Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Tranton House, London

"Lady Genevieve! What a surprise," Eleanor said after ordering tea with the maid. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Lady Genevieve looked around, her eyes wide and disapproving. "Goodness, someone likes yellow."

Eleanor also looked around as if seeing the room from a stranger's eyes. "Yes. I think it's a very happy colour, don't you?"

"I suppose so," Lady Genevieve muttered. "Though what good is a happy colour when one is not happy? You, of all people, should understand that, Lady Eleanor, given your current situation."

Eleanor blinked in surprise, then turned to glance at Bea. Her lady's maid, in return, merely shrugged, uncertain as to what was going on. Sighing, Eleanor returned her attention to Genevieve and finally took the seat opposite her at the table.

"Join us for tea, Bea, won't you?" she said.

Bea nodded eagerly. Eleanor knew she wouldn't want to miss whatever was about to happen, and while her own life was in turmoil, she was looking forward to the distraction that Lady Genevieve offered. It was a pleasure to be visited finally—this might be her way back into society. The pair sat with their hands folded in their laps, looking at Lady Genevieve expectantly, curious to discover the purpose of her unexpected visit.

"I must admit the past few weeks have been difficult," Eleanor admitted. "Though the yellow of our parlour has not impacted that either way."

The maid returned with a tray in hand, upon which was the silver teapot and delicate bone china cups. There was a small bowl with sugar cubes, silver tongs, and a jug of milk. And in the centre of it all, a plate of cake. As the maid placed everything carefully on the table and then began to pour the tea, Lady Genevieve dived forward with a hunger Eleanor didn't recognize. She snatched up a little cake and threw it into her mouth. Eleanor cleared her throat, completely at a loss to what was going on.

"Yes, as I say," she continued hesitantly, "it has not been easy but—"

"No." Lady Genevieve waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not. I've heard all about it. Your scandal is all anyone can talk about—and believe me, everyone is talking about it. Or, at least, they were until … well, until the trials and tribulations of my own family became the hottest gossip."

Her own family?

Eleanor listened even more eagerly now, sharing a look with Bea. She felt the gentle pound of her heart at the thought that perhaps, if she were no longer the talk of London, there was a chance this entire misunderstanding had blown over, and she could return to society relatively unscathed.

"Not that you've been forgiven, of course," Lady Genevieve continued.

Or not , Eleanor thought wryly.

"But that's why I'm here. Two ladies of the ton , both in similar predicaments."

Lady Genevieve was a single day older than Eleanor and as such, the pair had grown up in each other's circles. They had never really been friends, though. It was a relationship of circumstance rather than familiarity, so it seemed peculiar that she should turn to Eleanor in her hour of need.

Her auburn hair was wound into elaborate curls that suited the ballroom but seemed entirely out of place here in the parlour. Her features were striking, too, with hazel eyes that pierced whatever they viewed and told of a cunning, clever woman beneath. She was elegant and refined, a beauty much envied within society, but Eleanor had never quite taken to her like many others had.

"Similar predicaments?" Eleanor asked. "Has there been another …"

She trailed off, not needing to say the words they were all thinking. Another scandal.

Lady Genevieve leaned in, took not one, not two, but three lumps of sugar, and stirred them noisily into her tea. Eleanor wondered idly whether they'd fully dissolve.

"Yes, but unlike your situation, this is through no fault of my own."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Her situation was not her own failing either, but the result of incorrect assumptions of people like Lady Genevieve herself.

"I see," she replied tightly. She would not correct Lady Genevieve—she knew there was no point. Ladies like Genevieve believed what they wanted to believe, regardless of the evidence before their eyes. It rather suited their own agendas.

"No, it's my father."

To Eleanor's surprise, Lady Genevieve sneered as if his name were dirt on her tongue, but the expression lasted only a moment before being disguised with a look of attrition and grief. Eleanor's hand fluttered around her throat as if so often did when uncertain. Bea put a hand on her arm as if to calm her.

"I hope he hasn't fallen ill," Eleanor replied. "I haven't heard—"

"You wouldn't have," Lady Genevieve said, putting her teacup noisily back onto the saucer. "You haven't spoken to anyone in weeks. But no, it's not sickness that mars him but foolishness and compulsion."

Eleanor frowned, glancing at Bea once more. "Has he—"

"Yes!" Lady Genevieve cried, not letting Eleanor finish her sentence. "That's right. He's gambled away everything our family has! We're facing financial ruin, Lady Eleanor and it really is a terrible thing."

She picked up another piece of cake and chewed furiously, taking out all her emotions on the soft, lemony goodness.

"Oh, dear," Eleanor replied. She felt genuine pity for the woman, understanding her dilemma. She, too, would be forced into marrying the likes of Lord Richards, no doubt—or perhaps worse, if and when money were offered. And if Lord Lockhart had a propensity towards gambling, whatever money did change hands was unlikely to last any time at all.

"Father says it's no bother; he's still a baron, and thereby, I still hold some sway in society—the daughter of a titled man and so on—but we all know that is not how society works, don't we?"

"We do," Eleanor agreed with a nod.

She had to admit that her patience was wearing thin, and she looked once more at Beatrice in the hopes of gaining strength. Eleanor had concerns of her own, and as they sipped their tea, she was reminded of just how self-centred Lady Genevieve could be. She had expressed no concern at all over Eleanor's situation but instead only searched for solutions to her own. She had visited not for Eleanor herself but because she'd had no other options.

"This isolation is worth than death—as you know, My Lady," she said with a nod of condescension. "No family is willing to receive us, and all my friends have been told not to speak to me. Honestly, Lady Eleanor, I truly am on the brink of desperation, and the only person I could think might possibly understand is you yourself, though of course, our predicaments are entirely different."

Entirely different indeed. Eleanor sighed, wondering whether she had the energy for this conversation at all, but then she never could send away someone in need. The despair of others had always weighed heavily on her heart.

"I am sincerely sorry this has happened to you," she ventured. "It must be truly awful to go through such a thing. You are quite right about the isolation, but other than being your friend, I am not sure how I can help you in this situation."

Lady Genevieve took a noisy slurp of her overly sugared tea and placed it back on the table. "But you haven't heard the worst part yet. My father wants to send me away! Can you believe it?"

"Send you away?"

"To Cornwall, of all places! Horrid little town."

Eleanor pouted. "I rather like Cornwall," she said.

"Indeed," Beatrice added. "The countryside is beautiful. My sister works for the duke there, and I have visited many times."

Lady Genevieve looked down her nose at Beatrice as if the lady's maid had no place in the conversation. That in itself irritated Eleanor—Bea was as much a friend as a maid—though again, she said nothing.

"Why Cornwall?" she asked instead.

Lady Genevieve looked down at her hands and mumbled her reply. "We have some family there or something or other. Someone better able to provide for me, Father said." She sighed heavily. "And there may be prospects or some such. Not that I care for any of it."

Despite her irritation at Lady Genevieve, Eleanor did feel a pinch of sympathy. It was difficult to have a life that was not one's own, one controlled by the men around you. Though their situations were far from similar, the consequences were the same—they were both being forced into a life they did not want.

"Is Cornwall really all that bad?" she asked, shooting her a pitiful look. "Perhaps you might find you like it once you're there and settled."

"You're bound to make friends, a gregarious lady such as yourself," Beatrice added.

"And they say love is stronger in the countryside," Eleanor said, unsure whether that was the truth. "You might meet the man of your dreams there."

Lady Genevieve snorted. "That is incredibly unlikely." Her energy had returned with a vehemence that belied the vulnerability she had shown only moments before. "Why on earth would anyone wish to move to such a desolate and distant location?"

I would , Eleanor thought sadly. If she could disappear to such a place, perhaps she would be saved from the dangers of Lord Richards.

"And to be away from London!" Lady Genevieve shook her head firmly. "No. It simply won't do. It would be a fate worse than death. I don't think I could live without London."

Eleanor thought that a little far-fetched, but she supposed she had thought similar only a few weeks ago when she'd first been ostracized from the ton . Now, with Lord Richards on the horizon, it felt like there were much worse fates to suffer.

"But what other choice do you have?" Eleanor asked. "If your father's financial ruin really is as complete as you say, then life in London will be unbearable too, won't it?"

"That's why I'm here." Lady Genevieve placed her teacup down more gently this time, then smiled warmly at Eleanor. Eleanor knew already she was about to ask for a favour, though what, she couldn't think.

"Oh yes?" She picked up her own teacup and placed it to her lips.

"I want you to use your high social standing and good connections to help me secure a more favourable alternative."

Eleanor was so shocked she almost spat her tea out across the room. She swallowed quickly, clearing her throat, then put the cup down and looked up at Lady Genevieve tentatively.

"I beg your pardon?"

Lady Genevieve sighed. "I do apologize if that came out a little coldly, but I know how well respected you were in—"

" Were is the operative word there," Eleanor said, entirely flabbergasted. "You said yourself that I have been isolated from society. My high standing is somewhat lost, and any connections I may have once had have been severely affected. I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure how I can help you."

Nor if I even want to . Eleanor had her own problems. Even if she could worm her way back into society, her entire focus would be on repairing her own reputation and not on helping Lady Genevieve remain in London.

"But surely you could do something ?" Lady Genevieve snapped.

Her words were so harsh and cold that Eleanor shifted backward in her seat. "Such as?"

"Listen," she said, leaning forward with a finger quite rudely pointed at Eleanor. "If you can persuade your father to help me in this situation, then I can certainly persuade some of my friends to—"

Eleanor's snort of amusement interrupted her. "I am sorry, Lady Genevieve, but I am quite unable to persuade my father to do anything—as my current predicament demonstrates—and, forgive me, but you have already quite clearly stated that none of your friends are willing even to receive you at the moment, so again I do not understand how you could help me in that regard. It seems, Genevieve, we are at something of an impasse. If I could help you, I absolutely would, but I simply do not have the power to intervene on your behalf. I hope you understand.

Lady Genevieve's face had turned quite red, though from embarrassment or annoyance, Eleanor did not know.

"I really am sorry," Eleanor tried, but as Lady Genevieve pressed her lips tighter and tighter together, it seemed there was no way of appeasing her.

"And I am sorry, too, Lady Eleanor," she said, standing up and snatching her reticule from the table. "I thank you for the tea and cake, but I realize now what a dreadful mistake it was coming here."

"Please—"

"No." Lady Genevieve marched to the door, but before going through it, she spun back around. "I suppose I must be as foolish as my father for thinking someone with your poor reputation and moral impunity would help someone such as myself. Good day, Lady Eleanor."

And with that, she disappeared from the parlour and their lives. Eleanor watched the empty doorway in tense horror for a long moment before slumping in the chair, entirely exhausted and overwhelmed by the world's weight.

Bea put her arm around her lady. "There, there, My Lady," she said. "It all seems dismal now, but I suspect this isn't the end of the story."

Eleanor put her face in her hands and allowed a sob to escape her lips. "How could it be anything but?" she cried. "There is nowhere else to turn!"

Bea stood up and embraced her, laying Eleanor's head against her chest as she so often had when she was a child. "I don't know where yet, My Lady, but fret not. There is always somewhere to which we can turn."