“You just watch me! Heavens,” she added, still looking amazed, “you are allowing me to edit. Who’d ever have predicted that? I think the planets have stopped moving in their orbits.”
“Yes,” Irene agreed with a sigh as an image of Torquil’s devastating smile flashed across her mind again, evoking all the same heart-stopping emotions as before. “I rather think they have.”
It was a quarter to six by the time Irene reached Upper Brook Street. She went straight up to her room, hoping to have time for a long soak in that glorious tub before dinner, but as soon as she entered her room, her plan went straight out the window.
The doors through to Clara’s room were open, and she’d scarcely tossed her handbag onto a chair and removed her hat before her sister came through from her own room, already changed for dinner in green brocade. “Thank goodness you’re back. I thought you’d have returned long before now.”
“Everything took forever today. I couldn’t . . . umm . . . I couldn’t concentrate. And then, traffic was beastly. It took me ages to find a taxi, and when I did, it crawled around Trafalgar, absolutely crawled—”
“Never mind that now,” Clara cut into these explanations. “You’ve got to change straightaway, for the duke’s carriage will be coming around from the mews in less than half an hour to fetch us. We’re going out.” She waved a hand toward the bed. “I’ve had your gown pressed and everything laid out in the hope you’d be home in time to come with us.”
Irene glanced over her shoulder to find her midnight-blue silk gown spread out on the bed with various undergarments beside it. “In time for what?” she asked, slipping out of her jacket. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner at the Criterion first, then the theater, then supper at the Savoy. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Irene thought of the Duke, and she wasn’t sure if wonderful was the right word. “Is everyone going?”
Clara shook her head. “Just the ladies.”
Irene’s breath escaped in a rush of relief. After last night and this morning, she felt at sixes and sevens, and she welcomed the chance to get her bearings without him around to muddle her thinking. “What play are we seeing?”
“Oscar Wilde. A Woman of No Importance. Do stop talking, Irene, and hurry up.”
The next twenty minutes were a mad dash as, with Clara’s assistance, she changed into evening clothes. Silk shawls in hand, they raced down the corridor, encountering Angela and Sarah, who were also late, along the way. All four arrived in the foyer together, out of breath and laughing, just as Boothby announced the arrival of the carriage from the mews.
The frantic rush that began their evening continued for the next seven hours. The glittering, noisy Criterion, the wicked wit of Oscar Wilde, the excitement of sitting in the duke’s box, and the elegant private dining room at the Savoy—all went by in a dazzling whirl, leaving Irene exhausted, exhilarated, and a bit dazed by the time they returned to Upper Brook Street just before half past one.
“Oh, my word.” Irene fell back onto her bed with a sigh, as Clara followed her into her room and closed the door. “Was this a preview of things to come?”
“I think so,” Clara answered, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I did, I must confess. Especially the Criterion. Such lovely, lovely food. And the Savoy, too.” She groaned, pressing a hand to her stomach. “I fear I shan’t eat again for days.”
She turned her head to look at her sister. “You seemed to enjoy yourself. I saw you and Lady Angela with your heads together several times.”
“We were discussing the charity she wants to start, though we weren’t able to talk very much—the Criterion’s so noisy, and no one wants to talk during a play.”
Irene groaned again. “Right now, I feel as if I can’t talk at all. I can’t even breathe.” She rolled, working to stand up as Clara moved aside. “You must help me out of this corset before I burst. By the way,” she added, turning around so her sister could undo the buttons at the back of her gown, “I forgot to tell you earlier—we’re to have a maid while we’re here.”
“Yes, the duchess’s maid. She assisted me to dress three times today. It was most helpful.”
“I’m sure. That’s why we’ll be engaging a maid of our own, through an agency.”
“We will? You hired someone? What a splendid idea.”
“I can’t take the credit, I’m sorry to say. It was the duke’s suggestion.” She paused to pull off her gloves, toss aside her bodice, and step out of her skirt. “I tried to give the duchess’s maid back at breakfast, and he recommended this course instead, so as not to offend her—at least, I think that was the reason.” She frowned, then gave a shrug. “I really don’t understand the aristocracy and what offends them, honestly. Ah,” she added on a sigh of relief as her stays loosened. “That’s better. How do women lace like this every day?”
Clara laughed, giving her a hug, propping her chin on Irene’s shoulder. “They eat less creamed lobster at dinner.”
“Did I eat too much? I probably shocked all the ladies at the table.” She sighed and turned around as her sister’s arms fell away. “You’re fortunate to be such a quiet, self-contained person. Even if you tried, I doubt you could offend anyone. Whereas I, alas, seem to give offense at every turn.”
“I doubt that.”
“Still, the sooner I accomplish my task and return to our old life, the more comfortable I shall feel.”
“Well, you spent a great deal of time talking with the duchess,” Clara pointed out as Irene unhooked own her corset busk and tossed the offending garment onto the bed. “Are you making any progress?”
“Unfortunately not. Turn around and I’ll undo you. We couldn’t talk openly about Foscarelli, of course,” she went on as her sister complied, “since we were surrounded by her family.”
