Joan lifted one hand helplessly. “I don’t know; perhaps. Papa said they would travel slowly, to avoid tiring her. We received one brief note, saying they had reached Bath but then been compelled to stop so Mother could rest. He promised to write to me when they arrived, so I hope to hear from him soon.”
“I’m sure that’s very wise of him.”
For a moment they were all quiet. Joan bit her lip as thoughts of her mother, weak and coughing up blood, filled her mind. She was anxious to hear from her father, but she was just as concerned that he not delay their progress merely to send her a letter saying they’d reached Devonshire. Conveying Mother safely to Cornwall was the important thing, even if it left her prey to horrible fears and worries. She’d tried not to dwell on it much, and Evangeline’s presence had been a marvelous distraction, but Joan thought of her mother every night.
“Are you getting on well with your aunt?” Penelope asked hesitantly. “You never spoke of her before.”
Joan made herself smile. “I never really knew her before. My mother thought her scandalous, and she hasn’t been in London much. I hadn’t seen her in years.”
“And your father left you in her charge?” Abigail’s eyes were wide.
“Yes, although only after making me solemnly swear I would behave myself.”
“That sounds like a fool’s bet to me,” exclaimed Penelope. “Your father ought to know better than that.”
“I think he was faced with dire circumstances,” Joan replied. “He’s sent Douglas off to Ashwood to help rebuild after the flood there.”
“Douglas? Build a house?” Penelope let out a whoop.
Behind them, Mr. Weston turned their way, a slight frown on his face. Abigail waved at him with a bright smile even as she poked her sister’s arm. “Hush, Pen. Jamie’s watching you.”
“Pooh on Jamie,” said Penelope, but in a lower tone. “How diverting to think of Douglas contemplating which paper to put on the walls and what draperies to hang!”
“Quite a thought, isn’t it?” Joan grinned. “I expect he’ll be tearing out his hair to come back to London within a fortnight.”
“But your aunt.” Abigail fixed a stern gaze on Joan. “You don’t seem oppressed.”
“No, quite the opposite.” Joan looked around, but Mr. Weston had gone back to talking with Mrs. Townsend, and neither was paying them any mind. “She’s shockingly original. She drinks brandy after dinner. She greeted Smythe, our butler, like an old friend; he once helped her sneak into the house when she’d gone out to see a footrace. And she doesn’t care a fig for fashion, but her wardrobe is so striking and flattering, I can hardly breathe from envy.”
The Weston girls exchanged a glance. “I can’t wait to meet her,” said Penelope.
“Are you happy to have her, then?” Abigail looked bewildered.
Joan thought of the new day dress Mr. Salvatore was sewing for her at that very moment. As Evangeline had warned, he had apparently decided everything about it without once seeking her approval. Beyond the fact that it would be green, he hadn’t even told her what it would look like. But his words had been kind and encouraging; he declared she had it in her to be a Venus, and that he knew how to do it. With all her heart she hoped he was right and that the dress came out well, that he had somehow seen some way to flatter her tall, round figure and not make her look like a tufted umbrella. “I believe it may be a rare stroke of good fortune.” She said nothing of the dress, wanting to see their unprepared reaction when she wore it.
“I am very glad of it,” said Abigail.
“As am I. Now, what happened with Lord Burke at the Malcolm ball?” Penelope asked.
“He gave me50 Ways to Sin.” Joan swung her reticule. “Do you want it?” She’d rolled it into a tight cylinder and tied it with a ribbon to keep it confined. Mother’s absence, and even more important, Janet’s, had made it much easier to keep it hidden.
“You may keep it; I managed to steal Mama’s copy the other night. Is that why he waltzed you out of the room?” Penelope was undeterred, to Joan’s disappointment. Usually they discussed each issue with rabid interest, from the plausibility of the acts described to which gentleman of the town had inspired the tale.
“That was only for a moment.”
“It was several minutes, and even though he emerged—and left the ballroom!—a few minutes later, you didn’t come back for much longer, and when you did, you looked thoroughly flustered. What happened?” Abigail prodded. “I hope it was something delicious, from the way you’re blushing.”
“You’re both horrible people.” Joan glared at them. “May I not have some secrets?”
Penelope snorted. “Not about this! Or next time we shall follow you when he asks you to dance, and that will make it much more difficult for him to make love to you.”
“Penelope.” Her face was bright red, she could feel it.
“And she denies nothing,” observed Abigail. For once she was as avidly curious as her sister. “So, what did he do?”
Joan pursed her lips, but part of her was wildly eager to tell. She’d been kissed—properly kissed, near to ravishment—by a true rake. And there was even a chance he would do it again. She glanced around to ensure they were alone, and lowered her voice. “You must never tell anyone.”
“No, never,” her friends chorused.
