Chapter Five
Drewsmina Trelayne’s Rule of Style and Comportment #8: Some crises call fordeferencebut others call for leadership. Don’t be afraid to take charge. If you find yourself in a situation that aligns with your skills or experience, it’s perfectly acceptable—nay it’s your obligation—to step in, to take control, and bring order to chaos.
“How do you?” Drew said, speaking to the large yellow room.
Her voice was bright and brisk; a disguise for her nerves.
The greeting was met with silence and she scanned the room, seeking out the only other adult face.
Lady Tribble, the duke’s sister—it could be no other—was sprawled upon a sofa in a posture of half repose. In her lap, she held a small stringed instrument. She stared out, unsmiling, and picked out three, sharp notes—ping,pang,pluck.
Drewsmina, determined not to say the wrong thing, waited.
“Hello,” the woman said, her voice was testing, cautious.
Oh, but she is nervous, thought Drew. She affected a warm, pleasant smile. She dipped into a small, head-bobbed bow.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” said Drew.
Lady Tribble played three more notes. The baroness wasn’t dressed in a gown so much as nestled deep within a swath of green fabric. She reminded Drew of a plump bird in a grassy nest. Was this garment a... shroud? A night rail? The dress managed to look, at once, like too much and not enough. She was covered from neck to hem, but unexpected body parts—a shoulder here, a knee there, two bare feet—protruded in a way that was oddly provocative. Her hair had been bandaged in an uneven turban.
“Oh for God’s sake, Timothea,” said Lachlan, stepping up. “Cease with the mandolin.”
“It is a lute,” informed Lady Tribble. “Modified, of course.”
“And this is no concert. Where is Imogene?” he asked.
Lady Tribble looked slowly around the room, her eyes narrowed as if she peered through a veil of smoke. “She was here a moment ago. Ivy, darling, where is Genie?”
Drew looked to the other side of the room. A young woman sat in a far-flung chair in the corner. She wore a beige morning dress in a very poor fit—Drew saw this immediately—and she had long, dull hair, possibly in need of a thorough washing, pulled tightly back from her face. Drew smiled at her, but the girl ducked her head and clasped the seat of her chair, the gesture of someone on a harrowing ride in a runaway wagon.
“I cannot say,” the girl murmured to the floor.
Drew took a step closer. Balanced on the girl’s lap was a large book, on the book, a small wire cage. The cage appeared to contain leaves and twigs and stones. Drew’s excitement, already at a fever pitch, climbed higher still. Oh, but this was going to be so very fun, indeed.
“You cannot say, or you do not know?” Lachlan was saying, beginning to pace. “Did no one hear me say that the new . . . new—”
He glanced at Drew. “How do you fancy yourself? Are you a governess?”
“No, no,” assured Drew, eyeing Ivy, “these girls are too grown-up for a governess. I am a stylist.”
Across the room, the girl introduced as Miss Ivy tipped her head ever so slightly to study Drew.
“Right,” said Lachlan. “Stylist.” He emphasized the word as if he were naming an exotic and gratuitous profession such as “sword swallower,” or “food taster.”
“Did I not say,” Lachlan went on, “that the newstylistwas due at ten o’clock?”
“Oh, you did say it,” assured Lady Tribble, strumming her lute, “obviously. As it is ten o’clock, and I am here.”
“Yes, but where is yourdaughter?” Lachlan grumbled, dropping into a chair and rubbing his eyes with one hand.
Drew looked around, checking cracks in doorways and gaps beneath floor-length curtains. The girl could be absent, but she could also be hiding. She was just about to ask Ivy about her book and wire cage when a giant cat, as fat as a spaniel, slunk into the room.
“And who is this?” Drew asked. “Not Miss Imogene, I presume.”
“That is a cat,” declared Lady Tribble with no trace of irony.
“Miss Trelayne can identify a cat,” said Lachlan tiredly, his hand still over his eyes.
