“Lady Barrington, how delightful that you could join me,” Lady Wilhampton called, rising from her settee as Eliza stepped into the drawing room. The warmth in her voice was not warmth at all; it was the sort of heat one finds in a roasting pan, meant to soften and render rather than to comfort.
Eliza advanced with the minimum of display—a quick inclination of the head—and accepted the proffered hand. “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Wilhampton. You have a most beautiful house.”
“It is adequate,” Lady Wilhampton replied, eyes darting up and down Eliza’s person in a quick tally of everything worth appraising. “But one must make do, especially when circumstances are less than optimal. Please, sit.”
Eliza selected the least ornate of the chairs, refusing the settee, and arranged her skirts with care. Lady Wilhampton followed,perching herself on the edge of a tufted cushion in a pose that would have left most women gasping in agony. The room was a study in emerald and gold with mirrors reflecting the world back at itself in infinite regress. Eliza took it in, wondering if the intention was to impress or to unsettle.
“Tea, Lady Barrington?” Lady Wilhampton poured without waiting for assent. “I do hope you are not one of those who finds the city disagreeable. Some prefer the country, but I have always considered the ton my true family. The city is where I feel most myself.” She placed the cup before Eliza, and the faintest movement of her lips suggested amusement.
“London is more interesting than I anticipated,” Eliza said. “The company, especially, has been most enlightening.”
“Has it?” Lady Wilhampton’s gaze sharpened then softened so swiftly it was like watching a cat blink. “I find that the company in London is best taken in measured doses, like laudanum.”
Eliza smiled with her mouth, not her eyes. “I am yet to experience the deleterious effects.”
“That will come,” said Lady Wilhampton then she lifted her cup and regarded Eliza over the rim. “How do you find married life? The transition is so daunting, even for the most robust of characters.”
Eliza sipped her tea and found it sweet. “One adapts. I expect you understand that better than most.”
A momentary pause then Lady Wilhampton replied, “One must adapt, or perish.” Her smile was dazzling and entirely hollow. She set her cup down with a click. “You must meet my son, Marcus. He is the only reason I endure any of this. A mother’s devotion is a terror, is it not? He is five, and already the most willful creature I have ever encountered. The schoolmasters say he will rule an empire or else destroy one.”
Eliza nodded. “You are fortunate. Not everyone is so blessed.”
A shadow crossed Lady Wilhampton’s face, and for a moment, the performance faded. “Yes. Fortunate.” She straightened, as if rearranging her bones. “I was married at eighteen, you know. Or perhaps you do not know. My parents had me engaged to Wilhampton from the moment I was born. Forty years my senior but very wealthy and not without some charm in his way. He died of apoplexy two years ago, and I must say, I do not miss him as much as I ought.”
There was no invitation for pity in her tone, only the studied detachment of a woman who had rehearsed her lines until they meant nothing.
“I have heard the late Marquess was a great patron of the arts,” Eliza said, careful to keep her own feelings from her voice.
“He was a great patron of excess,” Lady Wilhampton replied, leaning in conspiratorially. “He liked his amusements the way he liked his wine: abundant and slightly illicit. I do not mind telling you, Lady Barrington, that the men of our class are rarely what they appear in public. But you know that already, don’t you?”
It was not a question.
Eliza considered the correct reply then offered, “Appearances are the currency of society. I am not surprised to find that value fluctuates.”
Lady Wilhampton laughed—a sound as brittle as glass. “Oh, you are clever. I see now why he chose you.”
Eliza did not take the bait. “I did not know that your son was so young,” she said. “You carry your years very well, Lady Wilhampton.”
The compliment—if it was a compliment—was accepted with a gracious tilt of the head. “I thank you, Lady Barrington. I pride myself on surviving. It is the only true accomplishment permitted our sex.” She turned her cup, as if reading the future in the swirl of liquid. “May I be candid with you?”
“I should hope for nothing less.”
“I was quite alarmed at the news of your marriage,” Lady Wilhampton said, her voice quieter now but more focused. “I had imagined, as I’m sure many did, that Barrington would never settle. He was a fixture of the season after all. One expects the legends to linger.”
Eliza allowed herself a thin smile. “He is not so wild as his reputation suggests.”
“Isn’t he?” Lady Wilhampton’s brows arched, and the mask of civility slipped. “He is a most unusual man. I confess, I have always found him… fascinating.” Her tongue caressed the word. “But you must know this already. You are his wife after all.”
“I am,” Eliza replied.
There was a silence, but it was not empty.
Lady Wilhampton set her cup aside and studied Eliza with a frankness that bordered on indecency. “May I speak plainly, Lady Barrington?”
“I wish you would.”
“There are some who believe that a marriage such as yours—so sudden, so… convenient—could only have occurred if there was an understanding between you and your husband. A private arrangement as it were.”