Chapter Nine

“More flowers from that Mr. Clayborn,” intoned Lady Scattergood’s butler, Treadwell, in a funereal voice. “The biggest bunch yet. He’s waiting in the hall.” He stood in the doorway of the back sitting room, gloomily clutching a large bouquet of hothouse flowers—orchids and lilies and other rare and expensive flowers.

“Wretched man!” Lady Scattergood exclaimed.

“That’s the third bunch in three days,” Mrs. Price-Jones exclaimed delightedly. “And these are even more expensive. The man is wonderfully keen, isn’t he?” She beamed at Clarissa.

“Please inform Mr. Clayborn that I am not at home,” Clarissa told the butler. She didn’t want him to be wonderfully keen, either. She just wished he would go away.

“Oh, but you must speak to him,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “I shouldn’t spoil the surprise, but I believe that young man—that very smitten young man—has Something of Significance to say to you.” She winked.

Clarissa sighed. She knew exactly what Mr. Clayborn was going to say. He’d made it more than clear. Having “sullied her innocence” by allowing his passion for her to carry him away, he was willing, nay, eager to marry her.

He had called, and all but proposed, the day after the ball. She’d felt awkward and embarrassed receiving him—that kiss had clarified all her feelings about him—and she’d done her best to discourage him gently and steer him off the subject of marriage. It wasn’t his fault that he turned out to be a frog, and not a prince, poor man.

She thought she’d made her lack of interest clear, but he’d returned the following day with an even larger bouquet—larkspurs, lilies, carnations, stock and roses—and an even more determined smile. But after handing the flowers to her and briefly renewing his offer to marry her—which she’d refused, quite firmly—he’d asked to speak in private to Mrs. Price-Jones. And after that he had taken himself off, which was a relief.

But now he was back—again.

“I don’t want to speak to him,” Clarissa repeated.

“Quite right,” Lady Scattergood said. “Make the fellow work to win you. I made Scattergood ask me a dozen times before I accepted him.”

“I don’t want him to win me,” Clarissa said. “I don’t want to see him at all.” Ever. It wasn’t just the kiss that had turned her off him, it was his persistence in believing—and saying repeatedly—that he’d somehow besmirched her innocence.

But he hadn’t: it was just a kiss, and not a very nice one. The worst thing, though, was his attitude to her. It was as if, having kissed her, he now felt he owned her. And had no need to take any notice of what she said. It was infuriating.

Even if he’d never kissed her, the attitudes he’d revealed since would insure she could have no interest in him as a potential husband. His indifference to her repeated responses showed he had no respect for her views, and one thing Clarissa was adamant that she wanted in a marriage was respect. Love was a dream, but respect was a requirement.

“I think you must at least see him,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “When he spoke to me yesterday he explained how dreadful he felt, letting his feelings get the better of him. He feared he had deeply shocked you in your innocence, and he wanted my advice.”

The repeated references to her innocence were exasperating. “He didn’t shock me. I just don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, I think you must allow him to apologize.”

“He has, repeatedly.”

There was a short silence.

“What shall I do then?” Treadwell asked.

“Put the wretched things in a vase, of course,” Lady Scattergood snapped. “And keep them out of my sight. I don’t know why people send flowers—all they do is die, and who wants to sit around all day watching dying vegetation?”

“I meant,” Treadwell said with dignity, “what shall I do with the young gentleman?”

Mrs. Price-Jones leaned forward and put a hand on Clarissa’s arm. “Talk to him, my dear. You don’t have to commit yourself. I explained to him yesterday that you need your guardian’s permission to marry. He told me how he felt he’d compromised you and felt it incumbent on him to offer—”

“Compromised?” Lady Scattergood sat up. “Compromised her, did he? The scoundrel! The villain! Toss him out in the street, Treadwell!”

“He didn’t compromise me in the least,” Clarissa hastily assured the old lady. “Mr. Clayborn is being overly sensitive.” Ridiculously so.

Lady Scattergood raised her lorgnette and scrutinized Clarissa’s face. “Is that true, gel?”

“Absolutely.” If anyone’s kiss could be said to be compromising it was Lord Randall’s, but Clarissa was determined to keep that a secret.

“Hmph, well, all right then. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to talk to him. Put him in the front drawing room, Treadwell—but keep an eye on the fellow.”

“But I—” Clarissa began.

The old lady waved her objections aside. “He can’t propose without Leo’s permission, so talk to the fellow, tell him to stop filling my house with dying flowers, and find out what his travel arrangements are.”

“Travel arrangements?” Clarissa repeated, bewildered.

“Of course. How many times do I have to tell you young gels that the secret of a successful marriage is for the husband to head off to the other side of the world shortly after the wedding? Traveling and sending you back delightful gifts from time to time as a token of his regard.” She waved vaguely at the clutter of exotic ornaments—valuable and not so valuable—that crammed every surface of the room. “As my dear Scattergood did for the twenty years of our marriage.” She gave a fond glance at the cloisonné urn that held her husband’s ashes. “So find out what young Claymore’s travel plans are.”

“Clayborn,” Clarissa corrected her halfheartedly.

“Yes, him. And if he has none, make sure you plant the notion in his mind. Now, run along.”

“Miss Studley!” As Clarissa entered the front drawing room Mr. Clayborn jumped to his feet, sending his cane flying. “Dear Miss Studley, you have consented to see me.” He beamed at her. “Dare I say you have forgiven me my impetuosity?”

“Mr. Clayborn.” She picked up his cane and handed it back to him. “Please be seated.”

His face fell. “So cold. You haven’t forgiven me?”

Clarissa repressed a sigh. “As I have said previously—several times—there is nothing to forgive. Now, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?”

To her horror, Mr. Clayborn clutched his cane tightly in one hand, and with a groan, attempted to go down onto one knee.

Clarissa leapt to her feet. “Please, I beg of you, stop this at once! There is no need for you to kneel.”

He struggled back up. “So kind, so considerate.” He took a step toward her. “My dear Miss Studley, you know of my feelings toward you, which grow more powerful each time I am allowed into your charming company. Would you do me the honor—”

“Mr. Clayborn, stop right there,” Clarissa said firmly. “I know what you are going to ask, but my answer is still no.”

“I know, you must get permission from your guardian. But—”

“This has nothing to do with my guardian. I’ve already indicated to you—very clearly, I think—that though I hold you in…esteem, there is no chance, absolutely no chance of—”

Clayborn reeled back. “Oh, do not say it, you cannot be so cruel!”

Cruel? Clarissa frowned. “I am sorry if you think so, nevertheless as I have told you before, flattering as your offer may be, I will not marry you.”

He clapped a hand over his heart. “You have led me on, cruel lady, broken my heart.”

She rang the bell for Treadwell, who, having been listening at the door, appeared instantly. “Goodbye, Mr. Clayborn.”

“No, no, you cannot send me away like that. Oh, heartless, callous creature.”

“Treadwell, please show Mr. Clayborn out.”

“Yes, miss.” Treadwell bowed, handed Mr. Clayborn his hat, and when the man didn’t move, slipped a hand under his elbow and escorted him to the door.

“Oh, cruel, Miss Studley—it’s because I’m not a whole man, isn’t it? You are heartless, heartless! I fought for my country and yet you spurn me for my…” The door shut behind him and his words died away.

Clarissa sank back onto her chair, shaken and shaking. She’d remained firm, at least, but Clayborn’s emotional response had distressed her. Had she led him on? She didn’t think so. She’d sat out a few dances with him, and allowed him one kiss, that was all. And her refusal certainly had nothing to do with his war injury—in fact she’d honored him for that.

She heard the front door close and heaved a sigh of relief. She would ask Treadwell not to admit him again.

His reaction was upsetting, but the more his accusations echoed in her mind, the more they angered her. She might have considered him as a suitor at the start—she’d considered several men—but at no stage had she ever given him reason to expect that she would welcome him as a husband. One kiss did not amount to an agreement to marry. Especially when she’d made it clear she did not.

She rose to her feet. She couldn’t bear to go back into Lady Scattergood’s sitting room and face the questions that would await her there. She felt shattered after Mr. Clayborn’s accusations, and needed to escape for a short while. Calm down. She slipped out the back door and took herself out into the garden. Being in the serene, lovely garden always made her feel better.

She paced restlessly along one of the garden walks, too wound up to sit. Had she led Mr. Clayborn on? Yes, she had allowed that kiss—not that he’d given her much choice at the time. But both Mrs. Price-Jones and Lady Tarrant had implied, each in her own way, that a discreet kiss or two was acceptable, as long as nobody found out.

No, Mr. Clayborn was being unreasonable and melodramatic. In fact, now she came to reflect on it, she rather doubted he loved her at all. He seemed more angry than hurt.

It was all most disheartening. She’d let two men kiss her and neither one loved her. One was a rake, who might kiss like a dream, but presumably kissed whomever he fancied whenever he liked, and the other was…a puzzle.

Why was Mr. Clayborn so angry at her rejection? He barely knew her. And as his great-aunt’s sole heir, it wasn’t as if he needed Clarissa’s fortune, so why the fuss? And she was sure he didn’t love her.

Papa had been a very bad loser. She supposed some men didn’t take kindly to rejection.

Feeling a little calmer, if no closer to understanding the state of her emotions, she was heading for her favorite seat in the rose arbor when she spotted Zo? seated cross-legged on the lawn. She was all alone, bent over something. Clarissa hadn’t given a thought to where her sister might be. She’d just been relieved that Zo? hadn’t been witness to the discussion with Lady Scattergood and Mrs. Price-Jones about Mr. Clayborn.

The poor girl was probably bored. She still refused to go anywhere with Clarissa, not even to go shopping. She refused to see people who made morning calls, and spent all day either inside Lady Scattergood’s, or in the garden, or visiting Lady Tarrant and the little girls, and Lucy, with whom she’d struck up an instant friendship.

As she drew closer, she realized Zo?’s pencil was flying over a white pad. “Good morning, Zo?,” she said as she approached. “Isn’t this weather glorious? Outside is the best place to be.”

Zo? jumped and twisted around, clutching the pad protectively to her chest. “Oh, it’s you. I thought it might be that awful Milly. She’s forever sneaking up on me trying to see what I’m doing. A right nosy pest, she is.”

“I think she’s just lonely,” Clarissa said. “She doesn’t seem to have many friends.”

Zo? pulled a face. “Funny way to make friends, sneaking up and spying on people. Anyway, I just talk to her nonstop in French. That soon gets rid of her.” She grinned.

Clarissa glanced at the pad Zo? was holding, and the girl flushed and pressed it against her chest. “It’s just an old sketch pad I found lying around—nobody was using it, honest, Clarissa. The top pages were all yellowed and grubby. I’m sorry if I did wrong.” She jumped to her feet, regarding Clarissa with a guilty expression. “Is the old lady looking for me? I s’pose she wants me to read to her again.”

With a pang of dismay, Clarissa realized that Zo? still didn’t feel as though this was her home.

“No, not at all. You’re free to do whatever you like. And don’t worry about taking the pad—you’re welcome to it.” She smiled. “Now, come and show me what you’ve been drawing.”

Zo? hesitated.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course,” Clarissa assured her. “I’m just interested, that’s all. I remember the clever sketch you did of that woman at the orphan asylum. I can’t draw to save myself, so I’m always impressed when others can.”

“All right.” Zo? was still obviously a bit reluctant but she allowed Clarissa to link arms with her and lead her to the seat in the rose arbor. They sat and Zo? handed the sketch pad to Clarissa.

Clarissa turned the pages slowly. There were dozens of drawings, some quick sketches, conveying their subjects vividly in a handful of lines; others were beautifully detailed. There were delicate drawings of some of the plants and flowers in the garden, and one of a spider in extraordinary detail.

There were lively portraits of Lady Tarrant’s little girls—Debo with her cat, Mittens, slung around her neck—several drawing of Lady Tarrant, of Lucy, of Lady Scattergood, one with her beloved dogs, and even some individual drawings of the dogs that were not only recognizable but through some magic of her pencil conveyed their personalities as well. There were also drawings of Betty and Joan, the maidservants, and of Jeremiah, the young footman who tended the dogs. And there was one positively wicked caricature of Treadwell that made Clarissa laugh out loud.

There were also quite a few sketches of Clarissa; she wasn’t sure what to think about those. She looked almost…not pretty, obviously—as Papa used to say, you couldn’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear—but…something.

“Zo?, these are good—very, very good,” Clarissa said slowly, mentally kicking herself for forgetting she’d decided to purchase art supplies for Zo?.

Zo? hunched an awkward shoulder. “They’re all right,” she muttered. “I’m still learning.”

“No, they’re much better than all right. You have real talent.” She gave Zo? a quick, one-armed hug. “You should see the dreadful watercolors I tried to paint when I was a girl—truly ghastly. And Izzy’s weren’t much better.” She laughed. “Well, you can’t see them: we had to burn the evidence.” She handed the sketchbook back.

Her sister should have an art tutor. The poor girl had been laboring through her reading and writing lessons, and she’d been very patient about having her accent and grammar endlessly corrected. Painting and drawing were things she’d actually enjoy. In the meantime Clarissa would purchase drawing and painting materials for her.

She rose to her feet, feeling much refreshed. All thoughts of Mr. Clayborn had been purged by the combination of the beauty and freshness of the garden and excitement over her new plans for her talented little sister.

“Come along. I want a cup of tea, and Cook was baking orange biscuits earlier—a recipe from Alfonso, my brother-in-law’s cook—and the smell was heavenly. They should be out of the oven by now.”

“Never had orange biscuits,” Zo? said. “Ain’t never tasted an orange, for that matter.”

“Well, we’ll have to remedy that, but first a cup of tea and some biscuits. They’re made with ground almonds, and oranges of course, and are light and chewy and utterly delicious. Come along, you’ll love them.” Arm in arm the two sisters headed for the house.

Lord and Lady Peplowe were popular hosts and their rout party was the kind of fashionable squeeze that insured it was declared a rousing success. Race could have done with a little less attention—the matchmaking mamas were out in force.

Of course they were: he’d forgotten that Penny, the Peplowes’ youngest daughter, was still unmarried, and the party was well seeded with eligible young men.

He’d arrived a little late, as was his habit. Not that he often attended this kind of event, but he supposed when a man was courting a young lady it was a necessity.

He grimaced. Courting. He was actually courting. And the whole world seemed to know it, though not whom he was courting, thank God.

He spotted Clarissa, dancing a country dance with some young blade. She was wearing a soft cream and apricot dress that flowed with every movement, caressing her luscious curves in a way that made his mouth dry.

He waited until the dance was over and when the young sprig went off to fetch her a drink, he stepped in. “You are looking lovely, as usual, Miss Studley. That color really suits you and the cut is masterful.”

She pursed her lips, looking slightly irritated instead of flattered. What had he said?

He bowed slightly. “May I have the next dance?”

She hesitated, then glanced around as if to check who was standing close by. Then she took a small step toward him. Her skin glowed pure and pearly with a faint flush. He could smell her perfume, a delicate rose scent that was unique to her. It was all he could do not to gather her into his arms.

She raised herself on tiptoe and murmured in a soft voice, “You don’t need to dance with me at all, Lord Randall. There are plenty of gentlemen here who don’t regard a dance with me as an obligation. But I thank you for your dutiful attention.” And with that she turned and hurried away, leaving Race trying not to gape after her.

A dance with her an obligation? And dutiful attention? What the hell did she mean by that? A dance with her was a damned privilege, not any kind of obligation.

He blinked, shocked by her gentle, but firm refusal. He’d never received a knock-back in his life. In fact it was generally women who made the first move, making it clear his attentions would be welcome—more than welcome.

Had he lost his charm? Had the ease with which he usually attracted women made him lazy? Was he losing his touch? Becoming arrogant? And complacent?

Or was it a tactic on her part? He had to know.

Weaving through the crowd, he found her again and touched her on the elbow. She turned. “I enjoy dancing with you, Miss Studley,” he told her. “It’s not an obligation. Or a blasted ‘dutiful attention,’ whatever than means.”

She glanced around self-consciously. “Please lower your voice. People are looking.”

“To hell with people,” he said, but he lowered his voice. “I want an explanation.”

She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m saying that you need not worry about me. I quite understand that you feel an obligation to look out for me on Leo’s behalf, but I really, truly don’t need it.”

“But—”

“And I would be obliged if you ceased bothering me.”

“Bothering you?” He was stunned.

“Yes. And spying on me. Now good evening.” She moved off once more, and soon disappeared into the throng.

Bothering her. Spying on her?It was like a slap in the face.

He wasn’t bothering her—he was courting her. As for spying—he had no idea where that came from.

Did she have no idea of his intentions? He thought all women understood when a man was interested. He was sure he’d made it clear. She must understand.

So…what was it? Could it be that she wasn’t attracted to him? And he’d somehow missed all the signs?

The idea appalled him. He’d never forced his attentions on an unwilling or an uninterested woman in his life.

He thought back to that kiss, the way she’d pressed her body against him, the way she’d eagerly returned his caresses. No, she was definitely attracted to him, just as he was to her. Then what was going on? Had someone said something to her to put her off him? But who? And what?

A shocking thought froze him. Had she promised herself to that blasted Clayborn already? If that were the case, she would definitely repudiate Race’s attentions, loyal creature that she was. Dammit, he had to find out. He needed to talk to her, privately, away from this crowd.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” a sardonic female voice at his elbow said. “That I have lived to see the irresistible Lord Randall given his congé—in no uncertain terms—by a plain little dab of a girl with neither looks nor charm to speak of.”

He turned. “Lady Snape,” he said coldly. He’d never liked the woman, and these days she hated him. It was a case of Hell having no fury…

She laughed. “I heard every word she said. It was glorious.”

“Indeed,” he said in an icy voice.

“You haven’t a hope, you know. She told me the other evening that she regarded you as an uncle—a benevolent uncle.” She laughed again and turned away, still laughing as she threaded her way like a serpent through the crowd.

An uncle?

He glanced across to where Miss Studley was chatting and laughing with Penny Peplowe and her mother. Protection, he realized. From him?

She’d accused him of bothering her. And spying. And according to Lady Snape, she thought of him as an uncle. An uncle!

He needed to clear that up, and the sooner the better. But he wouldn’t approach her again this evening. She’d made herself clear—for tonight, at least. And he needed to get away from the press of over-scented humanity, the sharply speculating eyes and the gossiping tongues.

He needed to go where nobody cared what his matrimonial intentions might or might not be, somewhere congenial. He headed for his club.

Thank goodness. He was leaving. Clarissa hoped she looked serene. Her insides were like jelly, and her hands were still shaking. Thank goodness for evening gloves. She smiled and nodded at something Penny Peplowe was saying, oblivious of whatever it was—some amusing story.

The short exchange with Lord Randall had completely shaken her. It had taken every bit of resolution she had to confront him and ask him not to keep following her around, tell him that Leo had nothing to worry about.

Of course she hadn’t been able to explain the real truth of the matter, that his mere presence unsettled her. It was hard enough to battle her inappropriate attraction to him without giving him any inkling of it.

Fatal to let a rake see that little weakness.

And she’d managed—she’d told him, clearly and to his face, that she didn’t need him watching over her on Leo’s behalf.

And then, look what he did! He’d walked straight off and a minute later was in close conversation with that horrid Lady Snake who had her hand on his arm and was cooing up at him in the vilest seductive manner.

Men. You couldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them!

The pleasantly familiar atmosphere of Race’s club surrounded him as he entered, a mélange of fragrances—old leather, woodsmoke, tobacco, freshly ironed newspapers, port, wine and brandy. It was a scent that spelled ease and comfort to masculine nostrils, and was very welcome to his bruised spirit.

Upstairs he found a dim sitting room lit by a glowing fire, and containing half a dozen old gentlemen snoozing comfortably beneath their papers, a couple playing cards and a few sole drinkers brooding silently into their glasses. One of the brooders was an old friend from his schooldays, Barney Temple. He was slouched bonelessly in a red leather armchair.

“Castaway, are you, Temp?” said Race, sitting in the next chair.

“Devil a bit,” Barney said gloomily, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I’ll get there. What brings you here, Race?”

“This and that. You?”

Barney gestured. “Sanctuary. The mater can’t get to me here.”

“Like that, is it?” Barney’s mother was forever coming up with schemes to marry off her marriage-shy son.

Race ordered a cognac and the two men drank in companionable silence for a while, each one brooding on his own particular problems.

Race pondered the contradictory behavior of Miss Studley, but could make no sense of it. He swirled his glass, eyeing the fire through it. He might as well be shredding one of those blasted daisies with she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not for all it helped.

He felt sure that she liked him, and that she was attracted to him. But was that enough for marriage?

“If you were a woman, Temp, would you want to marry me?”

Barney glanced at him sharply, then leaned away a little. “Sorry, not that way inclined, old thing.”

“Not that, you fool. I said if you were a woman.”

“Oh, a woman.” Barney frowned in concentration. “Don’t think I’ve ever considered it. Why would I? I like being a man. If I were a woman…Lord, I couldn’t stand it. All those frills and furbelows, corsets, chaperones dogging your every footstep, can’t put a foot wrong without some old busybody pointing the finger and gossiping and—don’t shake your head at me—m’sisters had a devilish time of things before they were married.”

He took a deep draft of brandy and continued, warming to his theme, “And then there’s all the things I wouldn’t be able to do: drinking blue ruin with a few pals at Jackson’s after an invigoratin’ bout or two in the ring and—Lord! I just realized. No opera dancers or anything of that sort! Dammit, Race, you can’t ask it of me.”

“I’m not, you drunken sot. I was merely asking you if you were a woman, would you consider marriage to me as a desirable prospect.”

Barney gazed owlishly at him for a long moment. “A desirable prospect, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On the gal, of course. If she wants a title, a fortune and a complaisant husband, then you won’t have any trouble—”

“Not that sort,” Race said. He was only too well acquainted with that kind of woman. And he wouldn’t be complaisant in the way Barney was suggesting, either.

“Oh, you mean the romantic type?” Barney shook his head. “Can’t see you married to that sort. No, steer clear of romantic misses, I say. They cling, they sigh, they weep at you, and expect you to dance attendance on them at deadly dull events. Almack’s,” he said in a tone of horror. “And,” he added, shaking his finger at Race, “they’ll expect you to give up opera dancers! Well, I ask you—is that reasonable? No indeed. Race, my old friend, you stay well away from romantic chits, and avoid parson’s mousetrap while you can!”

“Do I understand from that rant that your mother is once more pressuring you to marry?”

Barney groaned. “Been avoiding her for weeks. She has some filly in mind. Some ‘suitable’ chit she met somewhere or other. Can you imagine me with someone ‘suitable’?”

“Not really.”

“Me, neither.” Barney drained his glass, signaled for another and once the waiter had delivered it, he sat back and smiled muzzily at Race. “This is nice, ain’t it? Exchangin’ views, givin’ advice. Not many people ask me for advice.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Race said dryly. Barney was a good fellow, but deep he was not.

But in his rambling discourse his friend just might have hit on something. Race didn’t keep any opera dancers, but his rakish reputation might well be a stumbling block to an idealistic and romantic young woman.

Ironic when he thought about how it had come about…

But the conversation, ridiculous as it was, had given him an idea. She and her sister had come to London just a short time ago. No doubt they’d barely tasted all the delights the metropolis had to offer. They had thoroughly enjoyed the outing he’d arranged to Astley’s Amphitheatre. Barney had given him another idea.

The next time he saw Miss Studley, Race knew just what to do. “Have you been to the opera lately, Miss Studley?”

She turned to him swiftly. “I beg your pardon.”

“The opera. Covent Garden. Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. I’ve heard it’s quite delightful.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said coolly. She seemed oddly prickly.

“I think you’d enjoy it. How about I form a party with my cousin Maggie and her husband, yourself and Mrs. Price-Jones, and perhaps—”

“No thank you,” she said crisply, and sailed away. Actually, stalked away was more the word. The gait of a woman in a bit of a huff. What on earth had he said to offend her now?

He went back over the conversation in his mind. Perfectly innocuous. Quite pleasant, actually. An invitation to a pleasant night out.

Perhaps she didn’t like music. She did, after all, regularly attend Lady Gastonbury’s soirées musicale.

Zo? came skipping down the stairs. It was a beautiful day and she planned to visit Lady Tarrant and the children and, most especially, to talk to Lucy about art. It was such a joy to have someone to talk to who really understood, and would happily discuss things like perspective and angles and the light and, oh, all the things that she longed to understand more about. She hadn’t heard such matters discussed since Maman died.

And the best thing about visiting Lucy? They talked entirely in French. It was almost like having Maman back. Almost…

She made for Lady Scattergood’s favorite sitting room first, to ask the old lady’s permission, and to check that she didn’t want Zo? for anything.

The door was ajar, and she could hear Lady Scattergood talking to Mrs. Price-Jones. Zo? raised her hand to knock before entering when she heard a snatch of conversation that made her freeze.

“Yes, but it was one thing to pass Izzy off as legitimate: it’s quite a different case with young Zo?,” Mrs. Price-Jones was saying.

Zo? leaned closer to listen.

Mrs. Price-Jones continued, “Even so, Izzy—and with her, Clarissa—were skating on very thin ice. There are still rumors, and really it was only Izzy’s marriage to Leo that caused them to die down—too many people are reluctant to offend an earl. And of course there are plenty who could not believe that a high stickler like Leo would stoop to taking a bastard to wife.”

Zo? swallowed.

Lady Scattergood said, “Yes, but they did succeed—the girls, I mean. And Clarissa is adamant that young Zo? is her sister. And I’m inclined to agree. Besides, Zo? is a dear girl and I like her very much. In my opinion, illegitimacy is a piece of nonsense that men invented to control women.”

“That’s all very well for you to say, Olive, but you won’t find many—if any—in society to agree with you. It’s the law. Zo? is a dear girl and I like her, too, and I grant you, she is the image of Izzy, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re both baseborn. The difference is that Izzy was raised with Clarissa and has all the advantages of a lady’s education and training: she looks and sounds like a lady. But Zo?—well, she only has to open her mouth and it’s clear she was raised in a London gutter.”

There was a short silence. Zo? leaned her head against the wall. Was her accent really that bad?

Lady Scattergood made a piffing kind of noise. “But her French is impeccable, and her accent clearly aristocratic. I have no doubt that her mother was indeed a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Yes, but English drawing rooms are full of people who speak only the best kind of English and couldn’t tell aristocratic-sounding French if it hit them on the nose. Besides that, the child is barely educated. Granted, her handwriting is both elegant and stylish, but her spelling and grammar are appalling.”

“Oh, pish! The gel is still young. There is time to remedy that. I’ve been getting her to read to me.”

“I know, and I’ve been helping, too, and her reading is improving. But is it enough? I doubt it. And Clarissa still has her head in the clouds about the whole thing.”

“Clarissa has a warm and loving heart.”

“I agree, but she’ll never get anyone to believe that Zo? is her legitimate sister. And if she tries, she won’t just fail, it will stir everything up again—all those rumors will spring up afresh and this time they’ll be even harder to deny. Clarissa and Izzy—and your nephew Leo, for that matter—will be dragged into a shocking scandal.”

Bile rose in Zo?’s throat.

There was another short silence, then Lady Scattergood said, “I don’t see what we can do about it, Althea. Clarissa is a dear, sweet gel, and generally very gentle and biddable, but in matters such as these she’s immovable. Look at the way she defied her father over keeping Izzy. She was a mere child, and Bartleby Studley was a nasty big beast and a bully who should have been drowned at birth!”

Mrs. Price-Jones sighed. “Then what can we do? Personally I couldn’t care less about the child’s illegitimacy—I don’t believe in all that ‘sins of the father’ nonsense, either. But there’s no denying it matters to the majority of people, so I can’t just stand by and do nothing while Clarissa courts her own ruin.”

Zo? could almost hear Lady Scattergood’s shrug. “Well, we’ll just have to help young Zo? become a lady. Or at least pass her off as one and hope for the best. She’s still young. Now, I think I could do with a cup of tea after all that. Would you ring the bell for Treadwell, please?”

Zo? crept away.