At last they made their farewells and hurried out to their waiting carriage.
Once in Upper Brook Street, Letty insisted they all have a soothing cup of herbal tea before going to their rooms. Penelope was rather absentminded for once.
“Hmm?” she responded to a question from Letty. “I said, what did you think of our relative, Lord Harford?” “What is the kinship there? I cannot recall hearing of him before.” Penelope toyed with her dainty cup, sipping the chamomile tea with little enthusiasm.
“Let me see, I suppose he is your third cousin, once removed.” Letty adjusted her shawl, then pushed her spectacles up on her little nose. She then explained that their great-great-grandmother was a Trent, thus the connection.
“Close, but not too close.” At the look of inquiry, Penelope politely smiled, then said, “One cannot help but be curious, you know.”
Miss Nilsson raised a brow at that nonsensical remark. Later, when they reached Penelope’s room, Miss Nilsson nudged her inside, then assisted her with the pins and tapes to her gown. “What are you thinking, my dear? I know that expression far too well to let it slip past me.”
Stepping out of her pretty but insipid gown, Penelope said in a firm voice, “In the morning I intend to seek out my third cousin, once removed, and make a bargain with him.”
Miss Nilsson knew better than to reveal her shock at this outrageous proposal. It was all of a piece with coming to London to hunt for a husband who would then disappear.
“And what do you intend to offer him in return?”
“Money. What else is there?”
“Indeed,” came the thoughtful reply. Miss Nilsson quietly went about assisting Penelope, then walked to her room in a pensive mood.
The following morning, while Letty sequestered herself in her little study, Penelope set out with Miss Nilsson at her side. Only when the carriage deposited them before an austere, elegant house did her qualms surface to give her pause.
“I believe the house suits him well, Nilsson.”
“Lady Penelope, are you certain you do the correct thing?” Miss Nilsson, looking almost Quakerish in dove gray, placed a restraining hand on Penelope’s arm.
“I am aware it is not proper to call upon a gentleman at his home. But he is my relative and you are with me. Surely that makes a slight difference? Besides, I am not all that known.” This last remark seemed to set the cap on her intent, and she marched forth to the rather imposing front door.
The man who answered was not at all what she expected. He was a portly person with round cheeks and jolly blue eyes. Such a kindly soul made it much easier for Penelope to state her outrageous request.
“Would you be so kind as to inform Lord Harford that his cousin Lady Penelope Winthrop wishes to speak with him?”
No brow was raised, but Penelope received the distinct impression that the butler was most astonished at her presence. He ushered the two women into an attractive morning room furnished in the latest stare of fashion, then left. Penelope watched his retreating back while the tiny flutters in her stomach grew to definite quaking. A glance at Nilsson was no help. That good lady held a look of reproof in her eyes that told Penelope she would have been better off staying in bed that morning. Unable to sit, she looked about her at the beautiful chairs and paintings.
Penelope was studying the lushly figured Turkish carpet when a stir at the door brought her gaze up. Her cousin, albeit her very distant cousin, walked toward her, examining her with a narrow, skeptical gaze.
“Cousin Penelope?”
She fought the desire to cringe at the tone in his voice. The man quite obviously did not believe their connection. “My great-great-grandmother was Sophronia Trent. I believe that makes us third cousins, once removed.”
He looked thoughtful. “Quite so. And to what do I owe the pleasure of this morning call?” He drew closer, the deep blue velvet of his casually open banyan seeming to reflect the black color of his eyes. His attire was immaculate: gray breeches, spotless stockings, a white shirt with crisp ruffles concealing the buttons at the neck. Penelope felt like a frump. A country frump.
She ignored his stress of the word “morning.” “I have need of your help, sir.”
"I would not have suspected you had been in Town long enough to get into trouble.” His brows rose fractionally.
“I am not in trouble. Precisely. But, you see, I have come to London for the reason so many other young ladies come— to find myself a husband. Last evening made it plain that I need someone more up to snuff than Letty to assist me. She is a dear, but not terribly aware of what is going on in Society. And if she does find out, most likely she forgets it, if you know what I mean.”
“I fail to see how I may be of assistance to you.” He languidly crossed the room, reclining in an elegant rosewood chair after courteously seating his new cousin.
“I had best speak quite plainly to save time. I need a sponsor.” She raised a hand at his protesting stir. “I am aware you can scarcely do such a thing. I am not that green. However, I believe you might help in other ways. I need advice on how to go on . . . a good mantua-maker, for example.” She cast a derogatory glance at her simple sprigged muslin. While pretty, it was scarcely a la mode.
“Granted,” he conceded in an utterly odious manner.
“And, since I am an heiress, I need someone who knows the ton well enough to tell me which gentleman I may accept, and which one to avoid. I have no desire to be saddled with a gamester, sir, or a man with an upper story to let.” She gave him a worried glare, for the interview had become fraught with anxiety. He did not welcome her. She
