“The weather has been lovely recently.” She introduced another topic of conversation, hoping this one took a longer turn than the last.
“A little cold, if you ask me.” Iris shrugged.
“You mustn’t shrug,” Miranda coached gently. “It’s vulgar in a proper setting such as this.”
“Vulgar.” The viscount chuckled. “It’s been an age since I’ve heard that word. Outside of Almack’s, that is, and I avoid that place like hell itself,” he remarked. “My apologies for my blunt speaking.”
Miranda nodded. “Lord willing, you’ll be invited there, Miss Iris. Lady Jersey will need to be applied to for vouchers beforehand, however,” she explained, suddenly wondering if those vouchers would be impossible to procure if the viscount wasn’t a familiar of the famous meeting place.
“We shall get them for you, Miss Iris. Have no worry.” The viscount lifted a crystal glass of wine, as if toasting her.
“Lovely.” Miranda breathed an inward sigh of relief. She thought she could potentially procure an invitation through Lady Rebecca, her sister’s dear friend, but it was a bit of a stretch. It was nice to know Iris wouldn’t need to find a voucher in a roundabout way.
“What exactly is an Almack?” Iris asked, taking a sip of the red wine served with dinner.
If Miranda hadn’t just swallowed her bit of venison, she would have surely choked on it.
Clearly, they had work yet to do.
Iris directed the question to the viscount, who turned to Miranda with a wry expression. “I do believe Miss Miranda is best suited to answer that question, Miss Iris. My answer will not be taken favorably, that I can assure you.” He grinned unrepentantly.
Miranda took a deep breath, resisted the urge to let her irritation show, and turned to Iris. “It’s a lovely—”
The viscount coughed; rather, he coughed in order to cover a laugh.
Miranda ignored him.
Iris did not.
“It’s a lovely place in St. James’s where those who have vouchers are invited to attend a weekly Wednesday ball during the Season. Lady Jersey is a patroness, and you must apply directly to her or another patroness in order to gain entrance. It is said Seasons are made or destroyed by a single word of approval or derision from the patronesses,” Miranda instructed in a serious tone.
“I see.” Iris bit her lip in a concerned manner.
“Don’t be alarmed. You’ll do famously. It would be a great boon if you should debut your first week in London at such a notable establishment.” She turned to the viscount, hoping her subtle hint hit its mark.
The viscount grinned casually. “I’ll make arrangements soon. I assure you, there is nothing of which you need to concern yourself, Miss Iris.” He took another sip.
Miranda turned back to Iris, about to continue their discourse, when the viscount began speaking again.
“Of course, Miss Miranda left out the rather unremarkable aspects of this highly esteemed establishment.” He gave a daring glance to Miranda, then turned his attention fully to Iris. “But I must adjust your perspective. The lemonade is sour, the orgeat is terrible on a good day, and the room is overly hot, with little air circulation. The men are often dandies, and the ladies all parade about like prize hounds waiting to be snatched up. It’s rather dull, and if you only remember one thing, eat before you attend. Or else you’ll surely faint from hunger.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, clearly proud of his additional information.
Miranda wished she could offer some sort of redeeming words, but never having been to Almack’s herself, she was rather helpless.
Iris turned her bright eyes to her governess.
Miranda swallowed.
“Oh my. That’s certainly disproportionate for the amount of weight the place has in society, is it not?” Iris asked.
Miranda took a breath through her nose, searching her mind for a proper response.
“Miss Iris, I’ve learned that society rarely makes sense. And that is probably the best lesson I can give you this evening.”
“Hear, hear!” The viscount lifted his glass.
Miranda lifted hers; after all, it was the polite thing to do.
Iris mimicked their movements.
If there was one thing Miranda understood, it was that life rarely made sense.
Especially if one was the daughter of a duke.
