“Society adores a rogue,” Gwendolyn observed.
“More like Lady Orpington owes him a favor.”
“I’ll find out on the morrow.” She said to the waiting Herald, “Please tell the messenger I will be ready at the appointed hour.”
“Yes, Miss Gwendolyn.” He turned with proud formality to relay her answer.
After the door was shut and Herald had retreated from the hall, Dara said with a hint of worry, “I believe I need to accompany you.”
“She asked that I come alone.”
“I don’t know if that is wise.”
“And yet it is what is requested.”
Dara looked up at Gwendolyn. “By Lady Orpington? Or Mr. Steele?”
It didn’t matter to Gwendolyn who had invited her. She was going. She kissed her worried sister’s cheek. “I’ll be safe. I’ll be in Lady Orpington’s private coach.” She picked up the Dante book and started for her room.
She was going to see Mr. Steele on the morrow.
And she was going to look stunning.
Chapter Four
“You’re Irish.”Lady Orpington’s pronouncement upon receiving Gwendolyn startled both her and the brown-and-white, overweight, and obviously very spoiled King Charles spaniel sleeping in the folds of her ladyship’s purple dress. It looked up and growled as if agreeing with its master’s outraged declaration.
Her ladyship was not an attractive woman. She appeared to be barely five feet tall with watery brown eyes, a too prominent nose, and a mouth sporting the deep lines of a permanent scowl. In short, she and her dog shared a strong resemblance, and neither was happy.
Gwendolyn didn’t quite know how to respond.
All of London knew the Lanscarr sisters were Irish. Gwendolyn knew for a fact there had been many conversations behind closed doors in Society about theIrishUpstarts, a well-worn pet name for her and her sisters. The comments stemmed from jealousy and silliness. However,no one had ever curled their lip in Gwendolyn’s face.
She could have explained that, actually, no, she wasn’t Irish. It was her half-sisters who had the proud Irish heritage. But she did have a lilt to her speech, a soft one.
However, she wouldn’t give her rude hostess the satisfaction. If anything, an Irish accent was going to be in every word she said to Lady Orpington from this moment on if the woman didn’t change her manner.
And where was Mr. Steele?
He had not been in the coach that had been sent for her. He was also not in this room.
“Dear, dear cousin,” a woman sitting in a chair beside Lady Orpington’s chaise lounge said in a softly chiding voice, “you are being a trifle disrespectful to Miss Lanscarr?” She was perhaps sixty years of age, the same as Lady Orpington—but she was taller and less well-dressed.
Her ladyship was a vision in purple half mourning and what seemed like a hundred onyx stones around her neck, pinned to her turban, and on her fingers. Even the dog collar had onyx.
In comparison, the other woman’s clothing was drab. She wore a brown dress with a gray pelisse, two colors that Gwendolyn would not have put together. Her hair, which might have once been red, was now the faded color of a mouse pelt. She held knitting needles and appeared to be working on a blanket. A brown blanket.
“I’m Mrs. Newsome,” she said, introducing herself. Her voice was quiet, but Gwendolyn sensed she wasn’t completely subservient. “I’m Lady Orpington’s cousin and companion.”
“Distantcousin,” Lady Orpington clarified as if wishing to distinguish the difference between herself and this dowdy woman.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Newsome.”
Mrs. Newsome smiled a response, then suggested with proper timidity, “Could Miss Lanscarr be invited to sit?”
“This will not work,” Lady Orpington replied, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. Nothing good comes out of Ireland.” The dog in her lap grumbled an agreement.
“My dear,” Mrs. Newsome said with a hint of forceful patience, “perhaps you are being hasty? You have been looking for the right partner for a very long time.”
