The Historical Collection. Stephanie Laurens
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“Do you want me to read it?” Nicola reached for the newspaper.
“No.” Penny slapped her hand over it. “I’ll do it. When I’m ready.” She looked at her empty plate. “Are there any more biscuits?”
“Between you and Bixby, the kitchen is bare.”
“Oh. Did you have any plans of baking more?” Penny asked hopefully. “It might help.”
Everything seemed a bit easier to face with a plate of fresh biscuits.
She tapped her fingers on the newspaper’s front page. “I don’t know why this is so difficult. It’s not as though I can change the contents by waiting. What’s printed is printed. I am either a scandal or a spinster already, depending on what’s inside.”
“Actually,” Nicola mused, “while the paper remains closed, you’re both.”
“Both?”
“Right now, you’re both a scandal and a spinster.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I don’t follow you.” Penny frequently had difficulty following the twists and turns of Nicola’s mind. Everyone did.
Nicola’s eyes went unfocused, as though she were staring at the distant horizon. One that only she could see. “Imagine you took a cat,” she said slowly, “and sealed it in a box.”
“Seal a cat inside a box?” Penny was horrified. “I’d never do such a thing.”
“Of course you wouldn’t actually do it. I’m only trying to illustrate a philosophical conundrum.”
“What sort of philosophical conundrum requires a person to imagine suffocating cats? Surely there’s a better illustration.”
“You’re right. I’ll think of something else.” Nicola set aside her tinkering. “Penny, if there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m always here for you. I know I’m not as sympathetic and comforting as Emma or Alexandra.”
“Nic—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not disparaging myself. I simply know my talents, and that’s not one of them. However, I’m always here to listen. And when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m not completely inexperienced.”
“You’re … you’re not?” Penny stared at her friend, amazed. In all their years of friendship, Nicola had never, not once, mentioned a sweetheart or a suitor. Much less being in love.
With a shake of her head, Nicola picked up a gear and turned it over in her hands. “Men can be terribly distracting.”
A thousand questions crowded Penny’s mind, but before she could ask any of them, the clocks began to strike the hour. From all around the house, they were bombarded by chimes, cuckoos, pendulum strikes, and clanging bells.
Nicola owned a great many clocks. Or rather, Nicola’s father had owned a great many clocks, and Nicola couldn’t bring herself to part with a single one of them. Although the hourly mayhem had a way of interrupting conversation, Penny never complained. How could she? A woman who took in kittens by the dozen had little room to criticize.
Today, it could have been worse. The clocks didn’t go on too long this time, as the hour was merely three o’clock in the afternoon.
Goodness. Three o’clock in the afternoon? Penny had been sitting there for ages already.
No more dithering.
She reached for the copy of the Prattler, opened it to the society pages, and briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Strangely, she didn’t know what to wish for. Perhaps Nicola had the right of it, and Penny had been delaying this because she enjoyed being a wallflower and a temptress—and she resented that society wouldn’t let her be both.
The days since the masquerade had been the most thrilling days of her life. While she and Gabriel awaited the verdict, they’d made use of the time in a variety of passionate, and increasingly inventive, ways. It was as if all the clocks had stopped, and they’d carved out a secret haven free from prying eyes or consequence.
When she opened this newspaper, the clocks resumed ticking. Time had caught up with them, and one way or another, their stolen era of passion would come to an end.
Penny didn’t want it to end.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t avoid the reality any longer. If she didn’t read this for herself, she would hear everything from Aunt Caroline. Better to be prepared.
“Read it aloud,” Nicola said.
“‘A Report from the Maximus Club’s Spring Fete.’” She skimmed the contents, pulling out the most important words. “Southwark, pleasure garden, masquerade, orchestra, champagne … Ah. Here we are. Prominent guests in attendance.”
Penny scanned through the list of names and titles. Her cousin the Russian prince received mention, naturally. Farther down, the Misses Irving were named. She’d nearly reached the end of the column, and no mention of Lady Penelope Campion yet.
Then she read the concluding paragraph.
“‘In the usual fashion of masquerades, the identities of most guests were plain for all to see. However, one gentleman in attendance succeeded in generating a considerable amount of intrigue. As the evening drew to a close, only one question was on the guests’ lips. Who was that knight in shining armor? The mystery remains. He was last seen in the company of …’” Penny groaned.
“Well?” Nicola asked. “Which is it? Scandal or spinster?”
“Neither, apparently.”
“Let me see.” Nicola took the paper and found the point where Penny had left off. “‘He was last seen in the company of an unidentified woman.’”
“Unidentified woman,” Penny repeated, separating each syllable. She let her head drop to the table surface. “What could possibly be more depressing?”
“A suffocating cat?”
“True.”
Nicola turned the page of the newspaper. “Hold a moment. Your neighbor is hosting a ball?”
“What?”
Penny rose from her chair and hurried to read over Nicola’s shoulder. There it was, in black and white.
The Prattler has learned that one Mr. Gabriel Duke, better known to readers of this esteemed publication as the infamous Duke of Ruin, is planning to host a ball at the former Wendleby residence on Bloom Square. According to our sources, Mr. Duke has invited the better part of the London ton. Considering the host’s financial influence, and the ruthless way in which he wields it, the question will not be who will accept his invitation—but rather, who would dare decline?
“Burns! Burns!”
Gabe winced. Just what he needed—another ridiculous conflict between his architect and his housekeeper. He rose from his desk and followed Hammond’s bellowing into the dining room, hoping to head it off before it could begin.
He was too late, sadly. Mrs. Burns had already arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Hammond?” The housekeeper starched her spine. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Hammond gestured at the portrait on the wall. “You can explain to me why I’m looking at the inbred offspring of a suet pudding and a weak-chinned salamander.”
“That’s a portrait of Mrs. Bathsheba Wendleby.”
“I expressly told the workmen to remove these paintings two days ago. Lo and behold, they have reappeared. As if by magic.” His tone sharpened. “Dark magic.”
Burns did not address Hammond’s unspoken accusation of witchcraft. “These are family portraits, representing generations of Wendlebys.”