His brown hair was arranged in the latest casual style. If she had thought Lord Stephen did well by his biscuit pantaloons, he was completely put in the shade by the stunning ensemble of black pantaloons and tailcoat with a white quilted satin waistcoat that had to be the supreme elegance of fashion. Penelope glanced down at her dress, one that had pleased her when she put it on. It was a delicate blue jaconet trimmed with knots of white ribbon. Now it looked insipid and too girlish by far, certainly nothing that would catch the eye of this dashing gentleman. The thought crossed her mind that it was unlikely that he needed money.
“Very smart, would you not say?” Miss Nilsson commented.
“Most assuredly,” Penelope said in awed tones.
“I see you have caught sight of our relative,” Letty snapped, although softly. “Impertinent man.”
Before Penelope could request an explanation, Lord Stephen appeared to claim his second dance, a cotillion.
“My cousin just informed me that I am related to the man who just entered the room—the one in black. She neglected to say who he is, however. Living in the country without an elderly aunt around to keep me up-to-date, I have not a clue to his identity.”
“Harford? Fancy you being related to him. He, I beg to inform you—for you must be the only woman in all of London who doesn’t know—is the Earl of Harford. Jonathan to his closest friends. The Trent men are all a lot of handsome devils. Is he a close relation?”
The figure of the dance swung her away from Lord Stephen’s side, so she was spared an answer for the moment.
Penelope gave the new arrival an appraising glance; then, when she drew close to Lord Stephen once again, she queried, “Does he gamble?”
“That’s like asking if a man breathes. Every gentleman does a flutter at the tables or has a go at the odds now and again. Some more than others.”
As an answer it was less than she wished, but she dared not reveal greater interest in the newcomer. However, the reply had brought intriguing thoughts. Lord Stephen, Mr. Willoughby, and probably most of the other men in the room gambled. Would any of them be agreeable to her proposal? The proposal Letty deemed so wicked? Would they consider it such? Or merely a pragmatic solution to her problem? And possibly theirs?
While at Fountains, she had approached her dilemma with an analytical eye, totally forgetting that there would be a flesh-and-blood man involved as well. Now, looking about her, allowing her gaze to return to the dashing Lord Harford, she became uncomfortably aware that she might be getting more than she bargained for, should she pursue her original intent. If only she had a brother, an uncle, some man whose advice she might seek.
She endured another dance with one of the suspected pockets-to-let gentlemen, then retired behind a convenient screen. It was draped in a swath of pink and concealed the door to the terrace, a place Lady Collison evidently wished left unfrequented.
From what Penelope had observed so far, her trip to London was doomed to failure. Unless she yielded to one of those dandies in need of funds, or found a lady of standing to assist her, she was sunk. Her claim to be related to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was quite true, but it was a distant kinship. It could never be sufficient for her to hope a sponsorship might be forthcoming.
“I say, old chap, did you hear the latest?”
Penelope stiffened at hearing a voice from the other side. Mr. Willowby was there, sounding like he planned a gossip. She moved to tiptoe away, when his next words stopped her in her steps.
“It seems Harford succumbed at last, bet on a sure thing, only this time Collison won!”
The laughter was general, and seemed without malice. “How deep?”
“A plummy thing, my friends.”
The voices of the others were amused, and sought details which, owing to the sudden increase of the sound of the music, Penelope could not hear.
But she well knew that in the cant of the day, a plum was one hundred thousand pounds! Unless Mr. Willowby merely intended to imply his friend had bet a horrendous sum of money? Possibly. Either way, here was a most plausible person, a distant relative—although she had never heard of him before—now in dire need of money.
And money was the one thing she had in abundance. Pity he did not look the type to settle down with marriage. From all she had read and heard from the gossips in the country, those handsome sorts spent their time chasing after women, most definitely in the plural and certainly not a green girl like herself. However, she might be able to utilize him in some manner.
Her head awhirl with ideas, she slipped from behind the screen, then wove her way through the throng of guests to where Letty and Miss Nilsson sat discussing poetry with Mr. Oglethorpe. Letty did not look pleased about something.
“Well, what do you think of your first London affair?” Letty said in her abrupt manner.
Seizing her opportunity, Penelope smiled in what she hoped to be a wan, interesting fashion. “I fear it has fatigued me more than I expected.”
“Good. We can leave at once. Miss Nilsson, shall we?” Letty jumped up, dismissing Mr. Oglethorpe’s polite protestations with an impatient wave of her hand.
Miss Nilsson soothed his feelings with her kind words. “I very much enjoyed your explanations of that work by Lord Byron. If it is not too much trouble, I would very much like to learn a little about that new poet, Keats.”
“Delighted, ma’am. So nice to know there are ladies interested in worthwhile things.” He bestowed a narrow look on Letty,
