Eleanor clapped her hands. “That sounds like so much fun. I can only imagine you and Justine running wild through Paris.”
Ophelia wanted to kick her beneath the table. Arthur would protest anything that made her “run wild.”
“If you have an appropriate chaperone, I don’t see why not,” Arthur said, looking at Lady Rascomb.
“I cannot go,” Lady Rascomb said quietly. “I—I.”
“You don’t need to say anything, Mama.” Tristan reached over and grasped her hand. “Perhaps we could go. What do you think, Eleanor?”
“We could see what Prudence is up to! It’s far enough in advance for them to return to Europe, isn’t it?” Eleanor lit up.
“A reunion of the Ladies’ Alpine Society?” Ophelia smiled. She liked that idea quite a lot. Perhaps she could invite Julian, so that he might meet Karl Vogel, and understand the Matterhorn from the perspective of the team who’d attempted it. She was about to bring it up, but the subject was already changed.
“How was the art exhibition?” Arthur asked.
“It was lovely, nothing terribly surprising, of course.” Tristan glanced at Eleanor with a look that Ophelia found curious. “We ran into Sir Julian Dunstan while there.”
“Oh, did you? I didn’t know he was a patron of the arts,” Lady Rascomb said, the maternal pleasure evident in her voice.
“Perhaps,” Eleanor said, her entire posture changing from the confident straight spine of the Paris discussion to a rounded sag.
“What is it?” Arthur asked. He’d cultivated a relationship with Sir Julian as well, outside of the baronet’s regular drawing room calls. It had made Ophelia feel good that they were able to so honor a man who’d been a friend of their father’s.
“The woman he was with was—” Tristan shook his head. “Beyond rude.”
“Very rude,” Eleanor echoed.
“Who was she?” Ophelia asked, a cold feeling spreading in her chest.
“Lady DeMarius?” Eleanor said. “I didn’t know her.”
“Oh,” Lady Rascomb said, her voice flat. “I know her. She is a rude person, but she has her charms. For some.”
“Lady DeMarius?” Arthur looked thoughtful. “I remember Lord DeMarius. But he died some years back. Old as the Roman baths, he was.”
Lady Rascomb nodded. “This would be his fourth wife. His widow.”
“Four wives?” Ophelia sputtered.
“The previous three all died in childbirth. He has one surviving child from each wife.”
“Very Henry VIII of him,” Ophelia muttered.
“Very Catherine Parr of her,” Arthur joked, but no one laughed.
“But as his widow, she likely has a comfortable pension,” Tristan said drily.
Lady Rascomb gave them all a pinched smile. Ophelia couldn’t figure out if it was a way to compare their mother’s situation with Lady DeMarius’s, or if it was because she had unkind opinions of the woman.
“Whatever her financials,” Eleanor said, “I don’t care for her.”
“It’s Sir Julian’s business who he spends his time with, not ours,” Arthur pronounced as the footman entered with the roast.
Ophelia didn’t like the idea of that at all. “She must have some redeeming quality or else he wouldn’t spend time with her.”
Eleanor looked at her with open curiosity. “And why is that?”
“Because he is a discerning individual,” Ophelia said, almost insulted that Eleanor would ask such a thing.
