Even the knowledge that she wouldn’t possibly see him for more than a fortnight couldn’t dampen her spirits. Not today. Today she felt invincible. He’d kissed her hand, in a mockingly grand manner that had sent George into whoops, and had asked almost offhandedly as he’d tossed her up into the saddle, if she’d be attending the Earl of Glendower’s shooting party.
Before she could answer, the countess had said, ‘Of course she will,’ as though the question were absurd. So now she had something specific to look forward to…she’d see him again in a fortnight.
When she’d woken up alone, she’d been vaguely uneasy about what would come next. How did these things work? She didn’t know, and she didn’t have anyone to ask. It didn’t feel right to talk to George, since she was Gabriel’s friend, and she couldn’t write it in a letter—she just couldn’t—so Helen was out as well.
She was stuck muddling through on her own.
She wished now she’d paid more attention to the intrigues of the affairs her friends had conducted, but at the time she simply hadn’t wanted to know what Helen and the rest were up to. It had seemed to sordid.
There’d been no sign of his presence in the room this morning; no forgotten stocking, or misplaced glove; not even a dropped cufflink. Her nightgown and wrapper were draped neatly across the foot of the bed, and her slippers positioned beside it, just as though she hadn’t kicked them off haphazardly while making her way to the bed, nearly hysterical with laughter.
He was nothing if not thorough, in every way, she thought with another irrepressible smile. She’d been smiling so much she felt as though her face might crack.
Luckily the countess put her smiles and good humour down to her newfound love of the turf, and spent much of the ride filling Imogen in on all the major figures in the racing set, who was a member of the Jockey’s Club, which racing stables were the most famous and successful, which of the founding famous horses each line held to, or blended in their stock. All of it interesting information, and all of it lost on Imogen. She simply couldn’t think of anything but Gabriel. She was half afraid she was in love with him; she was certainly infatuated.
Back at the park they found Caesar very happy to see them, and a letter from Colonel Staunton inviting them to dinner, any night they should please. There was a pile of invitations and general correspondence for the earl and countess, and even a letter for Imogen from Helen.
She wrote that town just now was very slow; so many of the gentlemen being absent due to the manifold opportunities for sport being offered in the country at this time of year. Not only was the race season wrapping up, but fox hunting was in full swing, and all manner of game was in season: pheasant, grouse, woodcock. Left to her own devices, Helen was finding things in town quite flat. The only real entertainment was being provided by Lord Dalton, who had left his wife, and was openly living with his mistress, and that the whole city was riveted by reports of a man strangling shop girls in Whitechapel. Bow Street was said to be looking into it, which at least made the public at large feel safer, if not the poor girls standing behind innumerable counters all over the city.
Imogen read her letter and immediately wrote back. Her quill spilt details of the races, who she’d met, and mentioning her upcoming trip to Winsham Court for Lord Glendower’s annual shooting party. It skittered and spat a line of ink across the page when she thought of Gabriel. She couldn’t put that in a letter. Better not to mention him at all.
On Thursday they went to dine with the Stauntons, and spent a very pleasant evening there, fussing over the twins. There really wasn’t all that much to say about them just yet, but they were, nonetheless, adorable. The two small boys seemed entirely identical to Imogen, though their mother insisted she could tell them apart without the aid of the brightly coloured floss tied around their wrists.
‘Eleanor claims it’s quite easy to distinguish them,’ the colonel said, staring down perplexedly at the boy he held, ‘but I must confess that I can’t do it.’
‘You can’t tell them apart, Papa, because you think of them as a set.’ Simone leaned over her new half-brother, and twitched the blanket back from his face. ‘Toby here is the watchful one, while Bryan over there, is the demanding one. They’re entirely different,’ she said, seemingly disgusted by her father’s inability to tell his own children apart.
‘Perhaps to you and your mother, poppet,’ George said. ‘But I’m forced to concede that, like your father…they seem just alike to me. I’m sure it will become easier for the rest of us as they get older,’ she added, by way of a peace offering.
Simone made a slightly rude noise in the back of her throat that put Imogen so strongly in mind of George that she had to bite back a laugh. The girl stared at her former guardian reproachfully. ‘You can’t tell them apart either?’ she asked in an appalled voice. ‘And I was sure Papa couldn’t do it because he’s a man.’
‘Well,’ Imogen jumped in, struggling to keep her tone serious, ‘I’m sure your mother can tell them apart because she’s their mother, and mothers have a special sense about these sorts of things. And I’m sure you can tell them apart because you’ve trained your eye so carefully with all your art lessons, but you’ll have to let the rest of us get
