“Like you and Miss Sylvia?” she teased.
“Exactly so. Some probably have real jewels on their collars, too.”
“The people or their animals?”
They snickered, but Miss Sylvia started to struggle, so it was time to part. “We didn’t come in through the grand entrance, but you need to go in that direction,” he explained, “so that someone in the reception office can hail the general manager. Follow this corridor,” he said, “past all those endless small sitting rooms on the left and the ladies’ library on the right, though I bet you might want to look in there sometime. Take a right at the family staircase. You won’t meet any strange single gentlemen on that side.”
“Strange men such as yourself, holding cats?”
“Again, correct,” he said. “You’ll see the entrance foyer ahead of you. Go through it, past the doors to the central courtyard. Miss Sylvia has been known to do her business there in a pinch, but she was found disturbing the flowers one time and drinking from the fountain another, so we’ve been all but banned.”
“Naturally,” she said, imagining the horror of a guest paying dearly for an opulent room and looking out from above over the exclusive hotel courtyard to see a cat defecating in the flower pots. She grinned at the thought.
“You’ll find a reception room on your right, just past the courtyard doors. If the manager isn’t nearby, they’ll fetch him.”
“I’m sure I shall manage quite well.”
“I haven’t a doubt,” he said. “You have always seemed like a most capable woman.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” He’d done them such a good turn, there was nothing more she could say.
“I will see you at the next ball,” he added as she walked away.
Chapter Fourteen
Three evenings later, Beatrice alit from the carriage to partake of yet another sparkling ball, although smaller than the previous massive affair at Clarendon House. She was flanked by Charlotte on one side and Mr. Carson on the other, looking ever more dapper as far as she was concerned.Was that possible?
“No cards,” Charlotte said, her voice high with excitement.
When checking their mantles and Mr. Carson’s hat, they’d paused to await the dispensing of dance cards, to realize belatedly that none were forthcoming.
Their host, the Dowager Duchess of Eastley, dressed as if she were still a few decades younger than she truly was, stood near the entrance to the ballroom, ushering guests inside like a butler. She heard Charlotte’s exclamation.
“No cards tonight, dearies. So old fashioned, I think, and restrictive. Dance with your hearts,” she added through lips with far too much false color plastered upon them. Her blond wig of ringlets and her ruddy cheeks reminded Beatrice of a child’s porcelain doll with perfectly coiled hair and craftily applied rouge. In the case of a flesh-and-blood older lady, however, the attempt at a façade of youth smacked of desperation.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Charlotte said first. Beatrice and Mr. Carson did the same and they crossed the parquet floor.
