“It depends on your definition of improper.”
Henrietta leveled her friend with a gaze. “You are still a maid.”
“True.” She laughed. “My mother would murder me if I didn’t wait until the wedding night. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t sampled a bit of my fiancé’s wares…”
“I’m glad to hear it. Not least because it makes me not the only harlot in this friendship.”
“But let’s stop talking of men. Is this how the two future editors of The Lady’s Magazine are supposed to spend their time? Only discussing their romantic intrigues?”
Henrietta would hardly call Cassandra’s very real and very proper engagement to Sebastian a romantic intrigue. Nevertheless it made her feel better that Cassandra generously included her feelings for Trem in the same category as her own for her fiancé.
“You’re right. And we are so close to securing the editorship.”
“You only have to put the finishing touches on Mr. Redmond tomorrow night at the Worthingtons’ ball. A little more charm from the sister of a duke and he is sure to give it up. I know that he will.”
Mr. Redmond was a man who had made his fortune in publishing and was still struggling to break into society. He was married to the daughter of a baronet, which helped his cause, but his wife’s connections were not enough to establish him in the ton. Henrietta had helped him secure a number of invitations this season, including to the Worthington’s, and she promised still more if he would give the vacant editorship to her and Cassandra. He was nervous about giving the post to two unmarried ladies. They had assured him, however, that Cassandra was soon to be wed.
“I wish you would be there. Mr. Redmond likes you more.”
“I am sure you will manage very well without me.”
Cassandra and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, would not be at the Worthingtons’ ball. And nor would her fiancé and his father be in attendance. They had not been invited. Mr. Seymour was the grandson of an earl and, more than twenty years ago, had married his wife soon after coming into an inheritance from his mother’s side of the family. That inheritance had made him independently wealthy for the rest of his life. The fact that the new Mrs. Seymour was Black, however, had seen him exiled from the notice of his father’s family and a good portion of the aristocratic sphere in which he had grown up.
Cassandra and her family occupied, then, an unusual although not unique position in society. They attended the balls and functions held by their friends in the ton who chose to remember Mr. Seymour’s parentage or who saw themselves in general political sympathy with the Seymours—and there was a strong contingent of high society who fell into both camps. Cassandra and Henrietta had themselves been introduced three years ago by her family friend and frequent chaperone Lady Trilling, who had both been close friends with Mr. Seymour from childhood and, like Henrietta’s own family, a longtime supporter of Whig politics.
“Anyway,” Cassandra continued, “I can hardly think he likes me more than a duke’s sister.”
“I am fairly sure that is the only reason Mr. Redmond likes me,” Henrietta replied. “And he would like me a great deal less if he knew the truth.”
Cassandra gave a nod, an acknowledgment of what Henrietta had told her a year into their friendship. John would kill her if he knew that Henrietta had told Cassandra about her illegitimacy, but she trusted her best friend more than anyone outside of her own family. And she hadn’t been able to stand the idea of Cassandra thinking she had a perfect pedigree when so frequently she felt like a passed-off counterfeit.
“Anyway, I just meant he likes you more personally,” Henrietta continued, knowing it was true. “I very much wish you would be there. You’re better at managing people than I am.”
“Perhaps,” Cassandra said. “But I trust you to reel Mr. Redmond in.”
Henrietta bit back any further commentary on the subject. She always felt guilty about attending functions from which Cassandra and her family were excluded and to which, by all rights, they should be invited. But at this point in their friendship, she knew not to say anything to this effect to Cassandra. In the past, she had frequently offered not to attend such events, thinking it only fair that she not accept the hospitality of those who treated her best friend in such a fashion. But Cassandra had always asked that Henrietta not take that approach. Cassandra had told her that she did not care what people like the Worthingtons thought of her and her family.
Furthermore, she had told Henrietta that it would hardly endear her family to the ton if Henrietta refused the Breminsters’ much sought-after attendance at events on their account. I have no shortage of fine balls and parties to attend, she had said, and such an action on your part will only cause trouble for me and solve nothing. It didn’t lessen Henrietta’s feelings of consternation on the subject but she listened because, of all people, Cassandra knew her own mind.
In short, she knew what Cassandra wanted—because she was telling it to her plainly. And it was for her to go to the Worthingtons’ tomorrow night and secure them the editorship.
“I will do it then,” she replied. “If you trust my abilities, then I must be capable.”
Her friend’s reply was lost in her own exclamation.
“Cassandra! It’s Sebastian.”
Cassandra traced the line of her sight and then smiled. “I may have told him we would be here.”
Henrietta watched as Sebastian closed the distance between himself and Cassandra. He couldn’t kiss her in Hyde Park, Henrietta knew—Mrs. Seymour, of all people, would be horrified to hear of such a display—but she could tell how much he wanted to sweep her friend into his arms. Her expression could scarcely be more yearning. Instead of doing what they both so clearly wanted to do, he swept her gloved hand to his lips. With his impeccable tailoring, rakish smile, and rich brown complexion, Sebastian looked every inch the dashing ton gentleman. Henrietta could understand why her friend was desperate to be married already.
“You two are so in love that it makes me want to get engaged.”
Sebastian laid his eyes on Henrietta for the first time since he had approached them.
“Is there a gentleman we should know about, Lady Henrietta?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Burnbridge, you are one of a kind.”
