“We will go, never you fear,” said Drew. “But was there no part of London that you enjoyed, Vee?”
“Oh, London is fine, I suppose,” mused Ivy. “I do like the parks and bookshops. I like my horse, but Uncle Ian has said that Socks will return to Avenelle with us.”
Drew smiled at her. She’d learned not to rush Ivy when she wished to make a point.
“I should hate for any of us to be left behind in London,” Ivy added. “We should—all of us—go back to Avenelle. Even the cat.”
“Especially the cat,” agreed Drew.
Another couple drifted to the terrace and Drew edged the girl deeper into the shadows.
After a moment, Ivy drew a shaky breath and ventured, “I worry sometimes that Imogene will refuse to return to Dorset. She loves everything about London. She will like this ball, she willloveit. If we believe otherwise, we are only deceiving ourselves.” She sounded like a fortune-teller reciting a bad omen.
Drew suppressed a laugh. “Well, I certainly hope she likes it, we’ve gone to a lot of effort to make it special. And look how hard she’s worked, to be ready for the presentation at court. She managed that brilliantly, didn’t she? She should have her special night. Both of you have been so very attentive. You’ve truly given the best of yourselves to all the lessons and tutors and practices. What cordial, thoughtful, interesting young women you are.”
“Thank you,” said Ivy after a brief, internal struggle.Drew almost laughed. Drew had taught her this.If you’ve been given a compliment about something that you, yourself, find distasteful, it is better to say “thank you” than to dismiss the compliment.
“Ah, there you are,” said a voice from the garden below.
Drew and Ivy turned to see Ian clip up the shadowy steps. He slipped an arm around Drew and pulled her close. It was impossible to hide her delight in seeing him, in having him reach for her, in standing arm in arm. The sight of him sent feathers swirling in her chest, even now. She struggled in public settings not to touch some part of him. Ian did not share this same struggle, and he touched her whenever he liked.
“Bloody hell,” Ian said, frowning through the doors, “they’ve all come, haven’t they?”
“They did all come,” said Drew. “Everyone loves a party.Anda pretty debutante who’s gained the favor of the queen.”
Ian snorted. “Perhaps Imogene should have met with the prince instead of me.”
As promised, Imogene and Ivy were granted invitations to meet Queen Charlotte at the end of the Season. Ivy had chosen not to debut this year and respectfully declined to meet the queen, but Imogene threw herself into preparations, devoting months to almost-cheerful study of Drew’s every instruction. On the queen’s birthday, she’d boldly joined the long line of debutantes who were to be presented as part of the celebration.
Her appearance had, according to the gossip rags, been an overwhelming success. They described her gown and styling as “distinctive,” and “ethereal,” and (in one particularly vivid account), “breathtaking.” Onlookers reported that she’d glided assuredly down the long hall to the throne and sunk into a graceful curtsey. Her biggest triumph, however, was the brief exchange she shared with the queen—topics covered included horseback riding, tennis, and cats—and she’d not been excused until she’d made the monarch laugh.
Ian’s time with the prince regent was also a success, even without his clever niece. He’d spent the spring quietly rallying parliament, one member at a time, paving the way in case the regent could not be convinced to help. He’d worked diligently; refusing to react when various MPs alluded to his reputation as a failed rioter, and Drew had been so very proud. Finally, thanks to Imogene, he’d met the future king.
He’d been brilliant, of course—Drew devoured every detail of the meeting and refused to view it in any other light—and even Ian himself seemed satisfied with the progress. The prince had been flanked by two ministers who scribbled copious notes. Adolphus had also come. In the end, Prince George urged Ian to keep him abreast of the matter, and the ministers had asked for the dossier Ian had prepared on the export taxes and its impact on small, regional craftsmen.
When they returned to Dorset, Ian hoped his tenants would see the meeting as another peace offering. A move in the right direction. He hoped they would see it as he did, as a ray of hope.
But first, the debut of Imogene Starry. After tonight, Imogene would be officially “out” in society, free to attend parties and fetes and balls and to welcome the attention of suitors.
The prospect of this clearly terrified Ivy, and she wasn’t the only one. Ian and Drew had decided that, given Imogene’s relative youth and newness to London, she would have greater success in her Season if she passed another summer and autumn in the countryside. Timothea had no opinion on the matter; so the Duke and Duchess of Lachlan made the decision to debut their niece late in the current Season—the alignment with her presentation at court was a perfect excuse—and then to pack all of them up and go to Dorset until the following year.
Nextyear, when Imogene was older and hopefully a bit more measured, they would return and she could enjoy afull London Season from beginning to end. Perhaps by then, Ivy would be prepared to debut. Or not. Whatever the girl wished.
“But why have you and Imogene not come up together?” Drew asked Ian, looking around for their niece. “There’s no problem, I hope?”
“God only knows,” said Ian. “She looked perfectly ready to me. It was Timothea who sent me away. She wanted a few words alone with Imogene.”
“Really?” Drew’s mouth literally fell open. She couldn’t help it. She was stunned.
“Really,” Ian confirmed, tugging at his cravat. “Miracles never cease.”
“But will Timothea lead her to us when they’ve finished?” asked Drew. “They cannot wind themselves through the ballroom unescorted. Imogene must be announced; the baroness must be announced. It was Imogene herself who chose to enter through the terrace doors.” Drew slipped from Ian’s arm to peer over the banister, hoping to see Imogene and Lady Tribble on the garden path.
“Pray, don’t worry, Aunt,” said Ivy, stifling a yawn. “Imogene will find her way.”
“Of this, I have no doubt, but I should hate for her to become distracted or forget the plan. Debutante balls may be frivolous and diverting, but there is an order of events. If we mean to do it, I should like to see it done properly.”
She glanced back to Ian, who was examining the inside of his hat. Ivy had plucked a leaf from a nearby potted bush and was rolling it between two fingers.
