Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Agatha sighed. “I wish the same thing for my Jonathon.” She rested her finger on her cheek and tilted her head, feigning that she’d just been struck with a fabulous idea. “If you would like, I can introduce my cousin to your nephew at the ball.”
“What a splendid idea,” Lady Siddons said. “Meeting a lovely girl like Josephine might take Tristan’s mind off these female pugilists he is fascinated with.”
How utterly ironic! Josie’s cheeks heated until they scorched.
“Female pugilists?” Lady Hillcaster squawked. “But he is a duke.”
“For heaven’s sake, Lucille. He isn’t marrying them,” Lady Siddons said. “He simply sponsors them in that mill of his. Well, I suppose he also…” Seeming to think better of whatever she was about to say, she stared into her cup as her spoon gently tapped the rim.
Was the duke’s aunt about to declare that he tupped pugilists because that was one of the reasons Josie was in this predicament? The dratted Ruth, and her silly stage makeup, and her bared tits, and her rash manner with men.
Agatha sent Josie a raised eyebrow that reminded her to breathe. Then, she addressed her guests. “Lord Paulsgrove and Lord Ashleyshire have made it quite fashionable for aristocratic men to marry pugilists.”
“Oh, my.” Lady Hillcaster blanched. Clasping the vinaigrette that hung around her neck, she inhaled until the color returned to her cheeks.
If only Josie might disappear right then and there. Anything to get out of this afternoon.
“These young men and their modern ways,” Lady Hillcaster said.
“What are we to do with them when they refuse to do their duty, marry, and produce heirs? Of course, my sons have done their duty.” She fluttered her fan, her hair pulled back so tightly that the wind she created didn’t move a strand.
“And what do you expect when this younger generation of women is espousing ludicrous ideas? Female equality! What is the world coming to? Speaking of which—” The marchioness pointed her fan at two women who’d just entered the parlor.
It took all of Josie’s discipline not to leap from her seat and rush to Bridget.
The marchioness hid her mouth behind her fan to conspiratorially whisper, “Lady Bridget and Miss Isabelle are quite controversial. Apparently, a few of our young debutants have joined a society that is proposing female equality. Have you ever heard of anything so shocking?”
Lady Siddons dismissed the comment with a flick of her wrist. “Do not be so close-minded, Lucille. I might lend my resources to their cause.”
Agatha nodded. “Helena, I must confess, I’ve been thinking that very same thing.” She beckoned the newcomers to them with curling fingers.
How interesting, since Josie thought proper ladies did not have opinions. Inwardly, she preened because, apparently, they did.
The marchioness frowned. “I dare say this is not an appropriate topic of conversation to have in polite company.”
“You’re the one who brought it up, Lucille, dear,” Lady Siddons declared, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Bridget and her companion, who must be her dear friend, the scandalous rabble-rouser, Isabelle, strolled to them.
Josie set her cup on the nearby table. She rose and, in her excitement, forgot herself, hugging Bridget much too enthusiastically.
However, according to the previous conversation, she should not worry over much about gaily greeting her companion with all of the other scandalous ideas running amok.
Bridget kissed Josie on the cheek.
Once introductions were made, Bridget and Isabelle arranged themselves on the settee across from Josie and Agatha. Feeling more at ease, Josie listened to the conversations humming around her as she sipped tea and nibbled on a mouthwatering pastry.
What had Josie been so worried about? Besides the conversation about the acceptability of female pugilists, this wasn’t that unpalatable.
Lady Siddons had taken a liking to her, Bridget and Agatha were here with her, Isabelle was quite intelligent, the Davenport’s servants sent her subtle supportive smiles, and although the marchioness was intimidating, everyone seemed to dismiss her negative comments.
Add to all of that, there was the second cup of tea and third iced cake, which Josie was thoroughly enjoying.
“Have you seen Edmund Kean’s newest show at Drury Lane?” Lady Siddons asked.
Bridget’s eyes widened as she let out an unladylike gasp.
“Did you not enjoy his performance?” Lady Siddons asked. “Nothing compares to his role as Shylock, but I thought this performance was almost as good.”
Bridget shook her head. “I have never seen him perform.” She inclined her chin toward the entrance. “What is she doing here?”
Josie tore her gaze from the iced flower on her cake to gawk at a lacey pink nightmare. She blinked and looked again. She’d been correct the first time.
Miss Lydia Small stood between an older woman and one of the bootlickers who’d accompanied her to the modiste.
Agatha’s expression barely changed, but her knuckles whitened, and her teacup tipped. A dribble of dark liquid spilled onto her sleeve. “Heavens,” she whispered. She stood, gently placed her cup on a side table, and strolled to the three women.
“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie mumbled under her breath, earning her a scathing rebuke from the frowning etiquette enforcer in blue seated nearby.