She drew herself up. “No, I would not! This gathering is a disgrace. Mama will be furious when I tell her.”
“Well, you run off and tell her, then,” Izzy said, and parted her lips to receive another delicious morsel from her beloved’s fingers.
***
So, when is this wedding to be?” Race sat sprawled in one of the bamboo chairs, his long, booted legs loosely crossed. Breakfast was over—they were all stuffed full—and the men had moved on to fine Italian coffee while the ladies sipped hot chocolate.
Leo glanced at Isobel. “As soon as possible?”
She smiled and nodded.
“Special license?”
Leo was about to agree, when he thought better of it. “No, banns, I think. I want the world to know I am marrying Isobel.” No hasty hole-in-the-corner wedding for his Belle.
Race nodded. “St. George’s, Hanover Square, then.”
Leo nodded. It was the most fashionable church in London, the parish church for Mayfair.
Clarissa turned to her sister. “You will need a new dress.”
Isobel laughed. “So will you, as my bridesmaid.” They both turned to Leo. “And your best man?”
Leo glanced at his oldest friend. “Race, will you do the honors?”
Race raised his coffee cup in a toast. “Delighted.”
“So, we’ll be married in just over three weeks’ time. We’ll marry in the morning, then a wedding breakfast, and in the evening a ball.”
The two ladies sat up. “ ‘A ball’?”
Clarissa clapped her hands. “Two new dresses.”
Isobel stared at Leo. “In three weeks? You can’t possibly organize a wedding and a ball in such a short time.”
Leo shrugged. “Matteo assures me he can.”
The two girls exchanged glances. “Then we shall help.” They fell to discussing themes and decorations and ball dresses and other things that Leo had little interest in.
He turned to Race and said in a low voice, “Anything more on the reaction to Pomphret’s announcement?”
Race shook his head. “It’s going to take time—some are still doubtful, but no one is sufficiently engaged in the matter to investigate, and I predict the announcement of your betrothal will settle it still more. And once a new scandal takes its place, as is inevitable, people will forget all about something a drunk called Pomphret once said at a ball.”
***
The following week Izzy and Clarissa were sitting downstairs with Lady Scattergood and Mrs. Price-Jones awaiting the first morning callers of the day. Since the news of Izzy’s betrothal had been made public, the number of callers had trebled.
Izzy and Clarissa were poring over lists. Invitations for the Salcott ball had gone out, and acceptances were already pouring in. Any fears that society might shun Izzy were rapidly fading.
Mrs. Price-Jones was knitting and Lady Scattergood was, as usual, deep in her morning correspondence.
“Good God!” the old lady exclaimed. She looked up from the letter she was reading. “That villain Pomphretwon’t be bothering you or anyone else ever again, gels. He’s dead.” Everyone exclaimed over the news.
“How do I know?” She gestured to her little writing desk, which, as usual, was piled high with papers. “I might not leave the house very often, but my friends keep me up to date with all the goings-on of the world, believe you me.”
She waved the letter at them. “Hush now and listen. According to my friend Gertie, Pomphret blew his brains out on the night of the Arden Ball.”
“But that’s when—” Izzy began.
