Beatrice grinned suddenly. “What about us? We’re mixing where we don’t belong. That was plainly the case at Amity’s ball.”
“Pish,” said their mother. “Of course you belong. Your grandfather was a French baron before your uncle got the title. Besides, I have nothing against classes mixing, as long as the power is fairly equal. If a lord truly loves a young woman, then let him marry her, and vice versa.”
“And if Mr. Carson falls in love with a titled lady who doesn’t mind that his pockets rattle with gold coins,” Charlotte added, “then let him marry her, butnotif he doesn’t love her.”
“Exactly,” said their mother. “Hopefully, he will not marry simply to get his family estate.”
“Hopefully,” Beatrice agreed.
Her mother tried to fix her with a stare, but in the dimness of the carriage, Beatrice could easily look away.
“I’m glad tomorrow is Sunday,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “I dread the next ball on Thursday.”
“That one is all hoity-toities,” Beatrice pointed out. “You and I will be the sole guests thinking about getting up for work the next day.”
“It will be worth it,” their mother insisted. “Only by the favor of your brother-in-law were you two and Mr. Carson invited to the Earl of Clarendon’s party.”
Chapter Twelve
Naturally, Beatricechose the new copper gown for the Earl of Clarendon’s ball. It seemed her most impressive one, and this was their grandest event yet — a ball in Piccadilly, just west of Devonshire House, with a sit-down dinner. Not that Amity’s ball hadn’t been wonderful, but their sister’s had been a new event, whereas Clarendon’s was long-standing and, thus, prestigious, not to mention fully covered by all the daily papers the following morning.
“I feel all tingly,” Charlotte said as they entered Clarendon House, turned in their coats and received numbered claim tickets. “Look, they’ve even given us pencils.”
Beatrice slid the white ribbon holding her card onto her wrist and put the pencil and ticket in her reticule. Then she surveyed the earl’s marvelous entrance hall — quite cavernous, expectedly ornate and gilded — with its grand staircase leading up to the public rooms. Beautifully dressed guests were streaming up, diverging at the landing halfway, going both to the left and the right up to the next level.
“Look,” Charlotte said, craning her head as she gawked at the ceiling that truly seemed to stretch heavenward.
Beatrice, while not wanting to appear like a green country girl when she was a Londoner born and bred, couldn’t help looking up as well. Mr. Carson promptly bumped into the back of her, nearly sending her flying. Luckily, Charlotte reached out and grabbed her arm saving her from a clumsy disgrace. They both turned on him.
“What on earth?” Beatrice hissed.
Since collecting them from their home, he’d been beyond affable, telling them how pleased he was to be joining them once again. Smiling at her — his crooked grin making her heart clench — he apologized.
“Sorry, I gave them my hat and thought you ladies were on the move, but you stopped before I noticed.”
“I nearly made a spectacle of myself,” she snapped, “and I haven’t even made it into the ballroom yet.”
