At six o’clock that evening, the first round of guests—a carefully selected half-dozen local families—arrived for a private supper with the Hathergills. As the butler announced the last few names to the small crowd milling around the salon, Elinor felt her pulse beating hard against her throat.
Lucinda’s and Millie’s mothers clustered on one side of her, begging for her predictions of next Season’s fashions and cooing together over a nervous Sir Jessamyn, who hunched closer to her neck with every sweeping gesture of their be-ringed hands. The vicar and his wife hovered on her other side, frowning uneasily at her dragon and wanting her opinion of the Regent’s latest scandalous escapade. Elinor could barely take in a single word, let alone make up any coherent answers. Her whole body was taut with panic.
Penelope had refused to descend from her room until all of the supper guests had gathered. Even Miss Armitage hadn’t been allowed into her dressing room beforehand. Only Elinor had been allowed to advise her on her appearance—because only the great Mrs. De Lacey’s opinion was trustworthy enough on the matter of fashion.
Sir John’s voice cut across the chatter that filled the room. He beamed at the assembled company. “Well, then. Is everybody ready? Shall I fetch the lady of the hour?”
It was the moment of truth. Elinor’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass until it threatened to snap.
She’d managed to persuade Penelope and her friends of the brilliance of her plan, but she knew perfectly well how absurd it truly was for them to trust her. No matter what she looked like, she was no leader of fashion. She’d never been to London in her life.
If Penelope’s grand entrance was a disaster—a disaster of Elinor’s making—then everything she had worked for all week would be lost. If anyone in the room looked at Penelope and recognized how ridiculous Elinor’s idea was…if one single person laughed in Penelope or Sir John’s presence…
“And here she is!” Sir John announced, from the doorway.
Gasps sounded throughout the room. There was a moment of dumbstruck silence.
Then Miss Armitage stepped forward, past all the staring local gentry. “Good heavens.” She shook her head in open wonder. “How in the world did you ever come up with it?”
She brushed one finger against the curling peacock feather that had been pinned against Penelope’s shoulder exactly where a dragon might have sat. Her lips curved into the first genuine smile Elinor had ever seen on her face.
“Simply and utterly brilliant,” she said. “I’ll wager anything you like that within two weeks of your London début, half the ladies in London will have tossed aside their dragons to follow your brilliant example.”
Oh, no.Horrified, Elinor set one hand on Sir Jessamyn’s warm back as if she could protect every dragon in London with her gesture. On Miss Armitage’s own shoulder, her dragon posed as still as a statue, as usual…but Elinor thought she’d glimpsed a flicker of discomfort cross even his normally impassive face at his mistress’s words.
Everyone else in the room was moving forward in a tidal wave of congratulation and envy. Despite herself, Elinor found her shoulders relaxing as she saw Penelope basking in the group’s admiration. This evening might yet bring disaster and ruin, but so far, her sisters were still safe.
Benedict moved up behind her, his fingers brushing—as if by accident—against her bare arm. “Bravo,” he murmured. “You’re a genius.”
“Shh.” Tingles swept across her skin in response to his touch, but Elinor kept her face serene, under the scrutiny of so many of Penelope’s guests. On her shoulder, Sir Jessamyn had perked up for the first time in half an hour and was stretching his neck as far as it would go, tilting his head and putting on all his best tricks to entice Benedict into a petting session. Elinor bit back a smile, maintaining her own dignity despite her dragon’s display. “I was just trying to stop her from tormenting any more dragons.”
Benedict leaned over to pet the sensitive area underneath Sir Jessamyn’s chin. As the little dragon’s eyes slitted half-shut with pleasure, Benedict dropped his voice to a whisper, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Perhaps the real Mrs. De Lacey can hire you as her fashion adviser and pay for our wedding in gratitude.”
She raised her fan to shield her face as she rolled her eyes at him. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “It does sound likely, doesn’t it?”
And yet it still sounded likelier than any of the other plans they’d come up with in the last two days.
Elinor bit her lip. Benedict was smiling down at her from less than half a foot away as he petted Sir Jessamyn, looking amused and affectionate and close enough to touch, if only so many other people hadn’t been watching. He was so certain they would succeed. It made her chest hurt.
She would have to be the one who made the hard decision, in the end. It would be so soon, now. All she had to do tonight was avoid discovery and imprisonment. They would leave Hathergill Hall tomorrow morning, And then…
Sir Jessamyn made a low, clicking sound of pleasure deep in his throat as he leaned into Benedict’s petting hand, his scaly body relaxed against Elinor’s shoulder for the first time since the guests had arrived and surrounded them. She wished she could toss aside convention and show her own inclinations just as openly.
She had to be strong, for Benedict’s sake. But she couldn’t bear for him ever to think she hadn’t wanted this—wanted them together, forever—as much as he had.
“Benedict,” she began, in an urgent whisper.
“Ah, there you are,” said Sir John. His voice was jovial, for the sake of their company; his eyes, though, were hard as obsidian with dislike. “Won’t you allow me to escort you into supper, ma’am?”
Even if it hadn’t been the law of social custom, she couldn’t have refused. Her bargain had been to do everything she could to help with Penelope’s début, no matter how much it burned.
She laid her gloved fingers as lightly as possible against his coat-sleeve, careful not to brush against any bare skin. She smiled brilliantly even as they passed Lady Hathergill, who fell into place behind them under the escort of Lucinda’s bewildered father.
Her aunt’s voice carried to her ears as they passed. “…But of courseIdidn’t have anything to do with that. For goodness’s sake, I’m a lady, not a cow—we hire wetnurses for such matters!”
Lucinda’s father uttered a choking sound—either muffled laughter or outrage—and Sir John’s arm stiffened under Elinor’s hand. Crimson swept across his face in a wave.
Elinor only wished she could take any pleasure in his humiliation. But she had seen the physician’s black carriage draw up outside the house that afternoon. It was waiting now behind the stables, where none of the guests would notice it or wonder.
