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refused to budge. “You’d best give it up,” advised Tabby. “Mrs. Phipps didn’t, and look what happened to her.”
    Drusilla decided that Tabby was unhinged by Sir Geoffrey’s confidences. Who the deuce was Mrs. Phipps? “You’d best do as Pa says, Tabby. If Lady Grey finds out about this Quarles female, it’ll queer Pa’s pitch for sure.”
    Sir Geoffrey appeared slightly put off by this indication that his younger daughter had been listening at keyholes. “Lady Grey is right!” he said. “I have allowed you to run wild. And when this wretched business is cleared up, I shall have a great deal to say to you. You’re right about one thing, puss. If Tabby refuses to act as my emissary, we’ll all be in the suds!”
    Tabby tried very hard to withstand this pressure. She was growing fond of Sir Geoffrey and his family and wished none of them harm. It seemed very likely that harm would come to them unless someone intervened and tried to convince the dreadful Mrs. Quarles to relinquish all claim to Sir Geoffrey. But why must that someone be her? She glanced desperately around the room in search of rescue. Her gaze fell on Lambchop. Replete, the dog burped and wagged his tail.
    “Are you going to cry craven?” inquired Drusilla impatiently. “I beg you will not! I’m too young to go and try to reason with this female, and you can imagine what a muddle Ermy would make of it. It’s hardly the sort of thing we can entrust to an outsider, is it, and so you’re all that’s left!”
     

Chapter Eight
     
    It was with mixed emotions that Tabby set out from Elphinstone House. Of course she wanted to help Sir Geoffrey. He had rescued her from the prospect of poverty and starvation, after all. To fail to do his bidding now would make her the most undutiful wretch in existence. Only a monster of ingratitude could stand by and see so kind a family disgraced.
    Alas, none of these reflections could stop Tabby wishing very fervently that there was someone else who could assist Sir Geoffrey out of his predicament. She was not comfortable with either her assumed role or her borrowed gown—although “borrowed” was not perhaps the proper word for a garment filched from Ermyntrude’s wardrobe when that young lady was absent from the house, Drusilla having been adamant that her sister shouldn’t be let in on the business, Ermyntrude being far too prone to let cats out of bags. Be that as it may, Tabby could not like the square-necked, low-necked gown of clinging pink muslin, with its short full sleeves. Her petticoats were short enough to expose her ankles rather too frequently, and she felt that her arms and bosom were too much exposed. Maybe she did look quite top of the trees, as Drusilla insisted, but Tabby felt like a silk purse that had been fashioned out of a sow’s ear.
    She was doing her employer’s bidding, Tabby reminded herself. She was present at this gala not as an impostor but as Sir Geoffrey’s agent. She was to speak with Mrs. Quarles and persuade that scheming hussy (as Sir Geoffrey had phrased it) to a change of heart. To achieve that purpose, Tabby was armed only with her employer’s description of the lady and her own good common sense. It was a very quelling prospect.
    Tabby took a deep breath and stepped down from Sir Geoffrey’s carriage, walked up to the door. This was her first close view of Brighton Pavilion, so it was only natural that she should stop to stare. Once the Pavilion had been a simple, comfortable seaside house, two stories high, decked externally with nothing more exceptionable than balconies and verandas. However, that was before a creative muse—some said demon—had inspired the building’s owner to flights of architectural fancy. In the resulting mélange, Tabby thought she recognized elements of Grecian and Gothic, Turkish and Moorish, Egyptian and Chinese and Hindustani. She recovered from her awe and moved toward the entrance.
    Invitations to the Pavilion were eagerly