Three very small tomes became himself, Wolfe, and McCormick. “My friends and I were here,” Eamon explained as he and Leo set them between encircling lines of blue books. “A very tight spot.”
“You have to tell me again what you did,” Leo said, eyes shining. He didn’t command as a haughty duke but an excited child.
“Of course.” Eamon hunkered down next to the books, and Leo joined him, arms around his small knees.
Eamon went over every word of the tale, embellishing it with more details, moving his props as necessary.
He was not so engrossed that he didn’t spy Caro give them a little smile and silently glide away, leaving them to it.
“The Duchess of Aylesmore,” a tall young man, resplendent in powdered wig and satin livery, announced into the Princess of Osagard’s opulent drawing room the next afternoon.
A fine rain fell outside but no damp would dare penetrate the warm elegance of the Portman Square home. Caro had let the coziness of the house embrace her as she entered then followed the footman up the grand flight of stairs to the first floor.
She’d hoped for a quiet visit, but the drawing room was crowded, morning calls in full fervor. One of this year’s debutantes was pounding out a rather heavy-handed minuet by Mozart as her mother proudly observed her.
The young ladies and matrons in the room came alert when Caro was announced, feathered headdresses bobbing like a startled flock of colorful birds. Caro strove not to cringe as quizzing glasses rose to train on her.
The rare occasions Caro paid calls these days subjected her to many a stare, ranging from delighted surprise to barely concealed hostility. When the nobody Miss Arnott had landed herself the Duke of Aylesmore, she’d made enemies overnight of people she’d never met.
The hostess of the drawing room, a tall, middle-aged woman with a turban that rose higher than any of her guests’, came to her feet in welcome. Her pleasure in beholding Caro was genuine, though the dignified lady would never reveal such a thing.
Her daughter, on the other hand, sprang up with a squeal of gladness and rushed across the room.
“Caro, my dearest darling.” Princess Josephine Anne-Marie Sophia Vollen of Osagard flung her arms around Caro and crushed her in a pink-and-cream silk embrace. “You ought to have warned me you were coming. I’d have had Mason lay on a feast.”
“Nonsense.” Caro kissed Jo’s cheek when her friend released her. “The only feast I need is seeing you.”
The other ladies in the room witnessed this display with a fluttering of fans and a few whispers, but when Jo led Caro across the room and placed her in the seat of honor—a comfortable armchair nearest the fire—many stares, though not all, became ones of grudging acceptance.
Josephine’s father, Prince Rupert, was no longer welcome in his tiny kingdom on the Austria-Bohemia border, but he’d been instrumental in providing money and a squadron of men in the recent battles with Napoleon, which had won him respect and honor.
In addition, Prince Rupert might any day be restored from his exile, when the ancient king who’d pushed him away years ago finally expired. The ladies and gentlemen of London cultivated the approval of Josephine’s prestigious family, just in case.
Jo’s friendship with Caro, and her parents’ approval of her, had gone a long way to ease Caro’s entry into society as the new Duchess of Aylesmore.
Caro hadn’t been out much since Leopold’s death, but today, she’d very much wanted to speak to her friends.
Jo dragged a chair close to Caro’s and gazed at her as though she hadn’t seen her for months.
Princess Jo was a beauty, a fact so many misses tried and failed to despise her for. She had the golden hair and fair complexion common in northern European climes, her eyes a crystalline blue. Ladies whispered that Jo must secretly rub buttermilk on her skin and rinse her hair with lemon juice, but Caro knew she’d simply inherited the coloring of her parents.
The kingdom of Osagard had been settled by Northmen a thousand years ago, at about the same time those marauders had made their way into northern England, Scotland, and Ireland, as well as Normandy and what was now the great empire of Russia. The small kingdom had managed to survive the machinations of the Holy Roman Empire and retained its autonomy to this day.
Young ladies of society found they couldn’t dislike Jo, however much they tried, because she was sunny-natured, kind, and generous. Any debutante terrified of scrutiny, or weeping because the gentleman she fancied didn’t notice her, had a sympathetic ear in Jo as well as sound advice to bolster said lady’s spirits.
“Darling, it’s been an age,” Jo gushed to Caro.
“It has been since last Tuesday,” Caro corrected her good-naturedly. Jo had called on Caro at the Grosvenor Square house, and they’d had a fine tea with the dowager and Leo.
“Well, it seems an age. It is a sad time for me when I do not look upon you every day.”
“You’re a goose.” Caro laughed, Jo easily calming her agitation. “I do admit, though, that I’ve been languishing for a good gab with you.” She tried not to glance around the very full room, but Jo caught her unease.
“It is the height of the Season, my friend,” Jo said. “We must all rush around to each other’s drawing rooms and stuff ourselves with lemonade, macaroons, and gossip. Fortification for sailing out to evening balls and soirees to do it all again.”
“I had forgotten,” Caro said with a pang. The year since Leopold’s death had passed in monotony, Caro uncertain of her welcome at any gathering not hosted by her closest friends.
“My poor dearest.” Jo squeezed Caro’s hands, her compassion unfeigned. “I have neglected you. That will change, beginning this instant. I am frivoling, while you have been abandoned in that great, dreary house.”
