“Well, some people,” refuted Lady Tribble, “are of the belief that human spirits can be embodied within the physicality of animals.”
“No one believes this, Timothea,” said Lachlan.
“Well, not of Mephistopheles, of course,” replied Lady Tribble—here again, no irony. “He is merely a cat. As I’ve just said.” She strummed a soothing chord on her lute. “As far as we know.”
The duke scraped his hand downward, palming his face.
Drew cleared her throat. “Your cat is called Mephistopheles?” she asked brightly. “Now, that is a mouthful, although . . .” She examined the cat. He had flamboyantly thick fur, horn-like pointy ears, and an expression of haughty disdain. “. . . rather fitting, I believe.”
“He’s called Meph, for short,” whispered Ivy Starry from her chair in the corner.
“How clever,” enthused Drew. “‘Meph.’ And who is the proud owner of this beast?”
“Meph belongs to no one,” proclaimed Lady Tribble, her voice taking on a reverent tone. She replayed the same chord, the beginning, perhaps, of the creature’s signature march.
“The cat was a stray found at Avenelle,” said a new voice from behind them. Lachlan dropped his hand and sat up. Drew turned. Lady Tribble plucked a different progression of chords.
In the doorway leaned a girl. Imogene Starry.
“Imogene,” observed Lachlan tiredly, “how lovely of you to turn up. Miss Trelayne, I give you my second niece, Imogene Starry.”
“There you are, darling,” said Lady Tribble. “I knew you’d been here a moment ago.”
Drew smiled cautiously at the young woman. While Lady Tribble had a lazy sort of eccentricity, and Ivy was timid and mousy, this girl? This girl...?
And now Drew’s heart beat very fast indeed.
Imogene Starry was, at once, unkempt and beautiful. Hair unbound. Dress a faded crimson. Had she...? Yes, she had. She’d altered the décolletage into the neckline of a saucy widow. Eyes: cornflower blue. Hair: sunlight blond. Figure: lush but not thick.
In two words, the girl was dangerously alluring.
She assessed Drew with a boldness that bordered on challenge. At the same time, she gave off a lazy, half-lidded detachment that said,Youdon’t see me.
Like her sister, her dress was ill-fitting and the color did nothing for the tone of her skin.
And yet, she all but glowed, even in the rainy-day light of the mustard-painted room. In some other girl, her drooped posture might suggest a back injury; but Imogene projected lazy defiance. Everything about her said,Makeme care, I dare you.
Despite Drew’s own manners and poise, her first instinct was shock. She couldn’t say what she expected, but it was not this.
On the heels of shock came wariness. Drew had transformed herself, but she’d never been a beauty, not now or ever. If she was being honest, Drew was a little intimidated by beauty. She felt the urge to step back.
But herthirdimpulse, which was rooted in survival (and had been with her far longer) was to remain where she stood, meet the girl’s challenging gaze, and show absolutely no reaction at all. Not to the rudeness, nor to the beauty.
“Avenelle is your home in Dorset?” Drew asked the girl, taking up the conversation about the cat.
“Well, it’s theduke’shome, isn’t it?” said Imogene.
“Avenelle is your home, too,” reminded the duke on a sigh.
Imogene did not agree or contradict. Instead, she studied Drew with cool detachment. Drew allowed the girl to stare. She’d taken care with her styling today, like every day. Her wardrobe was one of her greatest vanities. Fine clothes were a necessity for a stylist; also a necessity for someone so very tall and thin, with carrot-colored hair. The correct clothes helped to make Drew... if not pretty, then at least attractive.
“Won’t you join us?” Drew asked. “I’m eager to become acquainted.”
Imogene shrugged, the gesture of someone who consented because there was nothing else to do.
No one had invited Drew to sit, refreshment had not been offered, and the duke’s introduction had been very spotty, indeed. Normally she would defer to the girls’ mother forthese salutations, but Lady Tribble was playing her lute in earnest now, humming softly to match the notes. Lachlan stared at the floor as if a hole might open up and he could jump through it.
Drew cleared her throat. Someone needed to establish authority, but no one else seemed inclined. Surely Lachlan or Lady Tribble would contradict her if she overstepped.
