Lady Dalrymple marked not her new protégée’s wonderment, nor did she observe the fearful expression that clouded the young woman’s otherwise lovely countenance. Having arrived at what she considered a fitting plan of action, her ladyship came to roost once again on the edge of the upholstered settee. She drew a deep breath, no doubt for dramatic emphasis, and her face dimpled into a mischievously triumphant smile.
“As I told you in the carriage, I am a lonely old widow, Miss Welles. My late son, Alexander, was unmarried and left no issue—that I am aware of, in any event—and consequently, there is no heir apparent to his title. Were you indeed my brother’s only living child, you would be the heir presumptive in the absence of a male heir. You are evidently a young lady of breeding and intelligence, despite your unknown birthright. You will learn in time, Miss Welles, that I have singular views on the inbreeding of the English aristocracy. One has only to look at the Prince of Wales to see the unfortunate result. It would give me unalloyed glee to manufacture a noblewoman according to a mold of my own invention.”
C.J. gasped in disbelief, not quite knowing what to make of the madwoman seated beside her who would single-handedly transform the English ruling class into a meritocracy. “But this is too much! Your ladyship is more than kind.”
“Nonsense! There is no alternative. I make situations as I find them. You are of age, of course?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When did you attain your majority?”
Certainly C.J. could not confess that in fact she would not even be born for another hundred and seventy-five years or so! She did some quick calculations and shaved a number of years off her true age. Could she pass for a young woman of prime marriageable years? “I came out two seasons ago, your ladyship. I am twenty now,” she fibbed. Another lie. And here she had represented herself as a young person of integrity.
Lady Dalrymple seemed pleased with C.J.’s response. “Twenty. A perfect age, my dear. And I shall see to it that you are advantageously matched before the end of the season.” Her gray eyes twinkled at the prospect.
C.J.’s acting training had been thorough, her education comprehensive, and her aptitude quick, but never could she have imagined being thrust into such an elaborate charade. At any moment she might unwittingly reveal herself to be the adopted daughter of a deceased New York businessman from another century! How was she to manage the correct etiquette of a gently bred Georgian, and who would believe that she was the daughter of a marquess—however disgraced—and the niece of a countess? Still, Lady Dalrymple’s astonishing offer merited serious consideration. Besides, C.J. reasoned, until she might contrive a way to return to the twenty-first century, it was difficult to imagine a more pleasant alternative.
Chapter Seven
Suspicions are aroused; a garment presents surprising challenges of its own; and we meet two persons of extreme importance to our story.
YOU ARE CONFOUNDED, my pet,” Lady Dalrymple remarked. “It does not astound. I have given your young head quite a shock. I’ll allow that my somewhat original behavior has been often remarked upon, even by those whom I hold dear, but I assure you, Cassandra, I am quite in my proper mind.”
They heard footsteps approaching, followed moments later by the opening of the enormous double doors at the far end of the room.
A distinguished older gentleman liveried in green and black stopped at the entrance. His very presence demanded silence.
“Lady Oliver and her nephew, the Earl of Darlington, your ladyship.”
“Heavens, Collins! It had completely gone out of my head that we were entertaining Augusta and Percy for tea this afternoon. I have already had a nibble—such as it was—when I called upon Lady Wickham to wish her many happy returns of the day, but the sudden arrival of my niece has put me completely out of sorts.”
The butler discreetly arched an eyebrow.
“My brother Albert’s child. Lady Cassandra Jane.”
Collins missed nothing. He cast an appraising eye on the sorry state of C.J.’s yellow muslin and seemed to arrive at his own particular assessment of the situation. “Very good, mum. Shall I ask them to wait while her ladyship—”
“You will call her Miss Welles, Collins. We will continue to avoid my brother’s name for the nonce.”
“Very good, mum. While Miss Welles is afforded the opportunity to . . . put on her tea gown.”
Taking Collins’s meaning in an instant, Lady Dalrymple’s hand flew to her mouth. No, it would never do for Lady Oliver and her nephew to meet Cassandra in her present state of disarray. “Precisely, Collins. The very thing. Perhaps they might like to view the Gainsborough before coming up.”
“I believe her ladyship has seen the Gainsborough—when she last called. And on the half dozen visits before that,” the butler calmly responded, indicating that it would provide neither distraction nor subterfuge.
“Well, she may have the pleasure of enjoying it yet again. Her nephew can discuss the brushstrokes
