Sandrine breathed a silent sigh of relief. That would have been a disaster. Her elderly friends would never have forgiven her if she’d arrived with Mr. Pilkington in tow.
“Are you quite certain that she should go, Ernest?” her mother asked tremulously. “I don’t believe I can allow it. London is such a wicked, sinful place filled with dangers and temptations. I would never go there myself, and to think that I would allow my only child to—”
“I’m quite certain. Don’t question me, Barbara,and don’t fret. You’ve done an admirable job raising your daughter, and she will be a credit to us, have no fear.”
Mr. Pilkington thought to curry Sandrine’s favor by taking her part, but she didn’t care what his motivations were. The fact that he’d convinced her mother to consider allowing her to travel to London was nothing short of a miracle.
“Thank you, Mr. Pilkington,” she said with real feeling.
“Please call me Ernest.”
“Thank you so much, Ernest.”
“As I said, Sandrine, I know we shall be of one mind on all subjects.”
“Indeed, Ernest.” She meekly bowed her head, but inside her heart was dancing to a new rapid beat. She was London-bound!
She wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to achieve two of her longest and dearest dreams: visiting London, and convincing the Duke of Rydell to do the right thing.
She’d been meek and obliging her entire life. She’d been such a foolish innocent, thinking that she could change Danny’s heart and somehow make him fall in love with her.
Her innocence had been bruised, but she wasn’t beaten. She was determined to learn how to seize hold of life and truly live it, instead of allowing others to shape it for her.
And it all started with London.
Chapter Eight
London is a corrupt city filled with perils for young ladies, and must be avoided at all costs.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“Ho there, it’s our fearless leader!” Dane’s friend Jeffrey Conway, Earl of Kenwick, shouted as Dane descended from his curricle and handed the reins to an attendant outside of the Crown Theatre in Covent Garden. “We know your brother died, Dane, and we’re very sorry about that, but you’ve been back in London for ages and you haven’t set foot in the club yet.”
Kenwick punched his shoulder, which hurt like hell because his friend was built like a bare-knuckle bruiser and towered a full head taller than Dane.
Dane returned the punch. “Sorry, friends. I’ve had the funeral, an army of solicitors, a sister-in-law who wishes I’d die too, and a monumental mountain of paperwork to contend with.”
“Thought you’d forgotten about us,” said Lord Barry Dudley, much shorter than Kenwick but just as barrel-chested, as he swaggered over to join them.
“You know I’d never forget my Thunderbolt comrades,” Dane replied.
“Dudley’s too ugly to forget, eh?” said Sir Michael Somersby with a grin, although he and Dudley were sometimes confused for brothers with their dark hair and square jaws.
“Too handsome, more like,” Dudley retorted.
“Don’t you just wish. The young ladies don’t even look at anyone else when Lord Dane’s in town.”
“That’s true,” Dudley said. “Dane, why don’t you go back to the seashore?”
Dane draped an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
He’d missed his friends. Warburton, Kenwick, Dudley, and Somersby were founding members of the Thunderbolt Club, the best gentleman’s club in all of London. Not some warren of dark, overheated rooms with ancient waiters pouring stiff tipple for pontificating lords, or one of the gambling clubs where ladies of the night joined young bucks for cards and bed sport. The Thunderbolt Club was all about racing. The faster the horse, the sleeker the carriage, the better. They lived to ride fast and ride hard.
“What have you miscreants been up to while I’ve been gone?”
“My new curricle arrived,” said Kenwick.
“What did you name it?”