“How odd, though,” Mirabelle commented, “that your driver chose such an unusual route, and then disappeared.”
At first glance Mirabelle was a mousy little thing, lacking the shining beauty of her friend. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly and secured in an unflattering knot at the back of her head. Her dress, made of a rather shabby gray material, did little for her complexion or figure. Her features were pleasant, adequate, and in all other ways unexceptional. Until she smiled. Mirabelle’s smile reached all the way up to light her chocolate eyes, which suddenly seemed quite large and brilliant.
“He must have thought to cut some time off the trip and then panicked when his scheme turned sour,” Kate offered quietly. She appeared lost in thought as she spoke, which probably explained why she missed setting her teacup on the table by at least twelve inches.
“Oh dear.” Kate picked up the fallen cup and looked ruefully at the wet stain on the carpet. “I do so hope that will come out.”
Mirabelle patted her shoulder kindly and poured Kate another cup of tea.
Sophie couldn’t help be surprised at the girl’s calm reaction to what many would consider a major social misstep.
“You’re quite all right, aren’t you?” Sophie asked. “You’re not burned?”
Kate shook her head. “Oh no, the carpet took the worst of it. I suppose I should have warned you earlier, but I’m dreadfully clumsy. It’s become something of a family joke, only it’s not particularly funny.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”
Kate quirked a little smile. “I’m positively ungainly. There’s no accounting for it and nothing to be done. I’ve caused some perfectly awful mishaps.”
Sophie laughed softly. “I know a little something about mishaps,” she told the girls. And then with a little cajoling— a very little—Sophie spent the remainder of the afternoon entertaining her new friends with tales from some of her more outrageous adventures.
Sophie had never felt so uncomfortable in all her life.
Last night, her gown had drawn the appraising stares of men and the covetous glances of women, but none of her other new dresses were yet completed, and Sophie felt hopelessly provincial standing next to several elegant women in one of her more rustic pieces from home.
Perhaps she was being oversensitive. Probably, she was the only one paying attention to what she was wearing. No, she knew that wasn’t true. Alex had been staring at her quite openly all evening. She felt his eyes on her even when her back was turned. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck and all the color rise to her cheeks.
Good Lord, a bad dress and a red face. Now all she needed was to say something in truly poor taste to make the evening complete.
“I say, Miss Everton, your dress this evening is quite unlike any I’ve seen here in town. Wherever did you have it made?” Lady Wellinghoff punctuated the question with a thin smile.
“China,” Sophie replied. There was no point in lying, and she didn’t really feel like being polite to Lady Wellinghoff. The woman had insulted Mrs. Summers within minutes of arrival, commenting under her breath about the evils of overly familiar employees.
“Do you mean it? Oh, but how silly of me, of course you do. You’ve only just come to London, haven’t you? I’d forgotten. Well, the silk is lovely, dear. Tell us, how does our fair city compare to some of the more exotic locales of your experience?”
Sophie swallowed nervously. She had never been a shrinking violet, but then she had rarely been subjected to such unnerving stares. The least unpleasant of the guests were the rather serious Colonel and Mrs. Peabody. Mr. and Mrs. Jarles were officious snobs. The Earl and Countess of Wellinghoff clearly also considered themselves superior to those of the assembly, but their disdain was of a more subtle, though no less cutting, variety. Viscount Barrows was already too drunk to be insulting; his viscountess too dim-witted to know how. Alex’s presence set her nerves on edge, and her cousin, she had recently decided, was simply an ass.
She gave the group what she hoped was a patronizing smile and said, “You must understand that cultures vary so greatly from one continent to the next, and even from country to country and city to city, that I cannot possibly compare one civilization with another in any qualitative sense, but I will say that London has been all that I expected.” She topped off her speech with a shrug that hinted at indifference.
“But surely after having spent some time in England, you cannot continue to regard your previous residences as truly civilized,” Lady Barrows whispered dramatically, as if Sophie had uttered the most shocking statement heard this last century.
Her husband just hiccupped.
“Oh, but they are,” Sophie insisted. “They—”
“But they’re heathens!” Mrs. Jarles cut in.