6 July 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecy,

Robert Penwood is here in London at last. He ran Mr. Griscomb to earth in Leeds and accompanied him to London where they were both putting up at Mr. Griscomb’s club. Given Miranda’s short temper, I suppose it is understandable that Mr. Griscomb stays at White’s while Miranda and Dorothea lease a very desirable Mayfair residence.

I learned all this last Tuesday when Robert came to call. He stayed barely a quarter of an hour and questioned me about Dorothea almost the entire time. I was able to persuade him to accept an invitation to take tea on Thursday, but he was far more interested in learning everything he could about the attentions shown to Dorothea by the Duke of Hexham. All I could tell him was what everyone in London knows: The Duke is wellborn, well-known, well-to-do, and well over sixty. Much cast down, Robert left scowling.

On Wednesday I was asked to tea at Schofield House, where I expected to see Thomas. I did not. Instead, Lady Sylvia received me in the most formal drawing room I have ever seen. I had scarcely taken my place when Lady Sylvia fixed me with a searching look and asked in a very serious tone whether I preferred milk or lemon.

“Milk,” I said, tugging off my gloves and crumpling them in my lap.

As she poured, Lady Sylvia continued to scrutinize me. A little discomfited by the intensity of her regard, I took a bite of my biscuit and asked, “When did you first discover Thomas’s talent for magic? I expect he must have been very young at the time.”

Lady Sylvia said nothing but went on gazing at me as though she wished to peer through me like a window. Unnerved, I inhaled a biscuit crumb and went off in a coughing fit. When I blinked my vision clear, she was still regarding me with the same expression of stern interest.

“Is something the matter, Lady Sylvia?” I asked.

“You seem a nice girl,” Lady Sylvia replied, “and I know Thomas well enough to guess the sort of tricks he is likely to get up to. You needn’t be afraid to tell me the entire truth, you know.”

I spilt half my tea in my lap. It was still quite hot and the gloves did not soak up enough to make much difference. I dabbed ineffectually with my napkin as I tried to think of something to say that would relieve my feelings without giving Lady Sylvia the idea that I was badly brought up. “My goodness,” I said finally. It wasn’t very satisfactory. “Drat!” I said. That was better. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said to Lady Sylvia.

“I mean that Thomas might have made you think there was some reason for you to pretend to be betrothed, for his protection perhaps.” Lady Sylvia’s dark gaze had not altered. “You might feel very awkward about ending the betrothal before you were quite sure he was safe.”

Cecy, you know I can tell falsehoods. No matter who looks at me, for how long, I can tell bouncers so enormous even Aunt Charlotte does not think to question them. I know I can. Only, sitting in that perfect room of ivory and gold, dripping tea on the Axminster carpet, I just couldn’t tell a lie to Lady Sylvia. So I took refuge in silence. For several minutes (it seemed like several years), I gazed into the cloudy remainder of my tea and tried to think why I felt so miserable at the chance to rid myself of the burden of betrothal to Thomas. In a way I thought it would be better than jilting him, for I felt quite certain his Mother would disapprove strongly of his sham offer of marriage.

“He was perfectly honest with me,” I said at last. “He said I was the only young lady he could ask who would not misunderstand him. There is something about Dorothea, you see, that no man can resist. And he wasn’t certain he could resist either, until he saw her. He didn’t like to take the risk.”

Lady Sylvia was silent so long I looked up from my teacup. She was no longer gazing at me. She was staring at the teapot with an air of faint disgust. “So you were the only young lady in the Ton who would not misunderstand him,” she said. There was a twist in the corner of her mouth that boded ill for someone.

“He said I could jilt him whenever I please,” I continued. “I have given it a great deal of thought. I think perhaps the ball at Carlton House would be best. But perhaps you would prefer something more discreet.”

“That is entirely your affair,” replied Lady Sylvia. Her voice was still remote but much of the chill had gone out of it. “In the meantime, we must do the thing properly. There is a set of rubies that Thomas ought to present to you—”

I made an inarticulate noise of protest.

“—and I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully selfish with the Schofield pearls. There is also a sapphire necklace, which won’t do for your coloring, of course, but will come to you all the same, and a brooch with a really splendid intaglio.”

“Lady Sylvia, I could not—truly—”

“There will be more tedious things to see to in the way of settlements and so on, but I won’t bore you with all that now,” said Lady Sylvia. “No, don’t argue, child. We’ll have the solicitors see to everything. After all, you don’t want to betray Thomas’s useless, stupid little charade now, do you? People will talk if you don’t do the thing properly. And those rubies will be really stunning with your complexion.”

“No, Lady Sylvia,” I said. “No.”

Lady Sylvia gave me another long, measuring look. The ill-natured twist of her lips smoothed itself away as she smiled at me. “No?” she asked. “Well, perhaps not just yet. Will you take more tea, Kate?”

To my relief, she let the subject drop and did not refer to it again. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and discussing Thomas’s youthful misadventures. Apparently Oliver was not the only child to have the firm conviction he could fly from the peak of the stable roof. Thomas did something very similar, only instead of breaking his arm, he broke his leg. I ought to write these things down so that if you and I ever have children, we will know at about what age these notions arise.

On Thursday, Dorothea came to tea in Berkeley Square. Robert was already here when she arrived and he stared at her, quite speechless with happiness, all the time Aunt Charlotte was pouring out for Dorothea.

“Will you have a cream bun?” I asked Robert, in an effort to distract him from Dorothea.

Robert merely shook his head and went on stirring his tea absently. Dorothea drank an entire cup of tea before she overcame her bashfulness sufficiently to look up at him, and when she did, he lost his grip on his spoon altogether. It flew in a sharp little arc over the tea table and landed on the carpet at Georgy’s feet.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Robert, flushing scarlet. “Let me get it.”

He rose and circled the table the long way around. As he walked behind Dorothea he made a sudden attack on the plate of cream buns and under cover of this distraction dropped a folded scrap of paper into Dorothea’s lap. Aunt Charlotte would certainly have discovered this piece of amateur subterfuge if I hadn’t had the presence of mind to upset the sugar bowl into the slops dish. To my disappointment, Dorothea was not goose enough to open the paper and read it there and then. She slid it into her glove while Aunt Charlotte was addressing me and ringing for more sugar, and was able to put her gloves on with perfect composure when it was time to take her leave.

On the whole, I would say romance becomes Robert Penwood. He does not talk nearly so much as was his habit, and he ate scarcely anything, not even his cream bun.

It is a pity that I cannot give them another opportunity to meet, but since Thomas warned me of Miranda’s intentions toward me, I have been avoiding her to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, this means I must also avoid Dorothea, except in those rare cases, as at tea, when she can escape Miranda’s company. Georgina teases me about it, telling me that this betrays my jealousy of the attention Thomas paid Dorothea while I was ill. But Georgy is usually teasing me about something. It is almost pleasant to have her roast me about something that I know isn’t true for a change. Much better than her usual instinct—she has only just stopped making references to gilding my toenails. This has been doubly annoying as the whole idea was Georgy’s to begin with. If she keeps on with her arch remarks on the topic, Aunt Charlotte is sure to find out after all, and it will be me that she makes sorry. An awful thought just struck me. Aunt Charlotte will certainly blame me for Georgy’s gaming—but do you suppose she would be right in doing so? Am I to blame?

Love,

Kate