Her mother knew it, and her siblings had learned it the hard way. Most importantly, Lucy knew it about herself. She understood herself very well, truth be told. And she’d learned to like herself even though others considered her odd, and eligible gentlemen steered clear of her due to her reputation as—what had the lordling at that summer ball called her?—a meddlesome termagant.
Despite how definitively she’d informed that gentleman what a small-minded, uninteresting clodpate he was, she couldn’t deny the accusations thrown her way. She could be sharp-tongued when the situation called for it, and she was extremely adept at meddling. Though she’d always viewed it more as helping.
What was wrong with being the person others turned to when they needed assistance? She was quite proud of her reputation as a young lady ready to spring to the aid of others when needed.
Fixing things was an admired skill in the worldof mechanisms. Just last week, Mama had panicked for fear they wouldn’t find a piano repairman in time for this evening’s dinner party. Of course, Lucy had stepped in and helped. She knew nothing about fixing pianos, but when the repairman said he was booked through next week, she’d made a visit to his shop personally. After explaining that her father, the Earl of Hallston, was a diplomat for the queen, and the ambassador who was coming to dinner was anenormousfan of pianos, who might need a repairman himself one day, the man arrived later that same day.
So, yes, perhaps she did meddle at times. And, yes, she could be stubborn when she’d set her mind on achieving a goal. But she always found a way to get things done.
This evening, she’d made up her mind to do two things. One, ensure that Mama’s dinner party came off without a hitch, and two, keep a promise to her father that she’d do her best to be sociable. To notice who might be noticing her and to smile if any gentlemen looked her way. So far, none had yet.
But shewastrying. She hadn’t even pulled out a novel or her sketchbook once. Though she’d brought both, of course. Leaving her room without something to read or a journal to draw in would be akin to leaving home without donning any clothes. Mama claimed she treated them like a shield, a barrier between her and reality. But the opposite was true. Both connected her to theworld, making her watchful and interested in those around her.
She had a modicum of artistic talent and was getting quite good with her box camera, but she knew her parents would never allow her to make a profession of either. Marriage was still the fate they envisioned for her, but Lucy was no longer so sure.
Deep in her heart, she longed to be good enough to be acknowledged for her art, as her aunt Cassandra was. After the Scottish lord her aunt had eloped with during her first Season died, she’d remained in Scotland and had made a name for herself as a famous portrait artist in Edinburgh.
Lucy admired her aunt’s skill, but equally her independence. If only a woman could have such a life without first having to become a widow.
“You’ve abandoned me.” The voice of Lucy’s friend, Lady Miranda Farnsworth, pulled her out of her musings.
“I haven’t. I never would.” She had in fact been with Miranda most of the day. She’d been at Farnsworth House all morning before returning home for her family’s dinner party. Miranda was to be married in a little over a fortnight, and Lucy was helping her decide on, well, everything.
“I have a bit of a problem,” Miranda said in a near whisper.
“Please don’t let it be the organza.” Lucy groaned inwardly at the memory of being buried in dozens of bolts of fabric in every shade and texture the modiste had in stock. “You did alreadydecide this morning. And that was after thorough consideration.”
“No, no, it’s nothing to do with the wedding. I promised you to put that out of my head for one evening.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s to do with the place settings. I know your mama must have put a great deal of thought into them, but I had hoped I would be somewhere near Heath.”
“Want me to switch them for you?”
“Oh, would you? My dear Lucy, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Don’t fret another moment. I’ll slip away to do it soon.”
Miranda relaxed visibly and took a sip of punch from the glass she held. “It won’t go terribly against Mrs. Winterbottom’s dictates, will it?” she teased.
Among her friends, Lucy was known as a devotee of Mrs. Winterbottom, who’d writtentheguide on how a lady might be self-reliant,The Orderly Lady.Though her book gave tips on more than social etiquette. She provided guidance on arranging one’s life so that everything worked like clockwork and offered advice on never getting flustered in the face of dilemmas.
“Mrs. Winterbottom is an advocate of self-sufficiency and finding solutions to all of life’s little predicaments.” Lucy grinned at her friend. “She’d approve.”
“Heath!” Miranda’s high-pitched squeal of her betrothed’s given name caused Lucy’s belly to flop.
She drew in a deep breath before turning to face the tall, blond gentleman who’d crossed her parents’ drawing room to greet her and his fiancée.
“Ladies.” He sketched a little bow toward his bride-to-be and finally glanced up at Lucy.
Thank goodness her breath didn’t catch in her throat anymore. In truth, she wondered now why he’d caught her interest at all. Perhaps it was the jolliness that lit his eyes at times. A sort of open friendliness came naturally to him, and she envied that.
Lucy had always been better at helping others than charming them. Her little brother was a charmer, and her mother could melt the hardest heart with a soft look and gentle words. Somehow, Lucy hadn’t inherited those talents. But she knew how to listen closely, to put people’s minds at ease, and to determine fixes when things went awry.
“You did promise me a dance,” he said to Miranda with a besotted smile.
Miranda’s aunt, her chaperone and companion for the evening, noted Mr. Ogilvy’s approach and joined them. Lucy took it as her cue. After a polite nod at Miranda’s aunt and one in Mr. Heath Ogilvy’s direction, she gave Miranda’s arm a reassuring squeeze, excused herself, and headed for the dining room.
At the threshold, she was shocked to hear voices, but then recognized one of them and rolled her eyes. The scent of cheroot smoke left no doubt.
Her brother and his friend Nigel stood in a far corner smoking and giggling in a manner that told her whatever they were discussing was not for tender ears.
