Chapter 7
“Buttercup, for heaven’s sake, you cannot eat Lady Harbury’s winter topiaries!” Louise lunged for the dog’s collar just as the dog decided the potted plant by the entrance looked appetizing.
Emily giggled behind her hand while Lady Merrow simply sailed past them all, utterly unperturbed by the chaos.
“Agnes, darling!” Lady Merrow called out. “I’ve brought reinforcements!”
The door flew open before the footman could reach it, revealing a woman in vibrant purple silk. Lady Harbury’s silver hair was styled in elaborate curls that defied both gravity and good sense, and her grin held a pinch of mischief usually reserved for people a quarter her age.
“Cecilia! And you’ve brought your entire menagerie, I see.
” Lady Harbury’s eyes sparkled as she took in the tableau of Louise wrestling Buttercup, Emily trying to help, and Lady Merrow beaming like a proud mother hen.
“How delightful! I was just telling Lady Densham that Lady Graninger’s tea yesterday was so dull I nearly expired from boredom.
She served only cucumber sandwiches. Cucumber! As if we’re rabbits!”
Lady Merrow kissed her friend’s cheek. “Agnes, may I present Lady Louise Burrows, my new companion, and her sister Lady Emily.”
Louise curtsied despite Buttercup’s attempts to investigate Lady Harbury’s hem. “Lady Harbury, thank you for receiving us.”
“None of that formality, my dear. Any companion of Cecilia’s is bound to be interesting.” Agnes swept them all inside, her voice carrying through the elegant foyer. “Ladies! Cecilia’s brought fresh blood!”
Louise felt heat creep up her neck, but Lady Merrow patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t mind Agnes. She likes to pretend she’s scandalous.”
“Pretend?” Lady Harbury’s voice floated back. “I’ll have you know I caused quite the stir at the Berrington ball last week when I suggested their eldest son might benefit from a wife with a brain rather than just a dowry.”
They entered a sunny morning room where two more ladies sat, clearly cut from the same cloth as Lady Merrow and Lady Harbury.
One, dressed in severe gray that somehow looked elegant rather than dour, raised an eyebrow that could have stopped armies.
The other, draped in soft rose with enough jewels to fund a small country, smiled with the satisfaction of a cat in the cream.
“Louise, darling,” Cecilia began, “these are my dearest friends. The Dowager Marchioness of Densham, and Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Raynsford.”
The Dowager Duchess waved a bejeweled hand. “Marianne, please. We leave titles at the door when we gossip.”
Emily, who had been quietly holding Buttercup’s collar, suddenly piped up. “Are you all witches?”
Dead silence fell. Louise’s mortification threatened to swallow her whole.
Then Lady Harbury burst out laughing. “Why do you ask, little one?”
Emily looked perfectly serious. “Because you’re all together and you’re all magical-looking and Buttercup likes you, and he only likes magical people.”
“Well then,” Lady Densham said dryly, “I suppose we’ve been found out. Though I prefer sorceress. Witch sounds so terribly common.”
The ladies dissolved into laughter, and Louise felt some of her tension ease. Emily settled in a corner with Buttercup, who immediately sprawled across her lap despite being roughly three times her size.
“Now then,” Lady Harbury said, pouring tea with the efficiency of a general planning a campaign, “Cecilia tells us you’re keeping her company while your brother is abroad for his health?”
Louise accepted her teacup carefully. “Yes, my lady. Lord Sulton is recovering in the country. The London air didn’t agree with him.”
“London air rarely agrees with anyone,” the Dowager Duchess observed. “All that coal smoke and horse droppings. I’m surprised we haven’t all died from the fumes.”
“Speaking of things that don’t agree,” Lady Densham said, her sharp gaze scanning the room, “I see Lady Haslett and her coven have arrived.”
Louise followed her gaze to a cluster of women sitting on a settee near the windows, their heads bent together, clearly discussing something, or someone, with great interest. Their eyes kept darting toward Louise.
A soft hiss drifted across the room. “—lost everything—”
Another whisper, sharper. “—charity case, really …”
A third, thinner voice: “—brother vanished—His Grace taking pity on her.”
Louise’s fingers tightened around her teacup until the porcelain practically creaked. Heat crept up her neck despite the coolness of the room.
“Clucking hens,” Lady Densham announced loudly enough for them to hear. “You’d think they’d have something better to do than speculate about other people’s circumstances.”
Lady Haslett flushed and turned away, suddenly fascinated by Lady Harbury’s wallpaper.
“Don’t mind them, dear,” Lady Harbury said to Louise. “They’re just jealous that Cecilia found such a lovely companion while they’re stuck with their dreary relations.”
“I’m hardly lovely,” Louise protested.
“Nonsense!” Lady Harbury leaned forward conspiratorially. “Which brings me to the important question. Is there any gentleman who’s caught your eye? The Season may be over, but that doesn’t mean the marriage mart has closed entirely.”
Louise’s teacup rattled against its saucer. “I’m not … that is, I’m focused on my duties to Lady Merrow and caring for Emily.”
“How refreshingly practical,” Lady Densham approved. “Not every woman needs to throw herself at the first available title.”
“But, surely, you’ve noticed someone,” Lady Harbury pressed, eyes twinkling. “Lord Pemberton’s nephew is quite handsome, if dim. Or there’s Mr. Froman, who recently made a fortune in shipping. Oh! And Octavia’s godson, though he’s a bit of a rogue.”
“Agnes,” Lady Densham warned.
“Then there’s Viscount Ashford, though he has that unfortunate laugh. Sounds like a goose being strangled.” Lady Harbury tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Of course, the prize of the bunch would be the Duke of Calborough, but he’s notoriously—”
Louise’s teacup clattered. Heat flooded her face as four pairs of eyes turned to her with varying degrees of interest.
“That would be highly inappropriate,” Louise managed. “I’m His Grace’s houseguest.”
“Inappropriate?” Lady Harbury’s grin widened. “My dear girl, all the best things in life are inappropriate.”
“Agnes!” the Dowager Duchess scolded, though her lips twitched. “Stop tormenting the poor girl.”
“I’m not tormenting, I’m investigating.” Lady Harbury studied Louise with uncomfortable intensity. “And on an unrelated note, that is quite a becoming blush, my dear.”
“Perhaps we should discuss something else,” Lady Densham suggested, but her sharp eyes clearly missed nothing. “The weather, perhaps. Very … cold lately.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Harbury agreed solemnly. “Positively frigid. Though I hear Calborough House has been quite warm lately. All those fires burning.”
Louise grabbed for her teacup, desperate for something to do with her hands. She could feel their knowing looks, their barely suppressed smiles.
“Louise?” Lady Merrow’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you well? You look rather flushed.”
“Perfectly well.” Louise forced a smile. “Just warm from the tea.”
“Hmm.” Lady Harbury looked like Christmas had come early. “Tea. Yes. That must be it.”
Across the room, Buttercup let out a tremendous snore, saving Louise from further interrogation. Emily giggled, trying to shift the massive dog off her legs.
“He’s dreaming of chasing squirrels,” Emily announced with authority.
“How can you tell, darling?” the Dowager Duchess asked, genuinely curious.
“His paws are moving, and he’s making little woofing sounds. He always does that when he dreams of squirrels. When he dreams of dinner, he just drools.”
“A creature of distinction,” Lady Densham observed. “Knowing the difference between sport and sustenance.”
“Rather like men,” Lady Harbury added. “Though they confuse the two.”
“Agnes, really,” the Dowager Duchess protested, but she was laughing.
“What? It’s true. Lord Harbury, God rest him, once spent an entire evening at a ball discussing pheasant hunting with me. On our wedding anniversary. I finally had to remind him I was the prize he’d already bagged.”
The ladies erupted in laughter, and even Louise smiled. There was something infectious about their irreverence, their refusal to be proper elderly ladies.
“You know,” Lady Merrow said thoughtfully, “Louise plays the pianoforte beautifully.”
Louise shot her a look of betrayal. “I play adequately at best.”
“Nonsense. You must perform for us sometime.” The Dowager Duchess clasped her hands together. “We could have a musicale!”
“With refreshments,” Lady Harbury added.
“Proper ones,” Lady Densham said firmly. “Not just cucumber sandwiches.”
“And we could invite people,” Lady Harbury continued, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Eligible people. Tall, dark, ducal people …”
“I believe it’s time we departed,” Louise said quickly, standing so abruptly she nearly upset the tea service.
“But we’ve only just started plotting!” Lady Harbury protested.
“Which is precisely why we should leave,” Lady Merrow said, though she was grinning. “Before Agnes organizes something we’ll all regret.”
“I regret nothing,” Lady Harbury declared. “Regret is for people who don’t plan properly.”
As they prepared to leave, the Dowager Duchess pulled Louise aside. “Don’t let Lady Harbury fluster you, dear. She means well. She’s just incorrigibly nosy.”
“I heard that!” Lady Harbury called out.
“You were meant to!” the Dowager Duchess called back.
Emily had to be practically pried away from a plate of cakes Lady Harbury had produced, and Buttercup had to be discouraged from investigating an interesting smell in the umbrella stand. As they made their way to the door, Lady Haslett and her friends watched with poorly disguised curiosity.
“Lady Louise,” one of them called out with false sweetness. “How fortunate that Lady Merrow has taken you in during your difficult time.”
Before Louise could respond, Lady Densham swept past with the force of an advancing army. “How fortunate indeed that she found someone with actual conversation skills. Unlike some companions who can only discuss the weather and their ailments.”
The woman retreated, suitably cowed.
Outside, as they settled into the carriage, Emily looked up at Louise with wide eyes. “Lady Harbury is a bit silly.”
“She’s very kind,” Louise corrected gently.
“Can’t she be both?” Emily asked.
Lady Merrow laughed. “Yes, darling, she’s both. All the best people are.”
As the carriage rolled toward home, Louise found her thoughts drifting despite her best efforts.
The mention of the duke, she corrected herself firmly, had unsettled her more than it should. She could still feel the weight of his gaze from that morning in the drawing room. Could still remember the controlled power in his movements when he’d confronted her about Lady Merrow’s safety.
The way he’d leaned toward her, close enough that she’d caught his scent, close enough that for one mad moment she’d thought …
“Louise?” Lady Merrow’s knowing voice interrupted. “You’re woolgathering.”
“Just tired,” Louise lied.
“Hmm.” Lady Merrow’s expression suggested she wasn’t fooled for a moment. “Well, we’re dining together tonight. All of us. Aaron promised.”
Louise’s stomach made a peculiar flip.
Dining with the duke.
This was going to be a very long evening.