With that, she returned to her own room, put on her long white evening gloves, and started toward the door into the corridor, but as she passed the cheval glass, she remembered Lady David’s incredulous face, and she paused, feeling a sudden, uncharacteristic pang of uncertainty. She took a step back, turned toward the mirror, and immediately wished she hadn’t, for the fold lines along her skirt only underscored the reasons for Lady David’s incredulous stare.
Still, though the problem could be resolved tomorrow, there was nothing to be done about it now, so Irene gave a philosophical shrug, patted her hair, and left her room. The house was quiet, no servants in sight as she returned to the first floor and started down the corridor she and Clara had traversed earlier in the day.
It was not yet half past seven, and no dressing gong had sounded, so Irene didn’t expect that anyone else would be down yet, but as she approached the drawing room and the library beyond, voices told her that some members of the family had arrived before her. The doors to both reception rooms were closed and the voices were low, but given the sultry afternoon, the transoms over the doorways that helped ventilate the house were wide open, and Lady David’s voice came to her quite distinctly from the library.
“My dears, you should have seen their clothes! Straight out of a department store, I’m absolutely certain.”
Irene stopped outside the door, her hand stilled just above the handle she’d been about to open.
“Not that one ever really expects middle-class girls to dress well,” Lady David went on. “But one would expect even the daughters of a newspaper hawker to have their ready-made clothes properly fitted and altered, and to have the creases removed before wearing them out in public.”
Irene felt her cheeks growing hot. She lowered her hand to smooth her skirt, but it was a futile attempt, and she saw just how right her sister had been to be so concerned about their clothes. Having come straight here from Debenham and Freebody, they’d had no time to press their new clothes, but that didn’t do much to alleviate the discomfort of being ridiculed.
If my mother suffers ridicule and condemnation because of you and your publication, what responsibility do you bear?
Torquil’s words from their first meeting came echoing back as if to mock her, and she realized that she hadn’t ever allowed herself to consider that question. Nor did she have time to consider it now, for a second female voice entered the conversation taking place on the other side of the door.
“Even if their frocks did come from a department store, why did they not have them altered by their maid when they bought them? A good lady’s maid can make even a ready-made dress fit properly. And she can press out the wrinkles, too.”
“My dear Sarah, that’s just it! They don’t have a maid, or if they do, they didn’t bring her with them.”
“What of it?” an unfamiliar male voice asked. “Many people come to stay without bringing a personal servant along.”
“Ladies don’t, David,” the girl called Sarah replied, “not during the season.”
“David may not understand what it means not to have one’s maid,” his wife went on, “but we do, don’t we, sisters? It shall put all of us to great inconvenience, but I doubt these girls have any idea how much trouble their lack of a maid shall cause the rest of us.”
Irene failed to see how refusing a maid and dressing herself would be inconvenient to anybody. Unfortunately, that thought only served to send more of the duke’s words ricocheting through her mind.
I should like you to consider what impact your decisions may have on the lives of other people.
Really, that man’s voice playing inside her head was becoming quite exasperating. She shoved it out again and kept her attention on the conversation at hand.
“I don’t mind a little inconvenience,” Lady Sarah said, her voice once again intruding on Irene’s thoughts. “But I don’t see how they can possibly manage. Why, here in town, we change our clothes at least three or four times a day. What young lady would ever attempt to do the season without a proper lady’s maid to help her?”
“You’ve answered your own question, my dear,” Lady David replied. “No young lady would.”
Lady David’s acidic comment snuffed out any pangs of Irene’s conscience. A little inconvenience, she couldn’t help but feel, would do these people a world of good. She wanted to fling open the door and inform that odious woman that, unlike the ladies of the upper crust, women of the middle class didn’t change clothes at the ridiculous rate of four times a day, and they certainly had the ability to put them on and take them off without a servant to help. The duchess’s maid would not be needed and no inconvenience would be suffered by anyone, thank you very much. But a third woman spoke, and curiosity kept Irene where she was.
“I think you’re being terribly unfair. Torquil already explained that they hadn’t intended to do the season. It was all a last-minute surprise from their father, and men never understand these things. And anyway, the department stores sell plenty of frocks every day, so how bad could the clothes of the Miss Deverills be?”
“You weren’t there, Angela,” Lady David replied. “You didn’t see them when they arrived. I can really think of no words to describe how they appeared!”
“Then I should advise you not to try,” Torquil’s voice cut in, and for once, Irene was grateful to hear its cool, incisive cadence. The sound of it acted on her like a splash of water, banishing any embarrassment about her clothes and reinvigorating her fighting spirit. With deliberate care, she opened the door and pushed it wide, her cheeks still flaming, but her chin high.
The duke was seated at a writing desk that faced the doorway, and at the sight of her, he put aside his pen and rose to his feet. He started to bow, but then paused, frowning a little as he looked into her flushed face. He lifted his gaze a fraction, but if the open transom above her head made him realize she’d overheard their conversation, he gave no sign of it, for when he looked at her again, his countenance was as inscrutable as ever. “Miss Deverill,” he greeted her and resumed offering a bow. “Join us, please.”
Chapter 7
A gentleman, Henry’s father had taught him as a boy, never allowed his inner thoughts and feelings to show in his outward expression, and though his mother may have deemed the influence of his father upon his upbringing as too rigid, when Irene Deverill walked into his drawing room, Henry was glad the late duke had been such a strict disciplinarian.
Even if he had not noticed the open transom above her head, the flush of color in her cheeks and the proud lift of her chin made it clear that she’d overheard what had been said, and the sight touched off in him myriad emotions—anger at Carlotta for being such a cat, frustration with himself for not checking her malicious tongue sooner than he had, and—worst of all—embarrassment, a hot, painful sensation Henry seldom had cause to experience.
Displaying any of what he felt, however, was not only an unthinkable prospect, it would only serve to worsen an already awkward situation, and as he came around his desk, he was grateful for the sangfroid instilled in him during his childhood.
Carlotta gave a shamefaced giggle, and the sound was like paraffin on flames, flaring up his protective instincts and impelling him to move between the spiteful woman on the settee nearby and the proud woman by the door.
“Miss Deverill,” he greeted as he halted before her. “It is a pleasure to have you in my home. You are very welcome.”
