It took much more to win Pen’s loyalty and friendship than to offer her his carriage, or their clothes, or to invite them for an Indian dessert, or to help them gain membership into White’s… she shifted uncomfortably. The truth was, he’d been nothing but helpful and amiable towards her. She’d thanked him by being churlish.
But friendship was very serious business with Pen. She could count her friends on one hand.
Pen suddenly felt herself gripped by the desire to be wearing her petticoats again. To be sitting next to Alworth not as an awkward youth, but as a young lady to be courted. That was such a novel thought that she almost gasped.
What would it be like? To be one of the ladies Alworth admired. What if ... she was to sit there with her finest dress, a fan and gloves… and he was to flirt with her?
Flirt? Bah. Did she have maggots in her brains? She did not want to be courted, and she certainly did not want to flirt!
“So. Did you enjoy yourself, Pen?” Alworth stared down at her quizzically.
Pen blinked and looked around, surprised.
The music had stopped, the curtains dropped, and the spectators were getting out of their seats.
“It is the interval now. A glass of champagne? It is rather hot and stuffy here. Let us stretch our legs outside.”
Pen followed him, where a crush of people filled the hallways and the foyer.
“Wait here, I’ll obtain some refreshments.” Alworth worked himself through the crowd, greeting people to the right and the left.
It was all very lovely here, and the opera was fascinating, the singing fantastic. She hadn’t known it was possible to sing like that, but all the people—there were too many people. The smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol made her dizzy.
She leaned against a marble statue.
“Did you see? I could hardly believe my eyes. Rochford is here tonight. Faugh. Such badton,” said a male’s voice.
“After what he did to the poor woman last week, it is veritably shocking that he dares to show his face here tonight.”
“He is a duke, my dear. He can do whatever he wants.”
“If he weren’t such a terrible rake, I would consider him for one of my daughters, but, alas—”
“You cannot be serious, Belinda. You’d marry one of your daughters to one as he? I pity the woman he marries.”
“You may be right. It is not something any mother ought to do to any of her children. But who else is there?”
“How about Viscount Alworth? Goodton, good name, excellent breeding. Used to be engaged to someone, wasn’t he?”
“Was he? As far as I know, he’s been a bachelor forever. What happened to her?”
“No one knows. It seems the lady let up the engagement. Can you believe that! With one as Alworth on the hooks, how can one leave him for a mere baronet?”
“He is such perfect marriageable material, indeed, but alas, is to leave for India in several weeks’ time. I cannot, for the life of me, have one of my children live in India.”
“Who is the boy with Alworth?” she heard a woman say on the other side of the statue. “He looks foreign.”
“A mystery, my lady, a mystery. But I have it on the best of accounts that it is someone whose identity ought not be revealed,” the oily voice of a man replied.
“My dear Hensington. Do say. Who is it?”
The man lowered his voice. “Rumours have it he could be Indian royalty.”
“Oh! You don’t say! How exciting!”
“Says the doorman at White’s. Don’t cite me for it.”
“Do you think you can get us an introduction, Hensington? For myself and my three daughters…”
