Nancy’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-wound. “I do try. It is only that the field is so poor.”
“The field is every unmarried man in England, and you are a duke’s daughter.”
“Yes, but the sheep are mostly diseased or intent on biting.”
Before Sophia could conjure a reply, Nancy’s attention was caught by the arrival of her favorite allies, three women who alone made London bearable: Fiona Glacion, the Duchess of Craton, radiant in pale blue and already halfway through a petit four; Hester Green, the sharp-eyed and impeccably put together Duchess of Lushton, though her bandeau was far better tied than her husband’s cravat; and, trailing them, the new addition—Lady Lavinia Pembroke, who moved with the tentative grace of a field mouse placed in a roomful of cats.
“I was beginning to think you’d expired,” Nancy said, sweeping Fiona and Hester into a huddle, then, remembering herself, inclining her head politely at Lavinia. “Or that your husbands had locked you up for safety.”
“Hah!” Hester popped a candied almond into her mouth. “Thomas can barely unlock his own desk. We escaped easily.”
Fiona linked arms with Nancy. “Did you see Lady Burnham’s dress? I heard the entire thing was stitched in Paris, but I am convinced I saw the same lace last week in a Soho shop window.”
“You mean the curtains?” said Nancy.
“Exactly so!”
Lavinia smiled nervously, one hand tightening over her reticule. Nancy considered her, then decided she liked her—Lavinia’s silences were not empty, but watchful, full of careful listening. Nancy respected that.
“Oh, did you hear from Anna?” Fiona asked. “She is somewhere on the continent—Florence, I think? She sends regards and says the food alone is worth the journey.”
Hester snorted. “If I had her money, I’d eat my way across Italy as well.”
They laughed, a brief riot of mirth that startled the footmen and attracted a glare from Lady Pemberly at the next table.
Sophia, catching the edge of the conversation, seized Lavinia’s hand. “My dear, you must help me persuade Nancy. She will not dance, not even with the best of them.”
Lavinia went slightly pink. “I am afraid I am a poor example. I have not danced once this season.”
“That is a crime,” said Hester, who seemed to enjoy declaring things criminal.
“It is a preference,” Lavinia countered, and Nancy admired her even more.
Fiona turned, eyes bright. “Have you heard the news from Scarfield?”
Nancy’s chest tightened, but she kept her voice light. “Is that the story about the stable fire? I heard it was exaggerated.”
“Oh, no, that was last month. This is quite different.” Fiona leaned in. “You remember the younger Rowson brother? The one who married the housemaid?”
Nancy kept her hands steady, though her fan now trembled, only a little. “Yes. Vaguely. They say it was quite a love match.”
Fiona nodded. “He died, you know. Two years past, in a terrible accident.”
“I remember.” The words tasted sour. “Why do you mention it?”
Hester looked from Nancy to Fiona, waiting for the punchline.
“Well,” Fiona said, “the wife—who used to be a housemaid, Teresa—she died last week. Fever. It was very sudden.”
The world seemed to shrink to the circle of lamplight around their little gathering. Nancy’s vision blurred at the edges, but she forced herself to smile, even as her stomach dropped to her shoes.
“That is sad news,” Nancy said. Her tongue felt unfamiliar in her mouth. “What will happen to the children?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Fiona’s brows lifted. “There are twins. Only five. Boys, I think. Or one of each?”
Nancy’s fingers closed tight around her fan, hard enough to leave a mark in the leather. “No. I didn’t know.” The lie was effortless; she had been lying for years.
Lavinia’s quiet voice interjected, “Surely the family will take them in?”
