Chagrined, but, he knew, only because she couldn’t currently think up an excuse for her hypocrisy, she picked up an ivory fan from the low table in front of her—a table that had gold and ebony pharaohs at every corner. It was very fashionable. And clashed horrendously with the carpet.
Playing mournfully with the fan, Nell let out a heavy breath, very woeful.
“But Jack…surely you can understand how awful it’s going to be? Eleanor giggling nonstop and wanting to go to…toAstley’s.Or the zoo! And me being forced to play nursemaid the whole time, just like I had to do when we were children, and all because I’m seven years older than her. As if that’s fair!Younever had to, and you’re eight years older. But,” she snapped the fan shut with a loud clack, “youare a man, so of course no one asks you to give upyourfun to run around like a nanny.”
He met all this with the complacence of a man who knew she was entirely right and didn’t much care to challenge the status quo, being as it benefited him so nicely.
“It’s a pity Min isn’t around anymore,” he said. “If I recall rightly, it washerwho had to mind Nora. You were forever palming her off on the poor girl.”
“Min?” repeated Nell. “Who is…? Oh!Lucy!I forgot you used to call her Min. Though why you did, I never knew. She’s not a Minerva at all.” She dropped the fan back onto the table, her sulk forgotten as the light of reminiscence brightened her eye.Curious and amused at where it might take her, Jack ate some of his orange, watching. He’d always be happy to spend a minute or so thinking about little old Min.
“Little Lucy Fanshaw!” said Nell. “But I haven’t seen her in…well, it must be ten years!”
“Six,” he said, doing a quick calculation. “No, seven. She was sixteen when she went off to live with that old crone, and I was just turned nineteen.” Slowly, succumbing himself to the reminiscent mood, he pulled another segment of his orange free. “Yes, that’s right, because it was two years before Father died.”
“Lucy,” said Nell again, amused. “Little Lucy. Good Lord, I wonder whatever happened to her.”
“She got packed off to live with that aged aunt when her father died, don’t you remember? Northumberland or some such dreary backwater place. Probably she’s still there, mouldering away.” He sighed, suddenly troubled by thoughts he hadn’t had for years. “Poor thing.”
He ate his orange, the juice sharp and sweet, and his frown slowly curved into an irresistible smile as he recollected messy dark curls, silver-grey eyes, and absolutely shocking freckles. He swallowed, needing to laugh at the memory of a very serious voice informing him he was ahorrible boy.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, grinning now, “I wonder if she still has them?”
“Has what?”
“The freckles.”
“Lord, yes, the freckles! How could I forget? I nagged her endlessly to try lemon juice, and she never once did. So if she’s stuck with them, it’s her own fault.”
His brow pinched. He frowned at his sister. “But she wouldn’t really be Min, though, without them.”
Nell wasn’t listening, deep in her own line of thought. “I wonder…”
“What?” he asked, noting the calculating look.
Nell was all bright energy now. “I knew you’d help me, Jack! You always do, no matter how much you torture me first.”
“Help you? How have I done that?”
“By suggesting Lucy Fanshaw! It’s the perfect solution. I’ll write to her; Mother must still have her address.”
“But why?”
“To invite her here, of course. If she really is mouldering away in some cold, rainy, backwater part of the north, imagine how delighted she’ll be to get an invitation from one of her oldest, dearest friends begging her to visit them in London!”
“Nell…” began Jack.
“She’ll live with me. I’ll pay for everything. Ashburton won’t mind.”
He put the rest of his orange down, no time for it now. “And then you’ll foist Eleanor on her, and make poor Min do all the things you don’t want to?”
“Exactly! Imagine how much she’ll love going round London after being stuck in the countryside her whole life. Seeing all the sights. Astley’s! The zoo! She’ll have a marvellous time.”
Frowning, Jack pulled out his handkerchief and began cleaning the orange juice from his fingers. “But you’re forgetting she isn’t married. Or…well…as far as we know, she’s not. And she’s only”—he taxed his brain with another calculation, surprised but pleased he could still remember her birthdate—“barely twenty-three years old. Hardly an appropriate chaperone.”
“Yes, I know, and obviously I’ll still accompany Nora to the balls and assemblies, but if Lucy is there to keep an eye on her, then I don’t have to. I can still dance and enjoy myself. And it would be perfectly acceptable fortwounmarried ladies to go around town during the day, seeing all those innocent, boring sights, so long as they have a maid or footman with them.”
“She might not want to come.” But he felt a flash of excitement. What would she be like? Different? He hoped not. “But…maybe she really is married, has children, that sort of thing.”
