So she tied her bonnet beneath her chin and set off. When she was a half block from the lending library, she saw a young lady walking toward her, trailed properly by her maid. As she drew closer, she recognized the young woman’s features.
“Miss Castlereigh!” Marianne was surprised by the quiet leap of pleasure she felt upon seeing the woman she had met the night before.
Penelope, who had been walking along with her eyes down, glanced up, and a smile lit her face. “Mrs. Cotterwood! What a pleasant surprise.”
“Yes. Isn’t it? I was just on my way to the lending library.” Marianne looked at the book Penelope carried. “It looks as though that is where you have been.”
“Yes, it is.” Penelope’s smile grew wider. “Do you enjoy reading, too?”
“Oh, yes,” Marianne confessed. “It is my favorite pastime.”
“Really? Me, too.” Penelope looked delighted at finding a fellow bibliophile. “Mama calls me a bookworm. But books are so much more…exciting than real life. Don’t you think?” Her eyes shone behind her spectacles. “I am quite addicted to the gothic sort of books, with mad monks and haunted castles and evil counts. One never finds that sort of thing in real life.”
“No.” Marianne dimpled. “Though I expect we should not enjoy it so much if it really happened to us.”
“I’m sure you are right.” They stood for a few minutes, chatting about their favorite books. Then Penelope reached out a hand impulsively and touched Marianne’s arm. “Do come visit me, won’t you? We can talk about books and such. I would love for you to meet my friend Nicola, as well. I am sure you would like her.” She hesitated uncertainly. “I—I hope I’m not too forward.”
“Goodness, no. I would be delighted to come.” It was an opportunity that Marianne would not dream of passing up, but she knew that she would have agreed even if it had helped her not at all. She liked this shy girl, and it was an unusual pleasure for her to get to talk to someone about books.
“That’s wonderful.” Penelope told her where she lived, a tony Mayfair address that confirmed Marianne’s initial impression of her mother’s social standing.
Behind Penelope, the maid stirred and said warningly, “Miss…”
“Yes, I know, Millie.” Penelope smiled apologetically at Marianne. “I wish we could talk longer, but I am supposed to meet Mother at my grandmother’s house, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Then I won’t keep you.” Marianne felt sure that the fierce Lady Ursula would ring quite a peal over her daughter’s head if she inconvenienced her.
“But you will come to see me?”
“I promise.” Marianne said her goodbyes and continued on her way to the lending library.
PENELOPE TURNED AND HURRIED OFF toward her grandmother’s house. She knew that her mother would not be well pleased at her making friends with someone she barely knew, and she did not want to make it worse by arriving late.
Rushing into the drawing room of her grandmother’s house, however, she found her mother in a pleasant mood. Lady Ursula smiled at Penelope, saying, “There you are, dear. My goodness, you look quite flushed. These girls…” She flashed a coy look across the room at the two men who had stood up when Penelope entered the room. “Always running about, looking at frills and geegaws.”
Penelope, following her mother’s gaze, understood Lady Ursula’s mellow attitude. Lord Lambeth and Lord Buckminster had come to call on her grandmother, the Countess of Exmoor, and while Lady Ursula dismissed Bucky as a “fribble,” she, like most of the other women in Society, was dazzled by Lord Lambeth. Penelope groaned inwardly. Frankly, Lord Lambeth made her a trifle ill at ease, and she was certain that he had absolutely no interest in her, despite her mother’s fond hopes regarding London’s most eligible bachelor. Though he was polite to her, the only reason he called on them was because he was friends with Bucky.
“Actually, I was getting a book from the lending library,” Penelope corrected her.
Lady Ursula frowned at her horribly. “Now, dear, you don’t want the gentlemen thinking you’re a bluestocking, do you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know why she should care.” The Countess spoke up for the first time. “Any man worth having admires a woman with a brain. Isn’t that right, Lord Lambeth?”
“But of course, my lady,” Justin replied smoothly. “After all, look how much you are admired.”
The Countess laughed. She was a tall, regal woman whom age had bent only a little, and it was clear that she had been a beauty when she was younger. “You are such a flatterer, Lord Lambeth. Fortunately, you are quite good at it.” She turned to her granddaughter. “Come here, child, and give me a kiss and show me what book you got.”
Penelope did as she was bid, kissing the Countess’s cheek and dropping onto the low stool beside her chair. While the Countess took her book from her hand and examined it, Penelope decided that it was better to get her news out now while her mother’s protestations would be tempered by the fact that Lord Lambeth was present.
“I met Mrs. Cotterwood while I was out,” she began.
Both Buckminster and Lambeth straightened at her announcement.
“Did you?” Buckminster asked admiringly. “By Jove, I might have known you would be the one who’d know how to find her. You always were a downy one.”
At his words, Lambeth turned and looked at him consideringly. “Were you trying to find her, then?”
“Well, I—that is—” Color rose in Buckminster’s cheeks. Finally he said, “Thought Nicola would probably want to invite her to her little soiree on Friday. You know. Have to send an invitation.”
“Ah. I see.” Justin thought that he did see, indeed. It was rare for his friend to be so interested in a woman. That certainly complicated the matter a bit. He glanced over at Penelope and saw that she, too, was watching Bucky, a wistful look on her face. He wondered what she made of it.
“Who?” Lady Ursula demanded. “Who is this Mrs. Cotterwood?”
“You know, Mama, the lady we met last night at the party. That woman you know, Mrs. Willoughby, introduced us.”
“I scarcely know Mrs. Willoughby—encroaching woman! I doubt that any friend of hers is someone we want to know.”
“Perhaps she is no more a friend of Mrs. Willoughby’s than you are,” Penelope suggested.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, somewhat suspicious that Penelope in her quiet way was making game of her. But Lord Buckminster said seriously, “There you go. Probably Mrs. Willoughby was encroaching to her, too. Mrs. Cotterwood is perfectly respectable, I’m sure.”
Lady Ursula’s pursed mouth made clear her opinion of Lord Buckminster’s ability to judge respectability. She turned toward Lord Lambeth. “Is she known to your family, Lord Lambeth?”
“Oh, yes,” Justin replied easily. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs. Cotterwood for some
