The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

“It’s beautiful,” Prudence said, realizing she was meant to comment.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Barton said with a wink. “I should like to paint your gown!” she said with a swirl of her fan above her head, and Prudence wasn’t entirely certain if she meant to paint on her gown, or copy it onto a canvas. “Who has made it?”

“Who?” Prudence repeated, then cleared her throat as she desperately searched for an answer. “My, ah...my mother.”

Stanhope chuckled, drawing Prudence’s attention.

“Silly man!” Mrs. Barton said, and leaned against Stanhope. “What, do you think that only a modiste might put thread to fabric? Of course her mother fashioned her gown!”

“If you say so,” Stanhope said, smiling at Prudence.

Prudence’s heart began to sink to her toes. She had the very nauseating feeling that Stanhope was referring to her mother in particular, that he somehow knew it was impossible for her mother to sew anything—much less a gown as intricate as this.

“I can very well imagine that lovely train swimming about behind you as you dance,” Mrs. Barton said. She suddenly gasped. “That’s it! We must have a dance. Lady Penfors!” she shouted, forcing Prudence to lean back as she waved her fan across Prudence in the direction of Lady Penfors.

That was the worst idea—Prudence was certain she’d be made to stand up with Stanhope.

“A grand idea,” Lady Penfors called back. “Yes, yes, we must, straightaway, after we dine. Cyril! Where are you, Cyril? Send down to the village for musicians at once!”

“Is it possible to find musicians at this late hour?” Prudence asked, trying to derail the plans for dancing.

“You can’t object. It’s been decided,” Mrs. Barton trilled as the harried butler reached his mistress’s side.

There was a lively conversation between Lady Penfors and Cyril after which Cyril scurried away, gesturing for a footman, and Lady Penfors began to clap her hands as if she were trying to gain the attention of a group of children. “Attention! Attention everyone! Supper is served. Find your partners, please, and prepare to promenade!”

As the guests began to find their partners, Roan made his way to Prudence’s side. “You must promise to come at once and save me if Vanderbeck comes in my direction,” he muttered. “Shoot to kill if you must.”

“Did you find her?” Prudence whispered.

Roan shook his head. “I haven’t seen her. I tried to ascertain if all the guests were down for the evening, but the question invited more talk from Vanderbeck.”

There was no opportunity to say more—Mr. Fitzhugh sidled next to Prudence and remarked that they’d gone without rain for far too long now, and didn’t she think the south lawn looked a bit brown?

In the dining room, Prudence was relieved to see that she and Roan were seated across from each other and at the opposite end of the long table from Stanhope. Not that it dampened his interest in her; Prudence could feel his gaze on her, making the hair on the back of her neck stand. Mrs. Gastineau sat to her right, and an elderly gentleman, Lord Mount, sat on her left. He was quite old and quite deaf, which Prudence thought might have something to do with the amount of hair growing in his ears.

No one around her seemed curious as to her presence. No one looked askance at her or Roan as if they suspected a deception. Roan was right—she had only to make the best of it, and it would be over soon. She began to relax as the meal was served. She glanced around at the people gathered. It was a strange collection of guests, and she was not acquainted with any of them, save Stanhope. Moreover, Howston Hall was so removed that she could now agree with Roan—the chances of her seeing any of these people again seemed very small.

The supper was actually quite pleasant. They dined on soup and pheasant, they drank wine, and the conversation centered around the planned shoot on the morrow. It was after the plates had been cleared and ices were being brought in that Roan found the opportunity to inquire of Penfors if his sister had come to Howston Hall. “She would have come within the last fortnight or so,” he said.

“Miss Matheson!” Lord Penfors said loudly, startling Prudence and several others. She glanced around her and noticed that down the table, Stanhope was watching her. She looked away.

“Aurora Matheson,” Roan said. “In her last letter she wrote that she was staying with friends who intended to travel here to call upon you.”

“Me?” Penfors said, looking confused.

Roan looked slightly concerned. “She’s young,” he said. “She has auburn hair and brown eyes.”

“Ah, yes, the American girl,” Penfors said suddenly. “Such a delight she was. Very witty, that one, and quite good on the hunt.”