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Lydia shook her head. “Lady Stella isn’t a featherhead like you and me, Blanche. What is Julia singing about now, Stella? You don’t mind if I call you Stella, do you?”

“Of course, you may. The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,” Stella said obediently. “The grief of love lasts a lifetime.”

“Love is a mere jest,” Lydia said, her voice sharp.

“I agree,” Stella said, rather surprised to find that there was anything they agreed on. Lydia often flaunted sweetness, like a strawberry about to go soft at the height of summer, but her eyes were hard.

“Are you invited to the Duchess of Huntington’s Scavenger Hunt tomorrow afternoon, Lady Stella?” Blanche asked.

“Yes,” Stella replied, wondering if it would be rude if she offered Julia some pointers on the French language. Miss Fitzwilliams clearly had no grasp of pronunciation.

“We decided that we should speak to you before the event.” Lydia’s expression indicated a delicate mixture of regret and hesitation.

Stella didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust her. Those strawberries were rotten at the core, just as sympathy often hid maliciousness.

“I see,” she said. “May I ask the subject?”

“We want to help,” Blanche said, leaning forward.

Julia was singing the refrain about the pleasure of love again. All the chaperones had begun listening, and she was capping every line with a cascading arpeggio.

Overdoing it, in Stella’s opinion. Julia’s performance felt strained, as if she were producing girlishness on command.

“I failed last year, in my first Season,” Lydia continued. Her voice grated, and bitterness shadowed her eyes. “I even tripped over chairs the way you do.”

Stella blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I did not fail,” Blanche stated, “but I didn’t receive proposals that my father deemed acceptable.”

“Blanche is expected to marry into the aristocracy,” Lydia put in.

“More importantly, I was at the Duchess of Trent’s ball when she introduced you to Lydia’s brother,” Blanche said.

Stella molded her lips into a smile. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, but for your own sake, I shall speak with perfect candor.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“We only want to help,” Lydia said, her voice sympathetic. “I don’t want you to flee London in tears at the end of your first Season, the way I did.”

Stella never cried, but that didn’t seem like the right point to make.

“When our hostess introduced you to the Earl of Lilford,” Blanche said, “I was standing not far from the Duke of Huntington and his current mistress, Lady Yasmin.”

Stella’s eyes rounded. “His mistress?”

“Of course,” Lydia said. “Why do you think Lady Yasmin refuses all those marriage proposals?”

“If the proposals are actually made,” Blanche said. “They might be mere rumors.”

Lydia shook her head. “I overheard Lord Peterkin telling a friend of his that Lady Yasmin’s grandfather wouldn’t even allow him to propose. His Grace said that Peterkin didn’t have the stature or wealth for his granddaughter. Even though everyone knows Yasmin is little better than a streetwalker.” Her voice was sour but matter-of-fact, as if she were merely sharing a fact.

Stella cleared her throat. “I’ve watched Lady Yasmin, and—”

“My point is that Lady Yasmin and the duke were seated together on a couch, and I happened to be standing just behind it,” Blanche interrupted. “His Grace began talking about you.”

Stella’s face pulled tight, and her throat felt as if it was closing. “I’d rather not know what he said,” she managed. She curled her hand around the warm kitten.