Page 20

Four days later

Keyworth House drawing room

Late afternoon

Lenora fashioned a polite smile as Lord Phillips, seated to her right on the sofa, continued to babble with Mr. Pew on her left about the intricacies of knotting a cravat. As if either man actually tied their own neckcloths. Delicate china teacup in hand, she glanced around the crowded drawing room, desperate to escape their boring, eye-crossing drivel.

Celestia had recently redecorated the room in shades of blue and white. The effect was quite tasteful and elegant. And yet, the drawing room was welcoming and warm.

The gentlemen’s argument had started when Lord Phillips had inquired if a neckcloth had truly been used as a bandage for Lenora’s head after the altercation at Burlington Arcade. From there, the discussion digressed to the proper folds and the precise amount of starch required for the most coveted of cravats.

The two gentlemen did not agree.

“The waterfall has the most graceful lines,” Lord Phillips insisted arrogantly.

“Never say so,” objected Mr. Pew with such affront that Lord Phillips might’ve suggested he wore last Season’s fashion. “The cloth must frame a gentleman’s neck as does the mathematical cravat.”

He pointed confidently to his neckcloth, which was so stiff and high that he could scarcely turn his head.

And men proclaimed women could prattle on about absurd balderdash.

Lenora mentally thanked Captain Steele for not wearing such a fashion travesty, else the other day, she’d have looked as if her head were about to set sail.

“What say you, Miss Audsley?” Mr. Pew put to her.

What?

Having tuned out their squabble, Lenora stared at him blankly.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Pew. I have no knowledge of such things,” she improvised. “Therefore, I couldn’t possibly make an informed opinion.”

Giving a superior sniff, he disdainfully eyed the simple folds of Allen Wimpleton’s neckcloth as he stood beside the fireplace in deep discussion with the Marquis of Sterling.

“Just so. Just so,” Mr. Pew murmured before he and Lord Phillips resumed bickering like an old married couple, leaving Lenora to woolgather once more.

Landry had refused to consider allowing Lenora to leave her chamber for three days after knocking her head. She’d been perfectly fine the following day except for a walnut-sized lump and a small two-inch cut on her scalp. Never one to enjoy idleness, she’d been bored to distraction thereafter.

This morning, Celestia had mentioned they were to have a few more guests for tea than typical. This was not a few. If less than fifty persons were present, Lenora would eat all of the cucumber and salmon sandwiches Cook had prepared.

Lenora detested cucumbers. And salmon.

According to Mama and Celestia, word of Lenora’s valiant actions had zipped about the upper salons faster than the great 1666 fire had destroyed much of London. She’d been deemed a heroine. Dozens of bouquets with cards attached, all wishing her a speedy recovery, had arrived over the past days and were currently displayed in the drawing room, dining room, music room, and Lenora’s bedchamber.

None had been from Captain Jason Steele.

Lenora resolutely refused to pine after him—a stranger, no less.

He didn’t feel like a stranger when he held you against his chest.

Lips firmed, Lenora turned her ponderings in a new direction. Lady Darlington-Pope had sent a lovely silk shawl, a stunning needlepoint reticule to replace the one the thieves had taken, two books, a golden box of fruit-shaped marzipan, a half a dozen gossip rags to read while Lenora convalesced, and a lengthy thank-you note written in swirling script.

Her ladyship had also promised to call as soon as Lenora was recovered while declaring herself fit as a fiddle butas bruised as an apple shaken in a barrel.

Whatever that meant.

Each time a new bouquet, a box of chocolates, or some other token arrived, Lenora’s heart had sped up, only to have disappointment pool around her toes when she read the accompanying card and it wasn’t from Jason.

Stupid, foolish nincompoop.