It was all so resoundingly the epitome of a wealthy gentleman’s elegant country estate it might have been copied from a painting, right down to the collection of sweet-faced young ladies lingering over their morning chocolate, arrayed around the dining table like a collection of porcelain figurines.
Had they come with the house, perhaps?
A chuckle may have escaped her then—just a tiny, soft one, but every head swung in her direction, and one by one the sweet faces turned sour. A silence so frigid it might have frozen the tea fell over the room, until at last Lady Cecil’s nieces rose from their places and, with airs of gravely offended virtue, swept from the room. Lord and Lady Kimble’s daughters followed, their cheeks coloring, either with temper, or embarrassment.
Well, that was plain enough, wasn’t it? Juliet’s appetite fled in one sickening heave, but she slid into a chair and stared down at her own blurry reflection in the polished tabletop. Why had she come down here, and given them a chance to deal her such an ugly snub? Pure stubbornness, and no better reason—
“I shouldn’t mind them, if I were you.”
Juliet jerked her head up, and found one fair-haired young lady had remained at the table, a pretty teacup with a delicate pink rose pattern balanced between her dainty fingers. “I beg your pardon?”
The lady nodded at the door. “They weren’t terribly good company, anyway.” She took a calm sip of her tea, and offered Juliet a friendly smile. “Good morning.”
“Er… good morning.”
“It doesn’t look as if there will be much hunting today, does it?” The young lady glanced out the window, frowning at the dark clouds scudding across the pale gray sky.
“No, I expect not.” Though Lady Cecil’s nieces had done an admirable job maiming their prey this morning, hadn’t they?
“I’m Lady Cora Drummond. Have you just arrived at Steeple Cross?”
“Yes.” Arrived just in time to leave again. “I’m Juliet Templeton. How do you do?”
There’d be a gasp now, or perhaps a little cry of dismay, or a squeak of outrage once Lady Cora Drummond connected her name to the recent scandal.
“Did you sayJuliet Templeton?”
Oh, no.Perhaps she shouldn’t have offered her name so readily. Was it too late to give a different one? “I—”
“The very same Juliet Templeton who’s set every tongue in London wagging? My goodness, you’re one of those matchmaking sisters, aren’t you?”
Juliet hid her grimace by taking a gulp of her tea, then had to bite off a curse as the hot liquid burned her tongue. “Er, well…”
“All of London is talking about you,” Lady Cora went on breathlessly.
They were doing a great deal more than talking. They were gossiping, speculating, snickering, and cursing the Templeton name. “Yes, well—”
“I’vesowanted to make your acquaintance!”
“You wanted to makemyacquaintance?” Lady Cora must have mistaken her for someone else.
“Oh, yes! You and your sister are the only two people in London with any sense!” Lady Cora glanced at the door, and lowered her voice. “Thetonis perfectly dreadful, isn’t it? I was meant to come out this season, but my grandfather’s passing prevented it. I was overjoyed at it—that is, not at my grandfather’s death, of course—but to escape the season.”
“The seasonisvery—”
“Your matchmaking ideas are terribly clever! There must be something to your theories, too, because your sister is rumored to be marryingLord Melrose.” Lady Cora whispered Lord Melrose’s name as if he were too glorious to be spoken of in anything but a reverent hush.
No, there’d been no mistake. Lady Cora knew exactly who she was.
“He’s the Nonesuch. TheNonesuch, Miss Templeton. The gossips are claiming your sister bewitched him.”
God in heaven, was that what people in London were saying now? That Emmeline hadbewitchedLord Melrose? It sounded positively Machiavellian.
She jerked her hands under the table to hide their sudden, infuriated shaking. It was yet another wild rumor, and now that Lord Cross had refused to help stem the tide of gossip, there was no telling when thetonwould weary of their rabid speculation.
What sort of man refused to help his own friends? If one couldn’t rely on one’s friends to defend them, who could one rely upon? But then Lord Cross had never beenherfriend, had he? He’d made that clear enough last night.
“… sister stole him directly out from under Lady Christine Dingley’s nose, didn’t she? And Lady Christine was this season’s belle, too!”
