline actually liked her. And she hung upon her every word, encouraging her to talk more and more about the books she read. She would wager that Miss Goddard talked to Lord Heyward about books. It was no wonder he liked her so much.

Did he do more than like her?

Did he love her? It would not be at all surprising.

“You were very kind last evening,” she said, “to converse with Lord Windrow at the supper table and then to dance with him. He is very silly. I daresay Lord Heyward told you what happened on the road to London a few weeks ago. He was obliging enough to insist that Lord Windrow behave like a gentleman after he had started to behave more like a rake.”

Martha and Maria, both of whom knew the story, giggled.

“Kindness had nothing to do with my behavior last night,” Miss Goddard assured her. “I could see as soon as we joined you that you were perfectly capable of handling Lord Windrow’s sort of gallantry. He is silly. It is a good word to describe him. He is also mildly amusing. Must I confess that I rather enjoyed dancing with him and matching wits with him? I had only ever been able to observe rakish gentlemen from afar before last evening.”

“I have two of them for brothers,” Angeline said. “They are very exasperating. I love them to pieces.”

“Lord Ferdinand Dudley is very handsome,” Maria said with what seemed to be a barely suppressed sigh.

Miss Goddard smiled warmly.

“I have enjoyed this,” she said. “Thank you so much for including me in your outing. But I must return home now. My aunt will be wondering what has become of me.”

And that was the end of that. She left and it was time for them all to gather up their respective maids and make their way home.

“Is she a bluestocking, do you suppose?” Maria asked after Miss Goddard was well out of earshot.

“I would not be surprised,” Angeline said. “I rather like her even so.”

“But poor lady,” Martha said, “feeling obliged to read those dreadfully dull books instead of the novels from the Minerva Press.”

Angeline held her peace, but secretly she thought that she might try one of those books for herself the next time she went to the library.

The excitement of her day was not over after she had sent the Marquess of Exwich on his way later in the afternoon. Half an hour after that a note arrived from Cousin Rosalie to inform her that they had been invited to take tea the following afternoon with the Marquess and Marchioness of Beckingham. They were the Earl of Heyward’s maternal grandparents, the note explained. Lord Heyward was to be there too, and Angeline must be prepared to drive in the park with him afterward, weather permitting. It would be a positive step forward in a possible courtship, Rosalie had also added, for Hyde Park was where everyone of any consequence went during the afternoon to see and be seen.

Whose idea had all this been, Angeline wondered. His? His grandmother’s? She would wager it had not been his. But did it matter? She would see him again regardless. She would drive with him in the park, converse with him. Everyone would see them together.

Oh, she could scarcely wait.

She could make him fall in love with her, even if she did look like a swarthy gypsy.

Of course she could.

If only it did not rain.

IT DID NOT rain. And it would not. There had been scarcely a cloud in the sky all day.

The Earl of Heyward was the last to arrive for tea, but Angeline did not mind, as long as he did come. And he surely would. Half his family was there.

The Marchioness of Beckingham was a small, slender lady with regal bearing, very white hair, and a long-handled lorgnette, which she used more as a baton to be waved about than as something to see through. She settled into conversation with Cousin Rosalie and Mrs. Lynd, the earl’s sister, but not before looking Angeline over from head to toe and nodding.

“You look nothing like your mother,” she said almost as though it were a