She tilted her head toward a group of dowagers who stood at the side of the room, whispering as they observed the passersby and looking not at all interested in the emerald books. “Over there next,” she said in an undervoice. “Lady Malcolm is the only one of that clique who is a Belvoir’s patron. The other two, I suspect, are here for the gossip.”
They strolled toward the group. Selina smiled and nodded as they passed others—some friends, some Peter’s political opposition—and Peter felt a hot rush of pride as he walked alongside her.
The three older women turned as one when he and Selina reached them. He supposed he and Selina had precedence over all three, but from the cool expressions on their faces, he wasn’t certain they felt outranked.
“Lady Yardsley,” Selina said, nodding at the tallest of the three. “Mrs. Bucklebury. Lady Malcolm.”
“Your Graces.” Lady Yardsley eyed them both. “I’m rather surprised to see you here, of all places.”
Peter contained a snort.
Mrs. Bucklebury, a petite Afro-Scottish woman in purple, did not greet them. She glanced down and straightened the ribs of her Italian fan.
It was perilously close to a cut, but Selina ignored it and smiled brilliantly at the final dowager. “How do you do this afternoon, Lady Malcolm?”
“Quite well, Your Grace.” Her voice was soft, and she didn’t look at her companions.
“I was just telling Stanhope about the dinner party you hosted in Gloucestershire,” Selina continued. “Do you remember that? A few years back?”
“Yes, certainly, Your Grace.” Lady Malcolm had a pale foxlike face and a cap of gray curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet.
Selina looked innocently delighted. “What was it that you served? Venison?” She gazed at Lady Malcolm and said meaningfully, “You prepared the sauce yourself, did you not?”
Peter could not imaginewhatshe was talking about.
Lady Malcolm, it appeared, knew very well indeed.
She blanched. “I—perhaps I did. I can’t quite recall—”
“And apples!” said Selina. “From your very own orchard!”
Lady Malcolm went faintly green. Peter tried to imagine what apples andmaking one’s own saucecould reference.
“I did not know you had an orchard, Mary,” said Lady Yardsley.
“Oh—” Lady Malcolm looked at her friend, then back at Selina, eyes round as saucers.
Selina straightened the seam on her calfskin glove, then met Lady Yardsley’s eyes. “Oh—perhaps not. My mistake. It was several years ago. I’ve quite forgotten the details.”
Lady Malcolm looked between her friends and Selina. She blinked. And then, cautiously, she smiled at Selina. She seemed to be considering whether or not she could trust Selina’s sudden retreat. “Perhaps we could host you again sometime? Your Grace?”
“We would be honored,” said Selina.
“Certainly,” Peter offered. “I’ve heard your younger son is a promising new MP.”
He had only the vaguest notion who her second son was, but Lady Malcolm looked at him in alarm. He wondered if the younger Malcolm’s wife was also a patroness of Belvoir’s. He made his smile as bland and unthreatening as he could.
“Lovely,” croaked Lady Malcolm. She turned to her friends, who were watching the proceedings with interest. “Alice,” she said, “Cecily—I’m sure you’ll both be there as well, will you not? I cannot think of a”—she sounded slightly ill—“higher honor than dining with the duke and duchess.”
Lady Yardsley assented. Mrs. Bucklebury lifted her fan and fluttered it in front of her face.
“Cecily.” Lady Malcolm’s voice was strangled. “I amcertainthat you will dine with us. I amconfidentyou would not want to miss the pleasure of Her Grace’s company.”
Silence stretched. Lady Malcolm’s face grew increasingly pained. Peter thought she might reach out and snap Mrs. Bucklebury’s fan in half.
Finally, Mrs. Bucklebury sighed. “Oh yes, I suppose I would not turn down your invitation, Mary.”
And that, it seemed, was that.
