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Authors: Kristi Ann Hunter
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recovered?”
“Yes, quite, I—” Lord Trent frowned. “How did you know I’d been ill? That was weeks ago, when I first arrived in London.”
“Oh, well, I think Fi . . . someone might have mentioned it to my maid Lydia. I didn’t think a thing of it until now.” Amelia gripped the edges of her cloak and tried to smile. The effort felt wooden at best. How did one tell someone they’d been the subject of gossip without making it sound like a horrible breach of privacy?
Lord Trent looked thoughtful. “This someone was a servant, I assume?”
Amelia swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
He laughed. “Does that happen often? Servants sharing about our health and the like?”
“Servants gossip worse than any member of the ton ever could.” Amelia winced at how awful that sounded, but it was the truth.
Lord Trent looked skeptical.
“It’s true!” Amelia defended. “ Ton gossip is strictly speculation, from what I understand. What someone might have seen or overheard filled in with conjecture and suspicion. Do they ever know for a fact?”
“Rarely,” Lord Trent conceded.
“Servants know , my lord. They see and hear everything, and they like to talk about it.”
His gaze grew thoughtful again as the rest of their party finally climbed into the carriage and the conveyance made its way back across London.
“That was splendid, Lady Miranda. Thank you for inviting me,” Amelia said.
“I cannot remember the last time I had as much fun. It is most refreshing to see things through a new pair of eyes.” Lady Miranda reached over and clasped one of Amelia’s hands. “You must call me Miranda. I believe we’re going to be great friends.”
“Then I am Amelia.” Under the cover of her cloak Amelia pinched herself.
“I intend to drag you to the Hofferham ball with us next week, Amelia. Are you available Thursday?”
Amelia bit her lip. The true question was whether or not she would be able to procure the appropriate clothing between now and then. The dress Miranda had sent her was lovely, but it was not a ball gown.
“I have no other engagements.” Amelia wound her fingers together and held them tight to keep from shouting her happiness out the window. No doubt Miss Ryan would have her on the doorstep of the modiste at the crack of dawn.
“Does this mean that I have to go to the Hofferham ball Thursday?” Lord Trent grumbled.
“Of course.” Miranda huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Who else would escort me?”
“Anthony will be there. Can he be your escort?”
Miranda frowned. “Anthony is not a relation, you ninny. Besides, how do you know Anthony is attending?”
Lord Trent grinned. “If he wasn’t before, he is now.”
Anthony opened his mouth but closed it again a moment later with a bit of sheepish shrug.
“Nevertheless, Trent, you are accompanying me and Amelia.” Miranda gave a decisive nod. “Resign yourself now.”
Amelia looked at London passing by outside the window and smiled.
Chapter Eight
Memories of the opera outing filled Anthony’s head the next day, finally sending him from his house in a desperate attempt to find distraction. He let his head loll back against the coach cushions, allowing it to rock back and forth with the swaying conveyance. If God felt charitable today, there would be someone interesting at his club. Waiting five more days to see Amelia was driving him to Bedlam.
Perhaps he should have James change the direction of the coach and head over to Mount Street instead. There was no reason why he couldn’t pay her a call, other than a lack of proper chaperonage and a great deal of potential embarrassment on her part. Considering her clothing situation, he was afraid that her housing might be less than amenable as well, despite its fashionable location.
The last thing he wanted to do was cause her shame, but he’d be lying if he said her situation wasn’t part of her appeal. What he could give her would far outweigh the scandal of
“Yes, quite, I—” Lord Trent frowned. “How did you know I’d been ill? That was weeks ago, when I first arrived in London.”
“Oh, well, I think Fi . . . someone might have mentioned it to my maid Lydia. I didn’t think a thing of it until now.” Amelia gripped the edges of her cloak and tried to smile. The effort felt wooden at best. How did one tell someone they’d been the subject of gossip without making it sound like a horrible breach of privacy?
Lord Trent looked thoughtful. “This someone was a servant, I assume?”
Amelia swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
He laughed. “Does that happen often? Servants sharing about our health and the like?”
“Servants gossip worse than any member of the ton ever could.” Amelia winced at how awful that sounded, but it was the truth.
Lord Trent looked skeptical.
“It’s true!” Amelia defended. “ Ton gossip is strictly speculation, from what I understand. What someone might have seen or overheard filled in with conjecture and suspicion. Do they ever know for a fact?”
“Rarely,” Lord Trent conceded.
“Servants know , my lord. They see and hear everything, and they like to talk about it.”
His gaze grew thoughtful again as the rest of their party finally climbed into the carriage and the conveyance made its way back across London.
“That was splendid, Lady Miranda. Thank you for inviting me,” Amelia said.
“I cannot remember the last time I had as much fun. It is most refreshing to see things through a new pair of eyes.” Lady Miranda reached over and clasped one of Amelia’s hands. “You must call me Miranda. I believe we’re going to be great friends.”
“Then I am Amelia.” Under the cover of her cloak Amelia pinched herself.
“I intend to drag you to the Hofferham ball with us next week, Amelia. Are you available Thursday?”
Amelia bit her lip. The true question was whether or not she would be able to procure the appropriate clothing between now and then. The dress Miranda had sent her was lovely, but it was not a ball gown.
“I have no other engagements.” Amelia wound her fingers together and held them tight to keep from shouting her happiness out the window. No doubt Miss Ryan would have her on the doorstep of the modiste at the crack of dawn.
“Does this mean that I have to go to the Hofferham ball Thursday?” Lord Trent grumbled.
“Of course.” Miranda huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Who else would escort me?”
“Anthony will be there. Can he be your escort?”
Miranda frowned. “Anthony is not a relation, you ninny. Besides, how do you know Anthony is attending?”
Lord Trent grinned. “If he wasn’t before, he is now.”
Anthony opened his mouth but closed it again a moment later with a bit of sheepish shrug.
“Nevertheless, Trent, you are accompanying me and Amelia.” Miranda gave a decisive nod. “Resign yourself now.”
Amelia looked at London passing by outside the window and smiled.
Chapter Eight
Memories of the opera outing filled Anthony’s head the next day, finally sending him from his house in a desperate attempt to find distraction. He let his head loll back against the coach cushions, allowing it to rock back and forth with the swaying conveyance. If God felt charitable today, there would be someone interesting at his club. Waiting five more days to see Amelia was driving him to Bedlam.
Perhaps he should have James change the direction of the coach and head over to Mount Street instead. There was no reason why he couldn’t pay her a call, other than a lack of proper chaperonage and a great deal of potential embarrassment on her part. Considering her clothing situation, he was afraid that her housing might be less than amenable as well, despite its fashionable location.
The last thing he wanted to do was cause her shame, but he’d be lying if he said her situation wasn’t part of her appeal. What he could give her would far outweigh the scandal of
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