“I can’t believe it,” said Dimity over breakfast. Her objection was almost loud enough for Monique to hear at the other end of the table.
Monique, fortunately, was in deep council with Preshea, Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and several of the older girls on the subject of decorations. Who supplied the best fresh flowers in London? And did they want ribbons, rosettes, and streamers, or only two fluttering options?
“He’s her advocate on staff. Or he was. I suppose it makes sense, but I should never have believed it of him. I was certain Prof B. had better taste. And”—Dimity’s attention was caught by the end of the table—“why must Preshea flirt with him so outrageously?”
Sophronia was accustomed to her friend’s lightning-fast change of topics. “Lord Dingleproops?”
“Of course, Lord Dingleproops! I could hardly mean Lord Mersey. He’s obviously yours. And Pillover doesn’t count. Pillover never counts. They are the only three assigned to our table.”
“Not that Monique would ever flirt with me,” added Pillover, staring glumly into his bowl of porridge. Sister Mattie had put him on a diet. He was, if possible, even more morbid as a result.
“Lord Mersey is not mine,” Sophronia protested rather too vehemently.
Dimity got coy. “Does he know that?”
“Now, now, we were talking about Lord Dingleproops. I thought you had moved on. The lack of chin. The nasty joke missive.”
“Well, I genuinely think he didn’t know about that. I compared handwriting. It wasn’t his on that letter requesting the assignation.”
Sophronia nodded. “Still, I thought you were no longer tempted to partake.”
“I wasn’t, until Preshea came along and stole him away from me.”
“Dimity!”
“Well, it’s true. I’m a terribly, terribly shallow person.”
Pillover nodded into his gruel.
Dimity turned on him. “Speaking of which, have you heard back from the Parental Evils yet?”
Pillover shook his head even more glumly, practically sinking face-first into the porridge, he was hunching so low.
Dimity went back to commenting on the other end of the table. “Oh, simply look at Preshea, flashing that diamond necklace around! One shouldn’t wear diamonds to breakfast, so gauche. As if she came from real wealth!”
“Doesn’t she have money?” Pillover looked up. “She acts like she has money.”
“Which is the most certain indication that she does not. People with money never act like it. Take Agatha, for example.”
“Which one is Agatha?” wondered Pillover, in a tone of voice that said all girls looked the same.
“The redhead.”
Pillover glanced at Agatha, who was dutifully pretending to be part of Monique’s inner circle. Her bonnet had slid back, her hair was coming undone, and she’d forgotten her lace tuck—again.
Pillover looked understandably doubtful as to the girl’s substance.
Preshea’s tinkling laugh rippled down the table. The pretty brunette pressed a hand to Lord Dingleproops’s arm and looked up at him adoringly. Her diamonds sparkled almost as much as the avarice in her eyes.
Lord Dingleproops seemed stunned. His cravat was tied so nicely, one could almost, reflected Sophronia, forgive him the lack of chin.
Dimity said, “I wrote him poetry!”
Preshea let go of the young lord and continued on with her conversation. Dingleproops brushed at the spot where her hand had been, straightening his jacket.
“Dimity,” Sophronia said, horrified by such an admission, “you didn’t give him the poetry, did you?”
“Certainly not.”
Sidheag tilted back in her chair, grinning. “Well, let’s hear it.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.” But Dimity was already dipping into her reticule and pulling out a scrap of paper. She gave it to Sidheag, who read it with a perfectly straight face, her tawny eyes dancing, and then passed it to Sophronia.
“My love is like a red red rose
occasionally he has a red red nose
he could keep me warm in the snows
I wager he has very nice toes.”