“…which is why I instructed my lady’s maid always to curl decorative ringlets outward, never inward,” the viscountess was saying. “When blessed with a heart-shaped face like my daughter’s—”
“Where is your daughter?” Lady Eunice interrupted smoothly. “Will Miss Vanewright be joining us for tea?”
“Heloise suffers from megrims. She has such a fragile constitution, my delicate little tulip. Anything upsetting—” The viscountess’s gaze flicked toward Sybil’s no-longer-fashionable dress. “—could send her to bed for a week, and Heloise must be at her best for her come-out. I was just telling Lady Newcomb the other day…”
Sybil’s fingers clenched the simple violet muslin of her skirts. Was she imagining Lady Vanewright’s obvious distaste at her presence? Or was this a softer, kinder sampling of what was yet to come when Sybil made her grand appearance at the Vauxhall ball?
Would the finest gown she could afford pass the scrutiny of so many fashionable merrymakers? Or would her fancy frock simply make her into a silk flower: a poor imitation beside the blooming English roses with their heart-shaped faces and years of practice moving in such rarefied circles?
Two maids bustled into the room bearing tea service that could feed a family of twelve. The viscountess offered to pour, but Lady Eunice begged for the honor—possibly to ensure Sybil was served, too.
“My compliments to your staff,” said Damaris. “This repast looks delicious.”
Lady Vanewright let out a long-suffering sigh. “You cannot imagine the trials one must go through to find and keep competent servants. You’d think any fluff-for-brains could put together a sandwich, but if you had been here to see the abomination last month’s kitchen maids served whilst I was hosting the Marchioness Quarrington, you would understand the state of my nerves. I cannot have important guests believing my kitchen incapable of…”
No wonder Heloise Vanewright suffered megrims. If Sybil were forced every day to listen to nothing but self-aggrandizing speeches and long-winded complaints, she’d be tempted to take to her bed for a week, too.
That said, Lady Vanewright’s loquaciousness served as an excellent distraction.
Sybil stuffed a sandwich square into her mouth—it was indeed transcendentally delicious, she admitted grudgingly—and prepared to ease from her armchair and head for the door. If Lady Vanewright so despised Sybil’s presence in her parlor, perhaps the viscountess would consider it a boon if her decidedly unfashionable guest were to disappear for a spell.
She was halfway to the door when a holy terror of fur and claws darted out from beneath a curtain, sliced through Sybil’s left stocking, and disappeared behind a chaise longue.
“No!” scolded Lady Vanewright.
For a single gratifying moment, Sybil actually believed the viscountess was chastising the rabid cat, not Sybil.
“Sit down and keep to yourself,” Lady Vanewright snapped. “You’re not to bother Athena. This is her home as much as mine, and my little lioness is well within her rights to defend her territory.”
“I hadn’t…” Sybil began, then wilted under Lady Vanewright’s glare. Lifting her skirts to show the raw scrapes down her shin was unlikely to win any favor. Besides, the reason Sybil had been elected to perform the reconnaissance was because she was the least likely of the trio to be missed.
The viscountess stared down her nose at Sybil in uncharacteristic silence until Sybil retook her seat at the tea table. As soon as Sybil was back in her place, Lady Vanewright brightened as if no interruption had occurred, and launched into an incredibly detailed anecdote about procuring only the best leaves at Sotheby’s Tea Auction.
Keeping all her senses on high alert lest the Goddess Athena strike again, Sybil sipped her tea whilst the others conversed. Now that she suspected the leaves in the pot cost more than the day dress she was wearing, she wished she hadn’t indulged in a lump of sugar so that she could savor the expensive flavor.
Lady Vanewright’s cup held more cream than tea, and no shortage of sugar. Sybil could not help but wonder if the viscountess could even tell the difference between good tea and bad, when it made up such a minute portion of her beverage. Perhaps Lady Vanewright savored the privilege, not the flavor.
“I hear compliments are owed,” said Lady Eunice.
“Oh?” The viscountess preened in anticipation. “Do tell. What is everyone jealous of this time?”
“Your coup d’état,” said Damaris.
Lady Vanewright blinked at her. “My what?”
“You scooped up Mme. Blanchet’s favored first position right under Lady Carmichael’s nose,” Lady Eunice clarified.
“Lady Carmichael,” spat the viscountess, as if there were no worse epithet. But her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I would be forgiven for despising that woman, though I am too well bred to suffer such vulgar emotions. She thinks she is better than me merely because she outranks me—”
Was that not the ton’s own definition of “better”?
“—and both her elder daughters already held this honor for their come-outs. Only one of them is married, so I ask you: Why fight for a position you cannot take advantage of? My Heloise not only deserves the attention being the first to unveil Mme. Blanchet’s creations will bring her, but also knows what to do with it. She won’t be a disappointment like Lady Carmichael’s plain-faced daughters.”
“I heard the fight for first place became a high stakes auction,” Sybil blurted out.
It was gauche to speak directly of money, but Lady Vanewright had spoken indirectly about nothing else from the moment they’d walked through the door. She seemed unlikely to reject an opportunity to boast about using her husband’s purse to her advantage.
“I would have paid any price to win my rightful place,” said Lady Vanewright. “I deserve it, and so does Heloise. I would go to any lengths to best the countess at her own game. Lady Carmichael has always been jealous of me—”
