Making a remarkable curtsy, Penelope swept from the room with all the aplomb of a duchess.
Aunt Winthrop stood clasping her hands as though she longed to wring a neck. Any neck. Ernest, Lord Everton, looked even more miserable, if such a thing were possible.
“I feel certain you understand how it is, Aunt Winthrop,” inserted Lord Harford with the smoothness of a diplomat. “With the Season upon us, there is so much to be done and my mother simply insists upon obtaining my advice.” Lord Harford made a barely civil bow; then, twirling his quizzing glass in one hand, he strolled from the room, well aware he had acquired two enemies. At the doorway he smiled down at Miss Nilsson, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
“By all means,” she replied after bestowing a distant nod in the direction of the dreaded relatives.
Alone in the silence of the room, Lady Winthrop frowned at her son, then glared at the empty door. “Frippery fellow. I will never understand why he is doted upon so by Society. One would think his opinion was the only one worth having.” She studied the haphazardly decorated room, then debated what to do next. With her initial plans thwarted, she needed a new approach. Ernest simply must marry the heiress, the dear boy had such expensive tastes. And that odious nephew of hers was not going to stand in her way.
At long last she sniffed and prepared to leave, but she hadn’t given up her goal. It was unthinkable that all that money should be controlled by anyone other than her son, with her assistance, naturally.
Ernest dutifully trailed after her, pointing out as they marched down the stairs—she in high dudgeon, he in resignation—”Even the Prince Regent seeks his advice, Mama. I daresay there is not a soul in all of London whose taste is as esteemed as Harford’ s.”
“What is he doing with your Cousin Penelope, is what I’d like to know.” Lady Winthrop glanced about, noting the absence of the three who should have been departing as well. “Mark my words, there is something havey-cavey here. And I intend to find out what it is.” Her angular body clothed in black bombazine—she was forever mourning someone— straightened, her nose tilted up, and she charged out the doorway, looking like an old crow about to attack its prey.
Once the unwanted visitors had returned to their waiting carriage, Penelope lightly ran down the stairs to join Lord Harford and Miss Nilsson, who had slipped into the breakfast parlor to avoid a second meeting.
“What an odious pair. How dreadful to think we are related to them,” Penelope exclaimed. “Now that they are gone, it is no longer necessary to pretend we are to call on your mother, sir. I do thank you for your timely assistance.” She bobbed a pretty curtsy and prepared to persuade Miss Nilsson to go to Hatchard’s with her.
“On the contrary, I believe I require your presence when I interview my sister, else she may claim she knows nothing of the matter.” His knowing look gave her no doubt as to what he meant.
Penelope took in his grim countenance, recalled how fierce he had appeared when he heard of the lie of his supposed betrothal, and decided he was correct. “1 believe you are right. Your sister may not be able to stand up to you as well as I can.”
Lord Harford blinked at these matter-of-factly spoken words. This outrageous girl thought she could handle him? Why, every matron and miss in Society had tried a hand at that and failed miserably. The three left the house in silence, each with most interesting thoughts not to be shared.
At Harford House all was at sixes and sevens. The presentation gowns had been delivered and Lady Charis was moaning she would never be able to cope with that hoop.
“It is simply too outdated, a hoop like this.” She gave an experimental curtsy, wobbling as she did.
“Nonsense, it can be extremely graceful,” contradicted her mother. “Be thankful you do not have to wear a hoop as large as the one I wore at my first presentation. I was so glad we did not have to sit down, for it was truly enormous.
“Mother,” Lord Harford said as the trio entered the sitting room, where Lady Charis had been practicing with the new hoop, “I must speak with Charis immediately.”
At the harsh note in his voice, Charis looked at Penelope, then gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “You did never . . .
“Could you think I’d not discover the matter eventually?” His tone was stiff, figure rigid.
“Well, I fancied you would know all about it, although you might have told us first, you know,” his irate sister snapped back.
‘If I were to be married, I believe I should make my family aware of the fact well in advance of the general public, and certainly not leave it up for a whispered revelation at a ball, for pity’s sake.” He gave her a disgusted look, then added, “The least you might have done was come directly to me. I am indebted to Penny, or I should still be in the dark.”
“You mean you are not to wed Miss Dunston? But she said you are,” Charis cried, looking adorably confused.
“Miss Dunston? Carola Dunston of the pale-blue eyes and the mouse-brown hair that is forever falling about her face? The one who tripped on her gown and would have fallen on her face had I not caught her? Good God, girl, you thought I would seek her hand? Surely you know me better than that!”
“You mean she lied?”
“Will someone kindly tell me what is going on here?” Lady Harford inserted in an effort to bring some order to the conversation.
Penelope took pity on her ladyship and swiftly walked to her side. Taking her hand, she gently led her to
