all right?”
“Don’t expect me,” warned Devellyn. “Is Admeta still talking to that Norwich terrier? The one she thinks is her dead husband?”
“Well, what’s the harm, dear?” she asked. “Horatio is, admittedly, a very fine-looking dog.”
“God knows he’s got more hair than Uncle Horatio ever did.”
His mother grew suddenly impatient. “Oh, Aleric, let’s stop talking about that silly dog,” she said, the hand returning to his arm. “I have something important to say.”
“I was afraid of that.” And he already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
“Next month, Aleric, will be your father’s seventieth birthday, so I mean to open up the house on Grosvenor Square.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I am giving a ball, Aleric. The first we’ve had since—well, since Greg died. Please, will you just think on it? This may be his last.”
Her fingers still digging into his arm, he somehow managed to nod. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mother, all right?” he finally answered. “Just promise you won’t get your hopes up.”
His appetite finally ruined, Lord Devellyn saw his mother to the door, then promptly returned to the drawing room to resume his drinking and his pacing.
Miss Jennifer Arbuckle was almost asleep by the time her father’s carriage returned from Mayfair to Bedford Place. Sidonie was tired, too, having suffered a tedious evening of smiling and applauding as one debutante after another took the stage at Lady Kirton’s musicale. For Miss Arbuckle, the invitation to such a posh event had been a great honor. The Arbuckles were merchants, whilst Lady Kirton was a wellborn widow, known throughout the ton for her philanthropy and her volunteer work at the Nazareth Society.
Mrs. Arbuckle, however, was a frail, nervous woman who was uncomfortable with her new role in life. The invitations which her husband’s wealth now brought their way almost always provoked in her a case of the megrims. And so it was that Sidonie had come into Miss Arbuckle’s life, to teach and to do what Mrs. Arbuckle could not.
As with the Hannadays, Sidonie had been referred to the Arbuckles by a satisfied client. And as usual, they had been told Sidonie was a genteel widow recently arrived from France and the descendant of minor French nobility, all of which was true. Other than to remark upon her faint accent, no one ever asked about her parents, or why she’d come to England. Sidonie certainly did not enlighten them.
As the daughter of a duke—even an illegitimate daughter—Sidonie could have entered polite society if she’d had someone of good standing to make the necessary introductions. But polite society held little attraction for her. Teaching the social graces did, because the income left her nest egg intact. More importantly, it permitted her to move on the fringes of society, which in turn helped her learn all manner of interesting things about the gentlemen of the ton.
Tonight, however, had not been interesting. Stifling a yawn, Sidonie realized that tonight could certainly have been worse. Miss Arbuckle had accounted herself well at the pianoforte. Sidonie had played the duenna, and despite Lady Kirton’s efforts to draw her out, had hovered in the background as she was being paid to do. Lady Kirton gave the impression of being a charming hen-wit, but Sidonie had sensed a keen intelligence in the woman’s eyes. A heavy veil and an Italian accent would not fool her again, Sidonie feared. From now on, she would have to find another way to deliver money to the Nazareth Society.
Just then, the carriage began to slow. Sidonie reached for her reticule, and the movement roused Miss Arbuckle. Sidonie placed her hand lightly over the girl’s. “You played beautifully tonight, my dear,” she said, giving her a little pat. “Quite as well as any lady present.”
Miss Arbuckle smiled dreamily. “It was a splendid affair, wasn’t it?” she said. “And did you not think her ladyship
“Don’t expect me,” warned Devellyn. “Is Admeta still talking to that Norwich terrier? The one she thinks is her dead husband?”
“Well, what’s the harm, dear?” she asked. “Horatio is, admittedly, a very fine-looking dog.”
“God knows he’s got more hair than Uncle Horatio ever did.”
His mother grew suddenly impatient. “Oh, Aleric, let’s stop talking about that silly dog,” she said, the hand returning to his arm. “I have something important to say.”
“I was afraid of that.” And he already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
“Next month, Aleric, will be your father’s seventieth birthday, so I mean to open up the house on Grosvenor Square.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I am giving a ball, Aleric. The first we’ve had since—well, since Greg died. Please, will you just think on it? This may be his last.”
Her fingers still digging into his arm, he somehow managed to nod. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mother, all right?” he finally answered. “Just promise you won’t get your hopes up.”
His appetite finally ruined, Lord Devellyn saw his mother to the door, then promptly returned to the drawing room to resume his drinking and his pacing.
Miss Jennifer Arbuckle was almost asleep by the time her father’s carriage returned from Mayfair to Bedford Place. Sidonie was tired, too, having suffered a tedious evening of smiling and applauding as one debutante after another took the stage at Lady Kirton’s musicale. For Miss Arbuckle, the invitation to such a posh event had been a great honor. The Arbuckles were merchants, whilst Lady Kirton was a wellborn widow, known throughout the ton for her philanthropy and her volunteer work at the Nazareth Society.
Mrs. Arbuckle, however, was a frail, nervous woman who was uncomfortable with her new role in life. The invitations which her husband’s wealth now brought their way almost always provoked in her a case of the megrims. And so it was that Sidonie had come into Miss Arbuckle’s life, to teach and to do what Mrs. Arbuckle could not.
As with the Hannadays, Sidonie had been referred to the Arbuckles by a satisfied client. And as usual, they had been told Sidonie was a genteel widow recently arrived from France and the descendant of minor French nobility, all of which was true. Other than to remark upon her faint accent, no one ever asked about her parents, or why she’d come to England. Sidonie certainly did not enlighten them.
As the daughter of a duke—even an illegitimate daughter—Sidonie could have entered polite society if she’d had someone of good standing to make the necessary introductions. But polite society held little attraction for her. Teaching the social graces did, because the income left her nest egg intact. More importantly, it permitted her to move on the fringes of society, which in turn helped her learn all manner of interesting things about the gentlemen of the ton.
Tonight, however, had not been interesting. Stifling a yawn, Sidonie realized that tonight could certainly have been worse. Miss Arbuckle had accounted herself well at the pianoforte. Sidonie had played the duenna, and despite Lady Kirton’s efforts to draw her out, had hovered in the background as she was being paid to do. Lady Kirton gave the impression of being a charming hen-wit, but Sidonie had sensed a keen intelligence in the woman’s eyes. A heavy veil and an Italian accent would not fool her again, Sidonie feared. From now on, she would have to find another way to deliver money to the Nazareth Society.
Just then, the carriage began to slow. Sidonie reached for her reticule, and the movement roused Miss Arbuckle. Sidonie placed her hand lightly over the girl’s. “You played beautifully tonight, my dear,” she said, giving her a little pat. “Quite as well as any lady present.”
Miss Arbuckle smiled dreamily. “It was a splendid affair, wasn’t it?” she said. “And did you not think her ladyship
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