“A certain Captain Reid was once stationed in Rajasthan.” Viscountess Rawleigh replied. She bent her head toward Lady Billingstone as she whispered, “They say he eloped with an Indian princess and turned Indian himself. I remember reading the tale in theMorning Chronicles. It was the story of the day. So romantic!”
“She has clearly inherited her mother’s complexion,” Lady Billingstone noted.
“Yet, she is not entirely Indian, is she?” Two lorgnettes fixed on her as if she were the most interesting specimen in the room, which she no doubt was.
Pen rolled her eyes and wished she were back in her trousers. She’d felt gauche in trousers, too, but at least they’d been comfortable to wear. Her corset was too tight, and her satin slippers pinched.
She was dreadfully bored in this company. Yet, to please Charlotte, she smiled, was polite, picked at her food and nodded at the right places when her table partner, Vicar Padlow, tried to converse with her about the merits of crop rotation.
Pen wondered whether that was to be her fate from now on. Boring supper parties until she received a marriage proposal. Was that what Marcus intended? To marry her off? It would certainly solve his problems. He’d be rid of a ward who’d been nothing but a nuisance to him, and she'd be married to someone like Vicar Padlow, who had clammy hands, greasy lips and a nasal voice.
After Lady Hadlow led the ladies out of the supper room to the parlour for tea, the general conversation changed.
“Did you hear the latest news about Viscount Alworth?” a woman with a purple turban spoke up.
Pen nearly dropped her cup of tea in her lap.
“I heard he is to marry Miss Mountroy. Miss Letty Mountroy.”
Her daughter, Miss Patricia, a plump girl in an unflattering pink silk dress, sighed.
“How vexatious. Another eligible bachelor to scratch off the list. The Indian prince, too, has disappeared.”
Pen, who’d just taken a sip from her tea, coughed.
“Do you happen to know him, Miss Reid? He seems to be a fellow countryman of yours.”
“Erm, no. I haven’t had the pleasure.” She mumbled from behind her napkin.
“What a shame. There aren’t too many eligible gentlemen left now.”
To Pen’s relief, the general topic of conversation then switched to fashions and silks, and the newest fashion plates inLa Belle Assemblée.
After supper, Pen stepped up to Charlotte, who was conversing with Lady Hadlow.
“Here you are, child.” She took Pen’s hands between hers and patted them. “You look somewhat white around the nose. Are you feeling the thing?”
“I have a dreadful headache,” Pen replied, rubbing her temple. It felt like a blacksmith hammered against the anvil that was her brain.
Charlotte regarded her. “Maybe this has been too much for you,” she said to Pen’s surprise. “Let us retire early, then. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow. I will give our excuses to Lady Hadlow.”
Pen could’ve hugged her.
Back in Berkeley Square, she drank some valerian tea, crawled into her bed and waited for the maid to leave. She counted to a hundred, then crawled out again, dug out her boy’s clothes from the bottom drawer, dressed in a hurry, and opened the window, which faced the back courtyard. Pen peered down. Climbing out of windows was becoming a routine. She could do this.
Pen held onto the parapet gutter and sidled down the pipe. She swung herself with ease over the fence and strode down the road.
White’s wasfull at that time of the night. The evening had degenerated into drinking and gambling. But Pen could not find Alworth in any of the rooms.
“He’s not here, sir,” the porter said when she asked him. “But he left a message for you.” He handed Pen a missive.
Pen:
I am deeply disappointed. I will make one last attempt to meet you, and, if that should fail, I depart for India without saying farewell.
The Whittlesborough ball tomorrow.
A.
Pen crumpled the paper and groaned.
How on earth was she to accomplish that? Of course she would attend the Whittlesborough ball tomorrow.
As a lady.
