Dorset groaned. “Don’t tell me you are one of those most proper chits who speak only of approved topics. I’m disappointed.”
Maeve couldn’t help it, she laughed. “All right, my lord. Who was that woman speaking to Welton and Shufflebottom? She reminds me of someone, but I can’t place whom. I must learn who her modiste is.”
“Woman?” he choked out.
She patted him on the arm. “No worries, my lord. Welton and Shufflebottom have spotted us and are on their way over. I’ll just inquire of them.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he said in low voice. “Her name is Madame Chancé. She holds a salon dedicated to… artists.”
“Hm. Artists.”
“And poets.”
“Poets?”
“Lady Alymer, I warn you, if your mother learns you are asking after Madame Chancé, she’ll have that announcement for theGazetteyou were threatening me with.”
Maeve’s lips tightened at his comment, but there wasn’t time to reply.
Shufflebottom tipped his head. “Lady Alymer. Lord Dorset. How pleasant to see you out and about.” The man was all ruffles and frilly lace. It was an astonishing sight.
Maeve’s sky-blue walking dress was practically dowdy by comparison though she did have the hat. Nothing compared to the hat.
“How is Harlowe faring, Lady Alymer? Welton here mentioned you were looking after him,” Shufflebottom said.
Maeve’s insides dipped. Surely they couldn’t tell just from looking at her how Harlowe—they couldn’t possibly. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lord Shufflebottom. I’m staying with the Kimptons. That is a far cry from taking care of Lord Harlowe. You make it sound as if something nefarious is going on.” She inhaled slowly and took up a mundane air. “In any event, he is doing well. I’ll be assisting him with his memoirs. And he’s to help me with my late husband’s text—” She stopped, her eyes cutting to Dorset, realizing what she’d just revealed, embarrassed beyond words. “I’ve had several offers of help,” she finished lamely.
Dorset’s jaw grew tight, his knuckles white from gripping the reins. She was at a loss, scrambling for something to offset the sudden strained silence. “Harlowe may start painting again.”
“Is it true he’s lost his memory?” Shufflebottom asked.
“No,” she said quickly, refusing to give fuel to the rumormongers. He was recovering bits of his memory, and that was good enough for her. She wrapped her inner Lady Ingleby around her, lifting her chin. “It was good to see you,” she said to Welton and Shufflebottom. She turned an all-teeth smile on her companion. “Shall we, Lord Dorset?”
Shufflebottom and Welton moved on.
Dorset flicked the reins and they slogged through the heavy traffic. “Is Harlowe having trouble with his memory?”
“Lord Dorset, are we going to spend our time speaking of Lord Harlowe? Hasn’t he suffered enough, considering the ordeal he’s been through in the past year?”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have pried. But I can’t help noticing how awfully sympathetic to his cause you sound.”
“I suppose I understand a little of what he is experiencing,” she said softly. “Alymer suffered considerably before his death. I see a few similarities.” It was the best explanation she could come up with without revealing anything of a more personal nature. So many things hit her at once: a stubborn resolve at being pigeon-holed as a prim and proper miss, despite having been married for three years; a need to leash a temper at Shufflebottom’s sly implications; and a fear of unfamiliar emotions swirling within her at the very mention or thought of Harlowe.
“Will you be attending the Martindales’ event tonight?”
“No. I don’t believe I will.”
“You know, if you stay on this vigil of boycotting events, your mother will be hunting you down.”
“Yes, well, she has all the enlightenment she can handle from my maid.”
“I shall be there if you should change your mind,” he said.
Fourteen
Harlowe lay stretched out on the bed, listening intently for any sound from the chamber next door. He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, should have been back by now. Suddenly, the door slammed in her chamber. “What! How dare she.” It appeared Lady Alymer was furious, giving testament to that ginger hair of hers.
The other voice was muted, and he couldn’t make out the words.
