The moment she pushed through the door to the retiring room, she turned on Beatrice. “Tell me what you know. Assuming you know something, because you probably do. You always do.”
Drat—she hadn’t expected anyone to come right out and ask like that. Beatrice tried to think of a way to respond without lying to her friend. They had been slow to befriend each other initially, but with them both being middle sisters, they had eventually built on that common ground.
They also had their own talents, Bea with her paints and Sophie with her music. She was no savant like Charity, Beatrice’s longtime family friend and near-genius pianoforte player, but Sophie was still quite talented on her oboe. Her mother had chosen the odd instrument under the mistaken notion that the more unusual the instrument, the more memorable the musician, but Sophie had embraced the small, high-pitched woodwind and somehow made the thing sing.
Beatrice opened her mouth, fully prepared to sidestep the question, but a shuffling noise alerted her to the presence of someone else in the room. Cutting a glance to Sophie, she shrugged. “I know what I read, same as you.”
Miss Marianne Harmon, Lord Wexley’s youngest daughter, stepped from around the screen and eyed them both. “You must be speaking of the letter printed in A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion today.” She paused in front of the mirror to pat her hair—as if a single strand would dare disobey her and fall out of place—and smiled at her own reflection. “Pray, don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”
Since Beatrice was technically related to Marianne, she refrained from making the face she wanted to. Third cousin might sound distant, but Mama would likely hear of it by the end of the night, and Lord knew Beatrice already had enough potential trouble on her plate. Instead, she gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No conversation, really. Neither one of us knows anything above what we read in the magazine.”
Family or not, Beatrice had no problem lying to Marianne. The woman possessed a remarkable ability to retain information and mold it to her benefit when the time was right, and Bea wasn’t about to provide her with any fodder.
“Well, it hardly matters. It was just a silly thing, obviously written by someone who hasn’t the sense God gave her. Why else would she—if indeed it is a she—stoop to publishing such a thing?”
“Oh, I thought it was brilliant,” Sophie chimed in, a broad grin lighting her features. “I never thought of such a thing before. Not that I’d need to, of course. Heaven knows no fortune hunter would ever have a use for me.”
She had a way of saying things no one else would get away with and somehow come across as charming. At least Beatrice thought so—Marianne’s raised brow seemed to indicate she thought otherwise. “Yes, well, I think it reeks of bitterness. Perhaps the author was tired of not being asked to dance and she decided to paint all men of discerning taste in a negative light in order to force their hands.”
“Quite a bit of effort to go through merely to win a dance partner, don’t you think?” Beatrice had intended to keep her mouth shut, but Marianne’s theory was completely ridiculous, and she didn’t want her to go spreading that sort of discrediting speculation around. “I think the author wished to help the innocent young women preparing to make their debuts next year.”
Marianne made a delicate sound of disbelief. “Don’t be so gullible, Beatrice. No one does something like that without hope for personal gain.” She gave her cheeks a little pinch and turned away from the mirror. “I’ll leave you to your gossip.”
With a condescending smile, she glided from the room, her golden gown swishing behind her with the exaggerated sway of her hips. Beatrice rolled her eyes and turned back to Sophie. “Good riddance.”
Her friend giggled, completely without rancor for the high-and-mighty Marianne. “Don’t mind her. She’s just miffed that something else other than her legendary beauty and divine pianoforte talent has captured the attention of all present.”
“All present? You mean you and me?”
“No, silly—I mean everyone. Haven’t you heard the whispers and conjecture going on out there? Everyone is positively rapt to know who the author is. And not only that,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “they’re all atwitter about the identity of the fortune hunter.”
“The fortune hunter?” Beatrice squeaked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—the letter spoke in very general terms.”
Sophie clasped Beatrice’s hand in earnest. “The letter, yes. The drawing, well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Surely you saw the resemblance. I mean, if I did, it’s impossible to believe that you did not. Did you?”
Well, then—good thing they were in the retiring room. Her stomach rebelled all over again, with a surge of guilty nerves racing through her. “Well,” she hedged, “I think it could be any number of gentlemen, or more likely, just a conglomeration of several into one.”
“I can scarce believe you can’t see it. Honestly, if it’s not Mr. Godfrey, I’ll eat my slippers.”
Curses. That was exactly what she was afraid of. Although, if anyone was going to have her foot in her mouth, it would doubtless be Beatrice.
Oblivious to her distress, Sophie spun an escaped curl around her finger. “The author is one brave, bold soul.”
Beatrice glanced at her friend in the mirror, surprised by the unknowing compliment. A bit of the anxiousness ebbed away at the kind words. “She is a bit brave, isn’t she?”
“A bit? A good deal more than that, I should think. I’d never have it in me to be so brilliant.”
The knot in Beatrice’s stomach further unraveled and she smiled hugely at her friend. “Of course you do—more so, I should think.”
“Now, that’s a load of hogwash, and we both know it.” She winked at Beatrice’s reflection, her cheeks blushing merrily. “But I’m glad someone does. The letter may not be useful to me, but if it helps even one girl avoid the fortune hunter’s snare, then I say bravo.”
Beatrice very nearly hugged her. She was right—even if her drawing caused Mr. Godfrey a bit of discomfort, it very well might be helping to save a fellow debutant from poor Diana’s fate. Even if it were only one less girl duped by a fortune hunter, it would be well worth the risk and minor scandal for Mr. Godfrey. All guilt aside, he was exactly the sort she was warning against.
Sophie pursed her lips, her finger still twirling the same dark curl. “Do you think she is here now? The author, I mean. She was at Lady Churly’s, so it stands to reason she’d be here, don’t you think?”
That was a question she could answer with absolute honesty. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
The Westmoreland ball was proving to be quite a bit more entertaining than the last one Colin had attended. Here, he gladly released himself from the need to write his name on the dance cards of only the ladies on his list of suitable wives. So far, he had claimed dances with half a dozen young ladies of varying stations and backgrounds.
Unfortunately, he had yet to find the lady for whom he had reserved two waltzes, just in case one of hers was already claimed. Taking another sip of champagne, he scanned the room for the golden-haired nymph who had assured him that she would be there.
“Looking for someone?” Aunt Constance nodded in greeting, causing the ostrich feather affixed to the front of her emerald green turban to sway regally.
He offered her a bland smile, unwilling to reveal that that was exactly what he had been doing. “Taking it all in. Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Aunt?”