Lady Bulwen—I’m surprised she’s here. They say she is only a step away from debtor’s prison, you know.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue in apparent sympathy, then plunged on, “That’s Harold Upsmith. Do you know him? An excellent gentleman, everything that’s proper—not like his brother James. An absolute wastrel, that one.”
“Indeed,” Marianne murmured. It took little effort on her part to keep the conversation going, only an occasional nod or comment to assure her companion that she was listening. It was her great good fortune that Mrs. Willoughby was a perfect combination of social climber and inveterate gossip. Before this evening was through, she would know as much about the ton as if she had been a member for years.
After a few moments, however, her attention was distracted by the imperious tones of a woman sitting to her right. “Don’t slouch, Penelope. And do try to look as if you’re having a good time. It is a party, you know, not a deathwatch.”
Curious, Marianne glanced to the side. The voice belonged to a large woman clad in an unfortunate shade of purple. Her bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship, and her chin had a matching forward thrust. She, too, was watching the crowd like a predatory bird, interspersing comments about this or that eligible bachelor with commands to her young female companion. The girl in question sat between Marianne and the older woman, a plain slip of a thing in a white dress. White, Marianne knew, was considered the only appropriate color for an unmarried girl at a ball, but it was not a color that did anything for this particular young woman, merely emphasizing the colorlessness of her face. Nor was her appearance enhanced by the glass spectacles that perched on her nose, hiding her best features—a pair of warm brown eyes.
“Yes, Mama,” Penelope murmured in a toneless voice, her fingers clenched together in her lap. She reached up to adjust the spectacles that sat on her nose, and her fan, lying in her lap, slid off and hit the floor, bouncing over and landing on Marianne’s toe.
“Really, Penelope, do try not to be so clumsy. There’s nothing so unattractive as a clumsy female.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Penelope flushed with embarrassment and bent toward her fan, but Marianne had already retrieved it.
She handed it to Penelope with a smile, sympathy for the girl rising inside her. It must be bad enough to be sitting here against the wall, not being asked to dance, without having her mother carping at her the whole time.
“Thank you,” Penelope murmured softly, giving Marianne a shy smile.
“You’re quite welcome. A dreadful crush, isn’t it?”
Penelope nodded emphatically, causing the light to glint off her spectacles. “Yes. I hate it when there are so many people.”
“I’m Mrs. Cotterwood. Marianne Cotterwood,” Marianne told her. It was not proper to introduce oneself, Marianne knew, but she suspected that Penelope was not the sort to mind. Others, like Penelope’s mother, would meet such boldness with a rebuff.
But Penelope smiled and said, “I am Penelope Castlereigh. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine. You must think me bold to introduce myself, but in truth, I find it excessively silly to sit here not talking because there is no one around at the moment who knows both of us to introduce us.”
“You are absolutely right,” Penelope agreed. “I would have introduced myself if I had more nerve. I’m afraid I am the veriest coward.”
At that moment, Penelope’s mother, who had been droning away the past few minutes, finally realized that her daughter was not listening to her and turned to see what she was doing. At seeing the girl engaged in conversation with a strange woman, she scowled and brought her lorgnette up to her eyes to peer disapprovingly at Marianne.
“Penelope! What are you doing?”
Penelope jumped a little, and a guilty look flashed across her face. She turned back to the older woman, saying brightly, “I was just talking to Mrs. Cotterwood. I met her at Nicola’s last week.”
Quickly, before her mother could inquire more deeply into the matter, she introduced Marianne and her mother to each other. Her mother, Marianne learned, was Lady Ursula Castlereigh.
On the other side of Marianne, Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, saying with delight, “Oh, do you know Lady Castlereigh, Mrs. Cotterwood? Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Castlereigh. If you remember, we met at Mrs. Blackwood’s fete, oh, sometime last Season.”
“Indeed?” Lady Ursula replied in a voice that would have daunted a less determined woman than Mrs. Willoughby.
“Yes, indeed. I admired the dress you were wearing.” Mrs. Willoughby launched into a detailed description of a gown, popping up and moving around the others to plant herself in the empty chair beside Lady Ursula.
Marianne seized the opportunity to escape both women. “Shall we take a stroll around the room, Miss Castlereigh?”
Penelope brightened. “That would be lovely.”
It suited Marianne’s purpose to get away from the chattering Mrs. Willoughby, but she knew that she had proposed the stroll partly to help out Penelope, as well. Penelope, despite her social status, touched a responsive chord in Marianne. She could not help but feel for the poor girl, obviously shy, and just as obviously dominated by her dragon of a mother.
Penelope visibly relaxed as they moved away from Lady Ursula’s vicinity. Marianne glanced around them as they walked, automatically checking the room. There were few of the valuable items she sought in the large, open room. The only access to the doors was a series of long windows, open to alleviate the heated stuffiness created by the crowd of people. Marianne maneuvered Penelope in the direction of the windows.
“Ah,” she said. “It’s much more pleasant here.”
“Oh, yes,” Penelope agreed, following her. “The fresh air feels good.”
Marianne casually looked out. They were on the second floor, looking down at the small garden in the back of the house. There were no convenient trees or trellises nearby. Still, Marianne cast a professional eye over the window and its lock before she guided Penelope away.
As they walked, Marianne felt an odd prickling at the base of her neck that told her she was being watched. She turned her head, scanning the room, and after a moment she saw him—the same man who had been watching her earlier. As she looked at him, he sketched a bow to her. Warmth flooded her, a sensation she was unused to. She told herself it was embarrassment.
“Penelope…” She took her companion’s arm. “Who is that man?”
“What man?” Penelope stopped and looked around.
“Over there.” Marianne indicated him with her head.
Penelope adjusted her glasses, looking in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. “Oh. Do you mean Lord Lambeth?”
“The good-looking wretch with a superior smile on his face.”
Penelope smiled faintly at the description. “Yes. That’s Justin. He’s the Marquess of Lambeth.”
“He keeps looking at me. It’s most disconcerting.”
“I
