22. In Which a Gentleman Discovers the Value of Being Rescued – Lady Montague’s Drawing room, Mayfair, London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN DISCOVERS THE VALUE OF BEING RESCUED
EDWARD
LADY MONTAGUE’S DRAWING ROOM, MAYFAIR, LONDON
Ihad been to hundreds of social calls in my life.
I hated every single one of them.
Standing in Lady Montegue’s drawing room with a teacup I didn't want and a conversation I couldn't follow, I wondered—not for the first time—why Society insisted on this particular form of torture.
"Lord Retford, you simply must tell us your opinion on the matter."
I blinked. Looked at the woman who had spoken—Lady Something, I'd forgotten her name already—and tried to remember what matter she was referring to.
The conversation had started with the weather. Then shifted to someone's garden party. Then to someone else's daughter's engagement. Then, to something about the Royal Academy exhibition, except I wasn’t certain if we were discussing paintings, sculpture or perhaps architecture.
I had lost the thread somewhere around the garden party.
"I'm afraid I don't have a strong opinion," I said carefully.
Lady Something tittered. "Oh, how diplomatic! But surely you must have some thoughts on whether Lady Pemberton's choice was wise, given the circumstances?"
What circumstances? What choice? Who was Lady Pemberton again?
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Felt sweat prickling at the back of my neck.
This. This was why I hated social calls.
Everyone else seemed to navigate these conversations effortlessly—picking up references to people and events I'd never heard of, following tangential shifts in topic, knowing exactly what to say and when to say it.
I felt like I was drowning in a sea of tea and gossip, with no idea which way was shore.
"Lord Retford looks thoughtful," Charlotte's voice cut through my panic like a lifeline. "He's probably considering all the angles before committing to an opinion. It's one of his best qualities—he never speaks without thinking first."
She appeared at my elbow, her face serene, her eyes dancing with amusement.
"Lady Harrington," she continued smoothly, "I think Lord Retford is too polite to say what we're all thinking—that Lady Pemberton's choice of ice sculpture was rather ambitious for an outdoor event in May. Though I'm sure she meant well."
Lady Harrington—that was her name—laughed. "Oh, you're quite right, Lady Charlotte. The poor swan melted into a puddle before the first course was even served."
Ice sculpture. They'd been talking about an ice sculpture at someone's dinner party.
I had absolutely no idea how Charlotte had extracted that from the conversation I'd been floundering through.
"If you'll excuse us," Charlotte said, taking my arm with easy confidence, "I believe Lord Retford promised to help me with something.
She steered me away before Lady Harrington could respond. We moved through the crowded drawing room toward a quieter corner near the windows.
"Ice sculpture?" I muttered.
"Lady Pemberton's dinner party last week. The swan. Everyone's been talking about it." Charlotte's lips twitched. "You really weren't following that conversation at all, were you?"
"Not even a little bit."
"I noticed. You had that look—the one you get when you're trying to figure out if you should admit you're lost or just smile and hope for the best."
"I was hoping for the best."
"It wasn't working." She handed me a fresh cup of tea from a passing servant. "Here. Lesson one: Always have a teacup. It gives you something to do with your hands when you don't know what to say."
I took the cup. "I already had a teacup."
"You'd finished it ten minutes ago and were just holding an empty cup.
That makes you look nervous." She gestured subtly toward the room.
"See Lady Hartley over there? Empty cup, clutching it like a shield.
She's uncomfortable. Compare to Mrs Whitmore—full cup, taking small sips, completely at ease. "
I looked. Charlotte was right. I'd never noticed before, but the difference was obvious once she pointed it out.
"What else?" I asked.
"You stand too still. Like you're bracing for battle.
" Charlotte shifted slightly, her posture relaxing.
"Conversations at social calls flow like water—you have to move with them, not against them.
When someone changes the subject, you flow with it.
When they reference something you don't know, you ask a question that lets them explain without admitting you're lost."
"How?"
"Watch." Charlotte turned as an older woman approached. "Lady Montague! What a lovely gathering. Your roses are spectacular this year."
"Thank you, my dear. Though I can't take credit—my gardener is the true artist." Lady Montague smiled at me. "Lord Retford, are you enjoying the Season? I know you've been on the Continent these past years. London must seem quite changed."
This I could answer. "Very changed, my lady. Though some things remain constant—your hospitality, for instance."
It was a safe answer. Polite. Vague enough to fit almost any situation.
Lady Montague seemed pleased. "How kind. And are you attending the Warthington musicale next week? I understand it will be quite the crush."
I had no idea if I was attending the Warthington musicale. I didn't even know who the Warthingtons were.
Charlotte stepped in smoothly. "We haven't decided yet. Lord Retford has been so busy helping Papa with estate matters. You know how it is when family visits—there's always something that needs attention."
"Of course, of course. Well, I do hope you'll make time. It promises to be the event of the Season." Lady Montague moved on to greet another guest.
I let out a breath. "Thank you."
"That's lesson two: When you don't know the answer, redirect to something true. You are helping Papa with estate matters—I've seen you in his study. So it's not a lie, just a... strategic truth."
"Strategic truth."
"Exactly." Charlotte glanced around the room.
"Now, see those two women by the fireplace?
They're about to invite us to join their conversation. When they do, let me lead for the first few exchanges. Watch how I ask questions, reference things they’ve said earlier, and transition between topics. Then try to mirror it."
"You make it sound like a dance."
"It is a dance. Except instead of steps, it's words. And instead of music, it's social cues." She squeezed my arm. "You can do this. You navigate estate books and foreign courts. This is just another kind of terrain."
The two women approached, exactly as Charlotte had predicted.
"Lady Charlotte, Lord Retford! Do join us. We were just discussing the most extraordinary thing..."
Charlotte engaged immediately, asking questions, making connections, and gently drawing me into the conversation.
I watched her. Really watched.
The way she tilted her head when someone spoke showed interest. The way she remembered details from earlier conversations and wove them in naturally. The way she could ask a question that gave the speaker room to elaborate while simultaneously moving the topic in a new direction.
It was masterful. Like watching a skilled general command troops, except the battlefield was a drawing room and the weapons were pleasantries.
"Lord Retford," one of the women said, turning to me. "Your sister mentioned you're quite the reader. Have you been to Hatchard's new section? They've expanded their history collection tremendously."
Charlotte had set me up perfectly. Books. History. Things I actually knew about.
"I have," I said, finding my footing. "Though I confess I spent more time in the philosophy section. Have you read the new translation of Aristotle's Ethics?"
The conversation flowed from there. Not easily—I still felt like I was navigating unfamiliar territory—but better. Charlotte had given me a foothold, and I was learning to use it.
We moved through the room together. Charlotte introduced me to people, smoothed over my awkward pauses, and turned my halting contributions into something that sounded almost competent.
And slowly, I began to see the patterns. The way conversations circled back to earlier topics. The way people telegraph subject changes with certain phrases. The way a well-placed question could buy you time to think.
"You're getting better," Charlotte murmured as we paused near the refreshment table. "That last exchange with Mrs Blackwood—you actually led the conversation."
"She asked about the Continent. That's easy."
"No, you redirected her question about French fashion into a discussion of French architecture. That's advanced." Charlotte handed me a small plate of biscuits. "Lesson three: Always eat something. It gives you an excuse to pause before answering."
I took a biscuit. "How many lessons are there?"
"Dozens. But you don't need all of them. You just need enough to survive." She paused. "Edward, may I tell you something?"
"Always."
"You're not actually bad at this. You're just uncomfortable. There's a difference."
I looked at her. "I feel bad at it."
"Because you're trying to be perfect. Trying to never make a mistake, never say the wrong thing, never lose the thread of a conversation.
" Charlotte's voice softened. "But no one's perfect at this.
Everyone loses the thread sometimes. Everyone says the wrong thing.
The difference is that most people just laugh it off and keep going. You freeze."
"Because I don't want to make a fool of myself."
"You won't. And even if you do—" She smiled. "It's just tea, Edward. The worst that can happen is someone thinks you're a bit awkward. They won't exile you from Society. They won't revoke your title. They'll just think you're human."
"I spent eighteen months on the Continent avoiding being human."
"I know. But you're home now. And you're allowed to be imperfect." She paused. "In fact, I prefer you imperfect. Perfect Edward is intimidating. Imperfect Edward is—" She stopped.
"What?"
"Real." She said it simply. "Real and honest and someone I can actually help."
Something shifted in my chest. "You're rescuing me."
"I'm teaching you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"