“How frightful!” C.J. exclaimed.
Lady Wickham looked up from her tea, aghast at her servant’s interruption.
Lady Dalrymple inserted her monocle and peered in the girl’s direction. “Who is the young lady, Eloisa? I have never seen her here before.”
“You were always an original, Euphoria,” sniffed Lady Wickham with evident distaste. “I must confess that I have never comprehended your eccentricities, in particular your fascination with members of the lower orders of society.”
“If that be the worst of my faults, Eloisa, I am prepared to face my maker with a clear conscience,” replied the visitor, continuing to inspect C.J. through her glass. “The English—not God—created the class system.” A cloud of concern dimmed Lady Dalrymple’s otherwise pleasant countenance when she spied the fading mark on the girl’s cheek, the telltale evidence of where Lady Wickham had slapped her three days earlier.
“I found Miss Welles at the assizes a few weeks ago. She had stolen an apple and was brought before the magistrate for her misdemeanor. She quite stunned the court and the spectators by displaying uncommon intelligence for a wayward indigent, whereupon I decided to engage her as my companion; and I hasten to add that she has caused nothing but trouble ever since her arrival. I have no qualms about repeating in her presence that Miss Welles is the most impertinent person I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.”
C.J. poured more tea, forcing herself to hold her tongue. The visitor reached for a small white macaroon.
“An excellent selection, Lady Dalrymple. Cook makes superior ratafia cakes,” remarked Lady Wickham, nibbling at a fresh strawberry tartlet.
Ratafia cakes? “Pray don’t eat that!” C.J. exclaimed, virtually wresting the meringue-like cookie from the guest’s bejeweled hand. “It’s poison!”
Chapter Six
In which the sudden acquisition of an eccentric benefactress is accompanied by a painful farewell.
ON HEARING THIS DIRE WARNING, the rather portly Euphoria Camberley, Countess of Dalrymple, fairly leapt from her seat.
“Miss Welles! What the deuce are you about?” An infuriated Lady Wickham rose in high dudgeon to her full height of about four feet seven inches. “Are you suggesting that I am poisoning my guests?”
“Not deliberately, Lady Wickham,” C.J. hastened to add. “But Cook uses bitter almonds in the recipe, does she not?”
“Where is your overactive imagination headed, Miss Welles?”
“The proper way to make ratafia cakes is to grind bitter almonds,” C.J. pressed on, remembering what she had learned at the By a Lady audition. “Bitter almonds contain a chemical—” She was met with two uncomprehending stares. “The bitter almonds themselves contain an ingredient called prussic acid. Any chemist will tell you it’s the same thing as cyanide, but in a much milder form.”
Lady Dalrymple was curious. “Then why have we not all met our maker from taking afternoon tea every day?” she asked whimsically.
C.J. wondered the same thing. “I expect that one would have to devour an unfathomable number of ratafia cakes in a lifetime in order to die from them. But even in small amounts, the prussic acid can have an adverse effect.”
“Miss Welles, you have enlightened us quite enough!”
“Let the girl speak, Eloisa,” the countess contradicted. “I should very much like to know what this prussic acid can do to one’s constitution.”
“I believe that it makes the heart race faster than it properly should, Lady Dalrymple.”
“How fascinating!” replied her ladyship. “Eloisa, I have often wondered why I am met with palpitations in the early evening hours. Perhaps my fondness for ratafia cakes is the author of such experiences. Your knowledge of science is quite remarkable for a young lady, Miss Welles. I am curious to learn how you came by it.”
Fortuitously for C.J., who had begun to scramble for a sensible reply, Lady Dalrymple was more interested in her own narrative thread. “My brother, Albert, dabbled in alchemy as a hobby,” the countess continued. “Even as he gambled away his inheritance, the marquess sought methods of turning hazard punters and betting slips into gold. What are your Christian names, girl?”
Lady Wickham released an indelicate snort, wishing more than anything to put a stop to this conversation, but even she was above being overtly rude to a guest.
“Cassandra Jane, Lady Dalrymple.”
“Good heavens!” The dowager countess withdrew a large fan from her reticule and snapped it open dramatically. She fished amid her brocaded bodice and drew forth a locket, which had been resting on her ample chest. “How astonishing!” she exclaimed, comparing the miniature portrait in the silver capsule to the young serving woman who stood before her. “There is no other answer for it.”
“No other answer for what, your ladyship?” C.J. asked.
“You are the image of the late marchioness,” Lady Dalrymple marveled. “And of course your Christian names are those the marquess gave his only daughter . . . and now, for the love of heaven, I see the cross!” C.J. touched the rough amber pendant hanging around her neck, surprised that Lady Dalrymple could see the cross without her monocle, since its color was nearly the same brown shade as was her livery. Lady Dalrymple appeared to be on the verge of tears. Had she lost her wits? What was the eccentric woman about? “Where did you come by this cross, Miss Welles?” her ladyship asked
