Chapter Two

M ary Elizabeth Piper, Eleanor's mother, was what people called a handsome woman. Never beautiful or dainty, as she had the wide, capable hands of a stablemaster, and the shoulders of a coalminer. According to Mr. Smythe, the ship's captain, who knew her parents when they were courting back in what must have been the Dark Ages, Mary Elizabeth had the mouth of a sailor. But as she became Eleanor's mother, all that capability and brashness shrunk into propriety.

Mr. Smythe would lean back in his chair, hands folded over his growing belly and tsk . "She were a right powerful woman, your mama. Too bad she changed for the docile."

It was in the set of her mother's mouth that Eleanor could see that boldness as they handed off bonnets and gloves and pelisses at the Rascomb townhouse. Mary Elizabeth Piper had set about getting her daughter a fine match, and it dawned on Eleanor then and there that the docility Mr. Smythe complained of was all for Eleanor's sake. That her mother had given herself over to propriety for twenty-five years for exactly this moment—calling upon the house of a viscount.

Eleanor was determined to be the most gracious, most helpful, most demure daughter that there ever was. If her mother could do this for twenty-five years, Eleanor could manage for a fifteen-minute visit.

They were shown to the drawing room, and Eleanor had not expected the scene before them. Neither the twenty-five years of propriety nor her mother's childhood in Kent would have prepared either of them for what they encountered. Eleanor decided that there was absolutely nothing proper or predictable about the Bridewells.

Miss Ophelia was climbing a rope that was secured to the ceiling of the drawing room in some manner. A blonde woman, presumably Lady Rascomb, was standing with her hands on her hips, evaluating Ophelia's ability. The blonde woman leaned against the wall, next to a cane. Tristan was sprawled on the settee, covering a smile with his hand. And then she spotted Lord Rascomb in the corner sorting through a pile of items that looked to be samples of ropes of different calibers and colors and lengths.

"Even without the damned hoop, how am I supposed to climb with all the fabric of petticoats and skirts? This is ridiculous!" Ophelia said, catching sight of guests as she threw herself off the rope. "Oh! People."

The butler announced Eleanor and her mother, only to have the other family all snap to proper positions. Tristan bolted to his feet, Lady Rascomb's hands floated down in front of her, Ophelia smoothed her skirts, and Lord Rascomb dropped the ropes and stood.

Eleanor glanced to her mother, wondering what she made of the chaotic scene. Her mother's face was implacable, and Eleanor was suddenly jealous of her ability to be so even tempered.

"Mrs. Piper, Miss Eleanor, welcome. I'm so glad you took the time to visit," Lady Rascomb said, her tone even and gracious and not at all embarrassed. She bid them sit with a wave of her hand, and shooed Tristan and Lord Rascomb out of the room.

"Miss Eleanor," Tristan murmured in a low voice as he walked past.

"Mist—mist—mist—" Eleanor couldn't even manage his name as that fresh air scent that heralded his person wafted close as he passed her on his way out the door. Oh, dear.

Her mother covered for her and properly acknowledged Lord Rascomb and Tristan Bridewell, while Eleanor bobbed her curtsy before settling her gaze on Miss Ophelia and Lady Rascomb.

"Refreshments will be up shortly," Lady Rascomb said, ushering them in. "But in the meantime, please sit, tell us how you found last night's ball."

"Very lovely," Mrs. Piper said with a bland smile. "We met a great many wonderful people, such as yourselves."

"Yes," Miss Ophelia piped up, settling next to her mother on the opposite settee. "I feel as if it were the hand of Providence that guided Miss Eleanor to me."

"Don't blaspheme," Lady Rascomb whispered to Ophelia. Ophelia returned her mother's comment with wide eyes as if she couldn't believe the scold.

Considering the cursing Eleanor had witnessed while Ophelia was up on the rope, she was surprised too.

"Please excuse my daughter, Mrs. Piper. I let her spend a great deal of time with her father. They both believe in the unconquerable adventure, and I fear that has influenced her speech." Lady Rascomb batted her eyelashes.

No wonder Miss Ophelia was not married nor connected to anyone. They had a hard time behaving decently. Eleanor quashed her own glee. Ophelia's glow of enthusiasm was refreshing, and Eleanor wished she had it as well. Maybe they could be friends, regardless of whatever the mess of this adventure Society was.

"Quite all right," Mrs. Piper said, looking about the room. It was a beautiful room, with exceptional curtains, portraits in gilded frames, and the exact pristine wainscotting that Mrs. Piper wanted for her own drawing room. "My Eleanor also spent a great deal of time at my husband's office, and no doubt has some choice phrases that she won't utter in my presence."

A partially true statement, that. Eleanor had spent a great deal of time at her father's office, Piper Shipping & Co., but Mr. Smythe's presence and knot lessons kept her from wandering amongst the former sailors on the bottom floor who had the truly colorful language. Had she heard snippets? Yes. Did she know curses in some interesting languages other than English? A few.

But she mostly kept herself upstairs, busying herself with intricate knots and creating lever pulls similar to the ones that loaded the heavy crates onto her father's boats. It was obvious why she did it—it was the play that garnered praise from her busy father.

"Is that where she learned her extraordinary skills?" Lady Rascomb asked.

"I believe so. Eleanor?" Her mother prompted.

"Yes, Lady Rascomb." Eleanor wasn't sure what she should say. In fact, she was surprised they were talking about this at all.

Fortunately, a servant walked in with a tray, and suddenly, it was all business of tea and scones and cream.

Miss Ophelia poured, no doubt to showcase her skill, lest Mrs. Piper doubt Ophelia's feminine training. After handing Eleanor the final cup and saucer, Ophelia glanced at her mother and then back to Eleanor.

"We have a salon later this afternoon, if you would like to join us. I do hope you will."

"A salon? For your Society?" Eleanor asked.

"The Ladies' Alpine Society," Ophelia corrected. "Yes. It is open to the public, but our members will be there. We discuss our upcoming project and teach basic skills that might prove interesting to other attendees."

"Do you get a great many of the public?" Mrs. Piper asked.

Miss Ophelia actually looked abashed. "Not many. Mostly those who just want to see the inside of the house."

Mrs. Piper frowned.

"They are mostly ladies, these attendees from the public," Lady Rascomb added. "Often in hopes of finding my eldest son, Lord Berringbone."

Polite understanding flitted across Mrs. Piper's face. Eleanor understood as well. They were mamas and young ladies hoping to nab a viscountcy. Not unlike them. Mrs. Piper sipped her tea. "Then it shouldn't be scandalous for my Eleanor to attend."

The trap had been so expertly baited by Lady Rascomb, dangling her son for Eleanor's mother. Eleanor couldn't help but admire the subtlety of the woman.

"Thank you, Miss Ophelia," Eleanor said. "I should be glad to attend."

And it wasn't so much Lord Berringbone who she hoped would be in attendance, but the younger brother that she already called Tristan in her mind. It was far too familiar, and far too presumptuous, and possibly even dangerous. She might slip and call him by his first name in company, which would be far too embarrassing. No, she should endeavor to refer to him as Mr. Bridewell. But he looked like a Tristan, with his beautiful golden hair and blue eyes—

"Eleanor, pay attention, girl!" her mother whispered at her.

Eleanor snapped back to the conversation at hand. "I do apologize. Woolgathering."

Ophelia gave her a sly look. What was that for? She couldn't possibly know that Eleanor was daydreaming about her brother. "I was saying that I have some journals and pamphlets you might like to borrow, all written by woman who climb mountains."

"Oh no," Eleanor said. "I'm not really the type—"

"That's fine," Ophelia interrupted smoothly. "Would you mind doing a short presentation of some knots for us? It would be quite educational."

"I can do that," Eleanor said. "But the best way to learn a knot is to tie it at least one hundred times. Everyone ought to have a practice string of their own."

"Do you have one?" Ophelia asked. Lady Rascomb looked at her with interest.

"Yes, it's a length of cotton rope about two feet in length. Small diameter, easy to tie and untie."

Lady Rascomb and her daughter exchanged looks. Eleanor panicked.

"I used to use hemp, as that is the type used on the docks to load crates. It does well when wet," she explained. "But it is harder on one's hands."

"I believe I can procure cotton or hemp for our attendees this evening," Lady Rascomb said. "Mrs. Piper, do come. Your husband as well. It's quite the evening, and we do serve refreshments."

"I shall, and I will send to Mr. Piper about it as well. I don't know how busy he is today, but I'm sure he'll be interested."

Eleanor was already thinking of the different knots she might show them. Tying the same knots in the different fibers would be an excellent showcase to help them with their decision-making. While she had no intention of climbing any mountain, she would hope they might include a thank you to her at the end of whatever paper they published at the end of their adventure. To think, her name in print!

*

Overall, Tristan used the Ladies' Alpine Society salons to covertly drink. He kept a hipflask on his person, filled with the best Irish whisky he could get his hands on. Sometimes even his father would take a nip or two. One could only hear Ophelia and Bad News extol womanly optimism for so long before boredom set in.

But tonight, he had a feeling the hipflask would stay full, because in walked the Pipers. Mr. Piper, of Piper Shipping & Co., which of course Tristan had looked into, narrowed his eyes the moment he walked into the drawing room, as if this might be an ambush—which indeed, given the expedition's need for funding, it might be. Following the man of industry was Miss Eleanor Piper. Her brown eyes were warm and darted around the room, and when they caught his gaze, her cheeks turned a lovely pink.

That was a shame. Tristan nodded his acknowledgment, he wasn't a complete cad, after all. But still, Ophelia's friends were off limits to him. Bad News Brewer was just the obvious example as to why. Still, a social climbing shipping heiress was not appealing to him nor anyone he knew.

Mrs. Piper rounded out the set of figures entering the room, and when she saw Tristan, her dislike was palpable. Ah, so she'd read about him on the scandal sheets, then. All the more reason for them not to throw Miss Eleanor at him—oh. They weren't here for him, that's right. He remembered now. They were going to throw her at Herringbone. What a waste. Maybe his flask would be emptied tonight.

But Herringbone wasn't coming tonight. He rarely did. Tristan didn't know if he felt excluded since he was forbidden to go with his father on these adventures. Tristan was the spare, so it didn't matter if he risked his neck. It offered a sense of freedom, but also a reminder that he was expendable.

The hipflask grew heavier in his pocket as Mr. Piper approached. "Mr. Bridewell."

"Mr. Piper. So good of you to make it to one of our events." Tristan gave a practiced smile and moved his body to make a pathway to his father. If anyone could gain the shipping magnate's confidence, it was him. "Let me take you over to my father, Lord Rascomb. You met him last night, did you not?"

"I did, yes, thank you," Mr. Piper said, his gruff voice smoothing out into the higher pitch of the more polished class.

It rankled Tristan, this pretense. Not that Mr. Piper conducted business in a different accent or even a different register of his voice, but all of the class wars. It seemed like a lot of silly bother. But, as Vera had once pointed out, it was easy to see it as silly bother when one was on top of the pile.

Tristan passed the man off to his father and wandered over to Ophelia and Bad News. "We have an audience tonight," he stage-whispered to his sister.

She popped her hands to her hips. "Maybe you won't be so focused on your pockets tonight, since we've got actual company."

"What are talking about?" Tristan asked, annoyed by the sheer idea that someone was critiquing his behavior.

Bad News rested her hand on his arm, batted her long, dark eyelashes as she stared up into his eyes, and whispered, "Is that drink in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?"

Tristan yanked his arm away. "That's disgusting! Whoever have you heard say something like that?"

Bad News snorted, tossing her auburn ringlets. Other men found her captivating. Tristan found her to be nothing but a swarm of fire ants in petticoats. "If I had a shilling for how many times men have asked me what I thought was in their pockets, I'd—"

"Have a shilling?" Tristan asked politely.

Bad News narrowed her blue eyes. "I wouldn't need a dowry."

Tristan threw his hands in the air, very uncomfortable with the entire scene. "I don't know what we're even talking about anymore."

"I do," Ophelia said, seeming to relish his discomfort. "We are discussing men's pockets."

Miss Eleanor Piper chose that moment to join their trio. "Oh, are there new fashion plates out?"

Bad News laughed, but at least had the decorum to cover her mouth. Tristan shot daggers at her. Her reputation was notorious, and she didn't need to tarnish Miss Eleanor by association. Or by the ghastly things that came out of her mouth.

"I'm afraid not," Ophelia answered her. "But we are so happy you could make it, Miss Eleanor. I do hope you are ready to share some of your skill set with us."

At the mention of her skills, Eleanor's face lit up. She was an attractive enough girl when expressionless, but when speaking of her passions, she was positively radiant. As she spoke, her hands moved artfully, weaving in the air, and Tristan realized she was tying knots. He also realized he was staring at her. He shuffled his feet, leaning in that rakish way that women seemed to appreciate. He honestly could not be bothered by Ophelia's friends.

"I brought fifteen lengths," Miss Eleanor said.

Tristan was absolutely lost by her words. He hadn't been able to listen and watch at the same time. Lengths?

"Ah yes," Ophelia said, gesturing to a carpetbag on the chair in the corner by the door. "That must be the satchel that Ferris brought up."

Eleanor turned and spied it, scurrying over. She opened it, counted out four and returned, handing it to each of them. "This is a practice string."

"String?" Bad News asked, eyebrows raised.

Eleanor gave her a stunning smile, and Tristan was envious that Bad News elicited such an expression on her lovely face. Then he kicked himself mentally and focused on the practice string that looked rather like a hearty rope.

"I call it a string, but yes, it is a length of manila rope. It's a bit rough on the hands at first. Eventually the natural oils on your hands will transfer, and it will soften up. I recommend using a quality hand cream nightly. It isn't nearly as bad as handling hemp rope, which is definitely less flexible and harder to work with."

"I should say," Bad News said.

"Should we wear gloves?" Ophelia asked.

Eleanor shook her head. "Not at first. At the beginning, we must get each knot so thoroughly in your hands that you could tie it while being highly distracted."

Oh, Tristan could think of something that would be highly distracting. Namely, watching proper Miss Eleanor standing closer to him. He ran his hand along the length of the rope, and it felt oddly similar to another activity he had been engaged in more frequently since his parting with Vera.

"Like reciting a poem?" Ophelia suggested.

No, Tristan thought. Absolutely nothing like reciting a poem.

"Exactly!" Eleanor said, again bestowing a gorgeous, full-toothed smile. One of her incisors was tilted in a most endearing way. Oh, stop. He wanted desperately to like her, as he liked most everyone. But if he allowed himself to like her, then he'd be at risk of liking her.

"What is our first assignment?" Bad News asked. "I like to be the best, you know. Give me a head start."

Eleanor let out a light, tinkling laugh. Tristan almost growled at Bad News. "Shouldn't we wait until the entire salon may be addressed?"

Ophelia looked up, scanning the room, and Tristan did the same. They had Tristan's father, himself, Ophelia, Bad News, her brother Francis who was over talking with Mr. Piper, and then the Piper family. It was not a good turnout. But it rarely was. Ophelia winced as Tristan caught her eye.

"I may have forgot to put a notice in the paper." Ophelia twisted the rope in her hands.

"It does make it difficult to attend a party one doesn't know is happening," Tristan scolded. "If you're going to be the leader of this expedition—"

"I've been focusing on other aspects, Tristan," Ophelia hissed back.

"If you cannot delegate, then you have no business—"

"You don't know what I have been doing because you're either not here or—"

"Bridewells! Bridewells!" Bad News stepped between them. "It doesn't matter at this moment. We have all the attendees we'll receive this evening. Let's get started. And don't bicker in front of the teacher." Bad News winked at Miss Eleanor, and it made Tristan furious.

Bad News flirted with everyone and everything. The silly chit would flirt with a gas lamp if she were bored enough. Meanwhile, Tristan was doing his absolute best to be a gentleman. It was enough to drive him to the back of the room and indulge in his hip flask.

Eleanor flushed—perhaps with pride, if Tristan had to guess. He would wager that she'd never before been praised for her unique talent. If that wasn't just like Ophelia to find someone's weakness and draw it out for her own purposes. She was cunning, his sister. Pushing aside his resentment of Bad News, he let pride in his sister flush through his veins.

"And Eleanor." Ophelia grabbed the girl by her wrist, making Tristan wonder what it might feel like, how small her wrist might feel beneath his own hand. "Please return those pamphlets and journals I let you borrow. We have a new member of the Society, and I want to make sure I reel her in."

Tristan tried to keep himself from grumbling and flung himself into one of the seats. Ophelia clapped her hands to get everyone's attention.

The rest of them stopped talking and took seats obediently. These salons were meant to educate the public about their hope to climb the Matterhorn in a few years, to educate them on the perils and trials they would face and how they would overcome them. It was also a way to make them pay for a subscription to the writings they would publish during the adventure, and hopefully open their pockets even further to help pay for all the preparations still needed.

Three men had lived after conquering the Matterhorn, requiring something like fifteen attempts: Edward Whymper, an illustrator, and the two German guides. How many attempts would it take them? And how could they even get this motley group of woolen skirts to Switzerland to try?

Tristan had no doubts about Ophelia. His sister was remarkably stubborn, and she had proven herself when the family went scrambling up mountains in France over the last few years. People applied the word stubborn to all manner of beasts and people, but the definition didn't come to its pinnacle until Ophelia. She would die with snow in her boots rather than walk down a mountain without reaching the top. And Bad News? Best to not underestimate that one. Tristan didn't know the true extent of the girl's powers, nor did he want to. She was Bad News for a reason.

But Miss Eleanor Piper. If they took this soft beauty up a mountain, they might kill her. Half of Edward Whymper's team died, and those were seasoned climbers. And men, of course. Could Miss Eleanor overcome her staid, proper upbringing to become a physical creature that could conquer a mountain? Not many Englishmen could—could many Englishwomen? Any risk they took gambled their lives—individually and as a group.

But his father had several exercises for them to engage in over the next few months: the intensive at Berringbone Hold, and then the trial expedition in Scotland. Climbing Ben Nevis wouldn't be easy in the least. It would be cold and wet and foggy, all conditions they might find on the Matterhorn. It was the closest they could get to a test before leaving for the Continent.

"This is Miss Eleanor Piper, everyone," Ophelia announced, straightening her shoulders as Tristan had told her repeatedly that she must do if she expected to get anywhere as a public speaker. "As you know, safety on a mountain relies on the strength of your ropes. Your ropes are only as strong as your knots. So let us welcome Miss Eleanor, who will no doubt keep us safe."

Tristan raised his hands for a lazy clap, feeling awkward about applauding someone in a crowd of less than ten people. He hoped he could focus well enough to learn what she had to teach—if anything. He was already strong in his basic knots. He'd been up several mountains, and been in peril many times. Including the times when Vera took to her dramatic opera roots and threw a vase at his head.

*

"Everyone should have a length of rope to practice along with Miss Piper," Miss Ophelia said, scurrying around, handing out the lengths to those who hadn't gotten them yet. Once the task was done, Ophelia sat down in the settee next to Miss Justine.

There were so many eyes looking at Eleanor. Honestly, must everyone have two of them? Heat crept up her cheeks, and she began to glow, as her mother would say, under her arms. She swallowed and gripped the length of rope. This was her comfort, more than any doll or blanket or book.

"Hello everyone, I am Miss Eleanor Piper." She gave a short curtsy bob before realizing she had already been introduced. "I'm the daughter of Mr. Bruce Piper, owner of Piper Shipping & Co. I learned all of my knot-tying skills from one of his esteemed captains, Captain Smythe. While knots are employed in various professions, the ones I know pertain to sailing and the hauling of cargo."

Eleanor glanced across the room. Tristan Bridewell was giving her the most bored expression, even if his eyes were pretty and blue. She probably wouldn't say anything new to him, and he was likely finding her gauche and beneath him. But her father was here, so that must have more than made up for her presence. That was what they wanted, and he'd been very clear about it in the ballroom—they needed funding.

"You likely already know some basics, like a square knot," she folded the length of the manila rope over itself and through. "This is a basic knot that is very intuitive for almost everyone. But it can showcase for us why it's important to dress out your knot."

She caught confusion in Justine Brewer's eyes.

"What I mean by dressing out your knot," Eleanor explained, "is to carefully keep each line of the rope in clear view. No twists or sloppiness. The twisting of the rope can degrade the strength itself."

There was a masculine grunt from the back. Was that Lord Rascomb? Or her father? She glanced over to her father. His burgeoning belly was relaxed against his thighs, but he had a dreamy look on his face, his rope held loosely in one hand. Eleanor straightened. He seemed proud of her.

"Ow!" Miss Justine shrieked, sticking a finger in her mouth. "I think I have a splinter."

"Why are we not using cotton ropes, Miss Piper?" Lord Rascomb asked.

Eleanor felt her cheeks heat. Cotton was probably better for practice knots, and indeed, what she used at home. But she hadn't had enough available at such short notice. Manila was the next best thing, and indeed, what she believed they should use on a snowy expedition. "My apologies. Perhaps this was a poor idea."

Ophelia shot to her feet. "No, this is a wonderful idea. And we likely won't be using cotton rope on expedition, will we, Papa?"

Rascomb shook his head. "We have some hemp, but I'm worried about rot."

"Manila is a good flexible fiber," Eleanor said. "Next time, I can bring cotton rope." It came out of her mouth before she had time to think. Was she really proposing to teach them on another night? This couldn't be interesting or even lucrative for them. This felt like utter failure and she dared not meet her father's eyes. "Perhaps if you tell me what scenarios you think to encounter, and I can figure out the best types of knots to show you."

"I can show you our packing lists," Rascomb said. "Ophelia can make you a copy to take with you. You'll see what we need to bring. Then of course, we rope ourselves together in storms, or places that it is treacherous."

Eleanor nodded, pleased to be considered by the viscount. He wasn't dismissing her because she was a young lady, and that was a very pleasant feeling. She liked him, and she liked Ophelia, even if she felt an utter fool standing in front of them, pretending to know something.

"Perhaps you could show us another knot to practice?" Ophelia prompted.

Eleanor nodded, grateful for the direction. She certainly didn't want any of them getting splinters from the manila rope, but if she convinced them of its qualities, then they would need to grow accustomed to it.

"To determine what you need, I'll clarify some terms. A hitch is when the rope will hold fast to another object."

"Like hitching a pony to a cart?" Justine asked.

"Yes, very good." Eleanor relaxed her shoulders. "A bend unites two rope ends, and a knob is well, a knob in the rope, to help provide a handhold. What type would be best for you to learn?" Eleanor expected some discussion, but instead, the room looked to Ophelia. And it was then that Eleanor realized that this expedition was not Lord Rascomb's project, it was his daughter's. She would lead. The very idea of it was unexpected, and frankly, revolutionary.

"What would be the best knot for us to use when tying into a safety rope?" Ophelia asked.

Eleanor frowned. She didn't know that term. "A single rope that goes around each climber's waist?"

Ophelia nodded.

Eleanor bit her lip. "I'll think about it more, but right now, that would be classified as a hitch."

"A hitch, then, please." Ophelia smiled, clearly encouraging Eleanor.

"Right. Well, I think since the purpose of a safety rope is to prevent one member from falling, then we should learn a noose."

"Sounds terrible," quipped Tristan from the back.

"Someone ought to put a noose on you," Justine shot back.

Eleanor didn't know how to respond to their comments, so she plowed on. "A noose is a sliding knot, so when walking, it shouldn't be too constrictive, but it will draw tight when the standing part—that would be the long portion of the rope between people—is pulled."

They all looked at her expectantly. She didn't know how to use words to describe what she was doing, so she held up her rope instead. There were several nooses that would be appropriate, but she wondered what her pupils would be able to learn well. A familiar shape ought to work. "Today we will learn the figure-eight noose, as it draws up quite smoothly."

Everyone in the room, including her father, followed along. It was one of the simpler knots, and made a clear figure eight, the infinity sign.

"Just like on my dress!" Ophelia cried when she made fast her noose.

Eleanor nodded, pleased that Ophelia remembered. She bid them practice, and they set about, working their manila practice ropes. All except her father, who showed off to her mother by tying intricate designs instead. Her mother giggled, their hold over each other firmer than any knot.

At that moment, Lady Rascomb came in, her cane striking the floor ahead of her steps. Eleanor was suddenly very curious about this woman, as she was the exact opposite of Eleanor's mama, who was currently looking extremely impatient, with her lips pressed together in a thin line.

As all the faces swiveled to the door, instead of still facing Eleanor, she sighed in relief. Lady Rascomb caught her posture and smiled. "A rather small gathering tonight. Are you finished for the evening?" Lady Rascomb asked Ophelia.

Ophelia looked at Eleanor, noting no doubt the sag of her shoulders. "I think so. We will practice these two knots until Miss Piper meets us again."

"Perhaps the Pipers should like to join us for some tea?" Lady Rascomb addressed her question to Eleanor's mother, who jumped to her feet.

"Oh, we would hate to impose." Which wasn't true at all. Her mother would use the viscountess's name to impress her friends and acquaintances for months.

Tristan stood. "I have to meet a friend. My sincere apologies. Excuse me."

The other man in the back, whom Eleanor had not met, stood as well. "If you have a friend to meet, then I do as well." His button nose was an echo of Miss Brewer's, so Eleanor assumed he was her relation.

But the excuse was clearly a flimsy one. Eleanor tried to not feel slighted, but she did. Was she so boring? Was she so inconsequential that he couldn't manage an entire evening in her company?

"Port for the gentlemen who remain, of course," Lady Rascomb smiled. Her blonde hair was clearly where Tristan and Ophelia had gotten theirs. "Darling, will you escort Mr. Piper to your study, since the boys won't be staying, while I have the footmen tidy things up in here?"