“My dear, what has happened?” Miss Hodwell asked, rushing into the parlor. “Is your mother leaving already?”
“She’s gone.”
“Are you crying? Oh my dear.” She sat next to Sandrine and offered her a handkerchief. “Tell me all about it.”
Where to start? “My life has become very complicated.”
“Has it, dearie? I’m afraid I haven’t been paying close-enough attention, then. Is it Lord Dane? I thought I heard his voice.”
“Mr. Pilkington became very angry when he learned that Madam Avalon is my grandmother.”
“Pardon me? Madam Avalon, the hostess of the Silver Palace salons?”
“The very same. I understand you are acquainted with her. I visited her and discovered our connection. She’s the reason my mother never wanted me to come to London. My mother is ashamed of her and decided to pretend she was dead. I have a grandmother, and an aunt and acousin. I can’t simply undo that knowledge. They are my blood, and I’ve always, always longed for a large family.”
“How astonishing! Eve and I know Ruby well. You should have told me that you were visiting her. But it was very wrong of Mr. Pilkington to cast aspersions upon you simply because you’re related to Ruby. She may be considered scandalous, but she’s one of the most vibrant and generous women I know.”
“He said he could never stoop to marry someone like me. Lord Dane overheard him and informed Mr. Pilkington that he could never wed me because I was already engaged to Lord Dane.”
“Heavens! What an exciting moment that must have been with Lord Dane putting that smug vicar in his place. I’m sorry that I missed it.”
“It was the most unpredictable and thrilling moment of my life, though it was also confusing because I felt that he wasn’t proposing out of love. He only sought to save my honor.”
Miss Hodwell’s response was lost in a flurry of activity and voices in the entrance hall. A maidservant knocked on the parlor door.
“Yes?” Miss Hodwell called.
“Lady Roslyn, Miss McGovern, and Miss Maples are here to see you.”
“Send them in! And bring some tea and macaroons.”
The ladies entered the room all pink sashes and pink cheeks.
“Kenwick is preparing to race Baron Chisholmebecause Chisholme insulted Roslyn,” cried Francesca.
“And the ruddy fool’s had too much whiskey to calm his nerves, and now he’s not fit to ride,” Roslyn said angrily. “He’ll break his neck!”
“Come, Miss Hodwell and Sandrine,” Marta urged. “We have to stop him!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Contrary to what you read in novels, a rake can never be reformed.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
Kenwick and Chisholme were assembled on the track, the two curricles lined up side by side with their matched sets of horses.
Dane clapped his hand onto Kenwick’s substantial shoulder. “Kenwick, you’ve had too much tipple. You’re in no shape to drive.”
“I’m all right.”
“Walk a straight line for me.”
Kenwick attempted to walk in a line, then wobbled and had to throw a hand against the carriage door to steady himself.
“That settles it. You’re not racing.”
“Have to race, Dane, old friend.” Kenwick threw an arm around his shoulders. “Chisholme called Lady Roslyn a strumpet, so I challenged him to a race. First I’ll conquer him with my curricle, and then I’m going to beat him with my fists.”