Chapter 8 - The Suitor and the Scoundrel

- Juliette is a grateful friend; Priscilla is cold, but charming; Lord Foster is a pleasant surprise; the reveal of a rascal - The Honourable Rexington Smythe;

The scene at Lady Katherine Astley’s secret garden found its way back to Priscilla frequently over the following weeks. The more unsavoury aspects of it, the ones she was sure would give Lady Basington a fainting spell, she pushed to the back of her mind lest they make her blush in public. Not only that, but, despite her initial dismissal of the stories surrounding Lady Katherine, she was struck by what Angus had told her about his mother. And if she couldn't bring herself to believe in hauntings, she could still not ignore the shadows that passed across others' faces at the mention of her name.

In the following days, Priscilla walked the grounds, took short excursions into the city proper with Lady Basington, toured the park and made deep curtsies to various ladies and disinterested gentlemen and throughout the lot she tried to imagine what the experience would have meant to the Earl’s late wife. More and more, she found herself thinking of the countess as a friend, long-lost but dear.

Although Priscilla had learned to enjoy her alone time in the country, she had to admit there was a frenzy to living in Astley Hall that was intoxicating. After the initial shock of being constantly surrounded by people, she started finding pleasure in the chatter of the staff, the companionship of the noise along the corridors and the purpose of a full itinerary which left her exhausted enough in the evenings that she rarely got the chance to even regret the absence of her horse. In a few short weeks, she had gotten a dozen dresses commissioned for the upcoming season and she had been quizzed daily at breakfast about all the different events the family would be expected to attend. There was the Opera, the theatre, an exhibition at the Royal Academy, which Lady Basington clearly considered an imposter into a noble family’s schedule as according to her the only paintings whose existence was justifiable were the royal portraits.

“Landscapes,” she would mumble. “As if we do not, each of us, have our own landscape in the country to go look at. I don’t come to the city for mountains, thank you very much.”

“But not all of London can benefit from a country estate as yourself madam,” Priscilla tried cautiously and was rewarded with a surprised glare by the Baroness.

“And when was the last time do you think those people were invited to the Royal exhibition, Miss Keane? No, the whole idea of smearing a substance, which in any other context would be called dirt, on a canvas is frankly vulgar.”

Deciding it was perhaps best to back out of the fight before she lost a limb, Priscilla allowed herself to continue to be grilled on the remaining events, most of which contained sports she cared nothing about. The Regatta seemed like little more than a challenge to avoid sunburn and, while she had initially been excited by the prospect of the horse racing, the reality of the event quickly diminished her enthusiasm as she realised she would hardly be allowed near the horses themselves and she knew that merely watching the race from the safety of a box with her Ladyship’s warnings sounding in her ears would be little more than frustrating.

Angus himself had been conspicuously missing since their last talk. At first, Priscilla wondered if he wasn’t avoiding her, but she was quickly reminded by the staff that being a Viscount came with a set of responsibilities.

“The master is never home much at this time, ma’am,” Juliette told her, as she helped Priscilla into one of her new dresses, freshly arrived. It was a pale blush colour with a mossy green detail, which Lady Basington had insisted would go with the deep brown of her curls.

“He’s always about on business, always away on this engagement or that,” the girl continued, tightening the ribbons at the back of her dress, and unlike the time when she had described the Earl's absence, there was pride in her voice now. “Sometimes we barely see him for days. I said to Mr. Kingsley once, I wonder if he would come home at all if he didn't need a bath and a hot meal every now and again. He’s been working so hard, lord knows, what with him maintaining the estate on his own. But he is sure to attend all the balls of the season, Miss, and you are bound to see him for breakfast with how early you wake up. I hear Miss de Bonneville is arriving soon as well.” The clasp fastened around Priscilla’s chest, she tried to take a breath and found the fit a tad too constricting for comfort. But that seemed to be the great ladies’ fashion in the city – breathless silence where possible. “What a thrill that would be,” Juliette continued, “I hear the Mademoiselle is lovely, though I never saw her. Have you seen her, Miss?”

“No, I’m afraid I am yet to be graced with the acquaintance.” And before the young girl could spill into yet another soliloquy, Priscilla asked. “Has- akhem, has Mademoiselle de Bonneville been to London much then?”

“Aw yes, Miss. That is, I believe so, at least three or four times, Miss.” She waited for Priscilla to sit and started working on her hair. “I heard tell her and the master were engaged since childhood, but never announced publicly. They were meant to announce it when my lord, the Viscount, retuned from military service. But they dissolved it instead,” Juliette whispered with delicious scandal lighting her eyes. “O’ course, I was never here then, Miss, but I always wondered what happened. Oh, I can’t imagine anyone turning my lord down, Miss, but I do love a tragic love story if you’ll pardon me.”

Her hair finished and with Juliette's skill increasing every day, Priscilla' curls were becoming significantly more elaborate with little jewelled pins adorning the crown of her head delicately, all up to Lady Basington’s standards.

“I heard the Earl is expected to join us,” Priscilla said tentatively, putting a pair of satin gloves on. This had been the first time the subject of Lord Astley (or Lady Astley for that matter) had been brought up since Juliette had made her dark declaration earlier in the week. As Priscilla's original cavalier attitude towards local superstitions had dissipated, so had her joking manner in dealing with the topic. The aura of entertaining gossip had evaporated and the whole affair suddenly filled Priscilla with unexpected dread. Yet, now that she had time enough for deep breaths, she found she had to know more.

"Yes, Miss," Juliette said quietly as she started clearing up the packaging of the Priscilla’s new dress with extra diligence. "Mr Kingsley told us to start preparing his rooms yesterday."

"Oh," Priscilla exclaimed, unsure how to proceed. "I don't suppose- That is, I thought Lady Basington had said the Countess' rooms were closed. Surely, you wouldn't be expected to go near them."

"Yes, Miss. But the suite must be ready if my lord Astley demands it when he returns."

"Does he usually?"

"Sometimes." Juliette seemed the struggle internally over something and then spoke in a quiet rush: "Last year Mary fainted, clearing the bedroom, Miss, there was such a sudden draft that slammed all the windows and the main double doors and she just fell right then and there and not so far from where the mistress had fallen so many years ago, God rest her soul. And it was a calm bright summer's day outside, Miss. Never felt even a whiff in the garden that day."

"What, do you mean Lady Katherine fell?" asked Priscilla, realising in all the excitement around the Countess' spirit, the account of her death was surprisingly poor in details.

"Aw yes, Miss. She was very unwell in the last few years and they say one night she just fell down the small stairwell down from her chambers."    

"That sounds very dramatic indeed," Priscilla said struggling for a response that would match the severity of the revelation. "Did Mary recover?"

"She couldn't sleep for a month after, Miss. She said the Countess kept visiting her in her dreams. Mary said she kept saying the most horrid things to her."

"What things?"

"Oh-" but here it seemed Juliette's limit was finally reached. She crossed herself hurriedly and shook her head: "I really can't say, Miss. Couldn't repeat such a thing under a Christian roof."

"Well," deterimed to dilute the cloud of tension gathered around them, Priscilla tried to move the conversation along as elegantly as she could: "I am sorry you might be forced into the rooms again against your will, but I'm certain you will be just fine, so long as you remain on your guard against any dangerous drafts or slippery staircases."

"The thing is, Miss, I may not have the time to help Mary and Mrs Foster, what with all my additional duties here." And at saying this, Juliette blushed such a treaturous shade of red as to leave Miss Keane in doubt of the girl's hope her new lady's maid duties would save her from the dreaded task.

"Well in that case..." Priscilla smiled conspiratorially, "perhaps I could charge you with the alterations to the new dresses Lady Basington purchased for me as well? She offered her tailor's services, but I'm sure you'd do as well as anyone."   

Juliette was officially too frazzled to be grateful, her mouth hung open in a way that was equal parts endearing and comical and Priscilla smiled at the sight, happy to have been of use to someone. She had so rarely been of use until this point in her life, she realised suddenly, and her fondness for Juliette increased.

The moment, which was quickly becoming too saccharine to stomach by even the sweetest souls, was then happily interrupted by Mr Kingsley. Having come in to see what was taking Juliette so long, he saw nothing in the girls' faces other than the usual folly typical of the sex and his impatience mounted. He produced a pointed cough in an attempt to disspel the aforementioned folly for his schedule allowed neither the time nor the energy to manage emotion on top of everything else.

The cough produced the desired effect and Juliette jumped out of her grateful reverie.

"Your mother wants you in the kitchen, Miss Vane. When you're ready with Miss Keane that is," he allowed, though being in no doubt that nothing productive whatsoever was taking place.

"Yes, of course we are done. Apologies, Mr Kingsley, I detained Juliette with instructions on the alterations required for my new dresses before the first ball."

"Indeed?" the steward seemed surprised at that. "A great trust, Miss Vane, you must have done well to earn it."

"She has indeed. And, Juliette?" Priscilla called to the girl as she had made for the door in a rush. "If you could also make sure my shoes are cleaned as well, please?"

Juliette bowed and smiled at Priscilla behind the steward's back as she hurried out of the room.

"I am glad to hear Juliette's service has been satisfying, Miss," Kingsley remarked once they were alone in the room. "She has had little chance to improve until now but I must say I see a marked difference in her."

"Indeed, though I have little point of comparison, I can attest to her diligence."

The man nodded, seemed to battle with himself for a moment, then pronounced:

“Her ladyship was asking for you, it seems she has some urgency in keeping to her schedule this morning."

"Of course, I'll be right down." She looked at herself in the mirror and despite Juliette's hard work, she felt she expected she would still fall short of the Baroness' expectations. "Let us hope it's the descent downstairs, which makes the critical difference to my character," she murmured more to herself but Mr Kingsley stopped, his hand on the door handle and turned to her.    

“It takes a village to impress Lady Basington, Miss Keane, but she finds fault unworthy of critique. Her chisel is sharp but she only uses it where she thinks the promise is worth the work.”

And with that, he left Priscilla heartened and with little else to do than face whatever new trial was in store for her.

*

As soon as Lady Basington had pronounced herself satisfied with Priscilla's wardrobe, and the girl's insubordinate morning walks were cut short, the Baroness decided it was time to parade Priscilla a little through town.

The first event of the season was always the ball she hosted at Astley Hall. The entirety of the gentry would attend, and that was where she was expecting to arrange an assortment of suitors for Priscilla to pick from. The quicker the better. But it would do the girl good, her ladyship insisted, to spark the intrigue before the big night. Spread the word that there was a face in town and available.

That morning they left earlier than usual, a brisk breeze cutting through Miss Keane’s décolletage and making her shiver.

“Try not to do that in public if you can,” the Baroness said out of the corner of her mouth as they settled onto their stroll about the park.

“Feel the elements?”

“Shiver. Taking deep breaths sometimes helps. If not, rest assured the blue tinge in your skin is quite en vogue.”

“That is reassuring, I would hate to be an unappealing match even if it leads me to an early grave.”

“And don’t be morbid if you can help it,” Lady Basington added with a polite nod to a Lady Cornelia Preston, wife of Baron Preston who Priscilla had been introduced to last week. As she greeted the Lady, Priscilla was satisfied to note she received a polite return and a few other gentlemen in the vicinity turned their heads to get a better look of the newcomer.

“Take it down a notch,” Lady Basington whispered almost inaudibly. “Don’t seem too satisfied with yourself. Good, yes.”

They walked on for another few minutes before Priscilla, losing patience with the glacial pace of their nippy promenade, asked:

“Why are we doing this now, Baroness? I was quite happy with our noon walks. In any case, the park seems quite empty, surely the point of coming here is to meet people?”

“I wouldn’t busy yourself with scheming at this point, Miss Keane, I am on home turf here. And to your question, it’s not the volume of people you meet. It's the quality.”

“Richer people come out earlier?” Priscilla whispered mockingly.

“Don’t be crude, Miss Keane, that’s your future husband you’re talking about.”

“I have a feeling my future husband wouldn’t mind being called rich, Lady Basington.”

“Not by you. Rich men want blindly loving wives, calculating friends and jealous enemies. Ensure you don't confuse your role if you please.”

“Yes, madam.”

They continued on for another minute and Priscilla’s mind circled, landing with impeccable accuracy on to the same topic again and again. In the end, she was unable to stop herself, like a child picking at scabs.

“So,” she cleared her throat, “what is the de Bonnevilles’ business?”

The Baroness cast her a surprised look clearly unsure what the point of the question was.

“The business, which they share with the Astleys,” Priscilla clarified and was unsurprised by the grimace of disapproval which crossed the Baroness’ face. She knew business was not an attractive topic for a woman, but she also knew Lady Basington valued an informed mind and decided to overlook the concern at this point.

“Wine,” the Baroness stated, eyes continuing to dart back and forth between the passing couples, as a hunter trying to spot its next victim.

“They make wine?”

“Don't be preposterous, Miss Keane, a marquis does not make wine. The de Bonneville family coordinate the export of wine to England. The deal was tentative, rather an act of diplomacy than a service to the economy, or the market for that matter. To establish better relations with the French.”

“Hmm, well I’m sure alcohol was a necessary ingredient in the transaction.”

“That is one of the comments frequently made within the gentlemen’s clubs in town.”

“I didn’t think you frequented gentlemen’s clubs, my lady,” Priscilla teased and her ladyship offered a smile in return.

“Despite some stubborn stereotypes, Miss Keane, you will find it is more frequently men who gossip and women who listen. And I happen to be one of the best listeners there is. In any case, as I was saying, the deal with France required counterparts from both countries to arrange the import/export practicalities with the promise of future deals, and riches, being contingent on the success of the first.

“Henry de Bonneville, the French counterpart, much like Lord Bertram Barnaby Astley, has only one child, a daughter, whose husband would inherit the family affairs. Not just the wealth but the responsibility of maintaining the deal, an open trade route across the channel. Nourish a foreign political ally.” Her ladyship slowed to a short stop along the path forcing Priscilla to meet her gaze. “So you see, Miss Keane, if I am expressing any concern over Angus’ future relationship with Helene de Bonneville it is not of frivolous nature. You may say the safety of the crown depends on it.”

“I may,” Priscilla allowed pensively and turned to resume the walk with a slow step, “but I fear that would overestimate a young couple’s influence over the crown. Surely it isn’t made of so corrosive a metal that a failed love would eat right through it.”

“A failed love?” Lady Basington caught up with Priscilla with some urgency. “Who said anything about a failed love? Has the Viscount intimated anything?”

A sigh escaped Priscilla as she realised for all her listening gifts, her ladyship did not actually know why Angus’ engagement had fallen apart.

“He has not, my lady. I merely heard that their understanding fell apart after Lady Katherine’s passing.”

“That was a long and emotional time ago, I am positive Mademoiselle de Bonneville would find Angus a much improved and matured companion this summer.”

As Priscilla turned her face away from the Baroness and the topic, her eyes fell on a group on the other side of the pond. A few ladies, travelling had in hand, a pair of gentlemen following closely behind and a man, standing close to the edge of the water – was looking directly at Priscilla.

She could not tell his features from this distance but there could be no doubt he was looking precisely in their direction.

“My lady-,” Miss Keane was just about to direct the Baroness’ attention to their audience, when her ladyship exclaimed with quiet satisfaction:

“Aha! I was just beginning to worry.” And then, her voice rising, she greeted: “Baroness Foster, how lovely to see you.”

Still distracted by the figure across the pond, Priscilla returned her attention to the present scene just in time to see herself addressed by a lady, who could only be Baroness Foster. She inclined in a curtsy and greeted the madam, rummaging around her head for the memory of the name. Of course! the youngest son of Baron Foster had been picked as Priscilla’s most promising match. Now noticing the young man supporting Baroness Foster, Priscilla surmised this must be him, just as Baroness Foster said:

“And may I present my youngest son, Lord Sebastian Foster.”

Sebastian Foster was a pleasant looking man, in fact Priscilla noted with amused satisfaction, he was almost her copy, with a thick set of deep brown curls, large blue eyes and a square jaw. He gave Priscilla a warm smile and as he brought her hand to his lips, she could almost feel the satisfaction oozing from Lady Basington next to her.

“How wonderful it is to see you again, Fanny, has it been a whole year?”

“Eight months, two weeks,“ Lord Foster’s mother agreed, “my memory is still sharp at least, even if my knees are not.”

“You have never been dull in your life, Fanny.”

“Pish-posh,” Baroness Foster waved a hand, “I’m starting to think I wake up earlier every morning just to make sure I haven’t died yet.”

“The cold,” the words escaped Priscilla’s mouth before she had been able to form a full sentence around them and as the group stared at her expectantly, she explained: “Apologies, madam, my guardian Lady Wincroft, suffered from knee pain as well. She was advised to keep away from the cold, perhaps if you take your walks during a later part of the day when the sun is out you might feel better,” she finished, her voice growing increasingly lower and more hesitant the longer she spent under the two Baroness’ combined scrutiny. But just as she was about to bury all her hopes for the season Lord Foster joined:

“You see, mother, exactly as the doctor said. Perhaps now you will listen to him,” he turned with a generous smile at Priscilla, but his mother was distracted.

“Wincroft? Oh yes, you are Sergeant Wincroft’s ward, aren’t you? Good man. We have missed Lady Wincroft the past few seasons. You will send my wishes to her, won’t you?”

“With great pleasure, your ladyship,” she curtsied.

“Come, Fanny, why don’t we have a rest while the young ones go ahead?” Lady Basington suggested offering her own hand to her friend.

As the ladies retreated to a nearby bench, the young Lord turned to Priscilla with a knowing look but no distaste.

“So how are you enjoying London so far, Miss Keane?”

“Very well, thank you. I have had plenty of time to prepare for it.”

“Yes, I did hear about that. I am not particularly close with Lord Wincroft but we cross paths every year during the summer. He is good man.”

“He is that.”

“Although I must say his descriptions of you were quite lacking compared to the reality.”

“And what exactly were these descriptions, Lord Foster?”

He smiled at her and she noticed with relief it was the kind of smile that reached his eyes quite handsomely.

“I would rather not repeat them, Miss Keane. Now I have seen you, I may disregard them in favour of my own much more flattering impressions.”

“You are trying to trick me into begging for a compliment, my lord, but I fear you will be disappointed.”

“It’s too early to tell, Miss, I wouldn’t lose hope so quickly.”

“That is a relief indeed, with my first ball of the season approaching fast.”

“Ah, indeed. Lady Basington’s event to open the season. I’m sure you should have nothing to fear. As the hostess’ protégé you must prepare to end the night with aching feet and an overwhelming lot of names to remember.”

“Am I to understand I may count on your name then, Lord Foster?”

He turned to Priscilla half laughing and bowed to her again.

“You may certainly count on my name in your dance card, and my advice as to anyone else’s worth in the room, Miss Keane.”

“Foster!” a call came from behind them and Priscilla turned, coming eye to eye with the same man who had been watching her and Lady Basington earlier. The man crossed the distance with a confident stride and shook Lord Foster’s newly released hand.

“Smythe,” Lord Foster greeted. “What a surprise to see you in the light of day, I was beginning to think you exclusively a creature of the night.”

“I am a creature of all manners of pleasure, and what greater pleasure can there be than a crisp London morning. Besides, I might be missing out on some wonderful company had I kept away.”

“Miss Keane,” Lord Foster turned, remembering his manners, “allow me to present, the honourable Lord Rexington Smythe. Rex, this is Miss Priscilla Keane, she is staying at Astley Hall with Baroness Basington.”

Finding her hand kissed by an attractive noble gentleman for the second time that morning, Priscilla was starting to grant some credit to Lady Basington’s early morning plot. Now, preoccupied with this sudden surplus of gentlemen, she smiled as anything and answered predictable questions about Sergeant Wincroft, and London and her mother, back up north. Questions she might have tired of under any other circumstances, but the curiosity she felt towards this man made her grateful for the exchange of even the dreariest formality.

Lord Smythe was surely a peer of Lord Astley’s as well as Sebastian Foster. He was young, he was a Lord, certainly the distinction in his title put him above Lord Foster, he seemed to be unmarried. Yet she could not remember his name mentioned within Lady Basington’s long list of potential suitors nor, despite the fact he was obviously involved in some sort of business judging by the conversation with Lord Foster, could Priscilla remember his name from Angus, which meant they were not working together either.

Her curiosity regarding the gentleman was just about to bubble over when, as if seeing within her mind, Lord Smythe parried her thoughts with a question of his own:

“And how is the Viscount doing, Miss Keane? I sure hope he is taking some time to have fun.”

So they did know each other. Interesting.

“He is well, my lord. And as far as the fun you mentioned, I’m afraid I cannot say as he has been too absent recently for me to verify with certainty. Though I must say I do share your hope, that whatever his business, it is giving him some joy.”

“Mmm, I doubt it,” Lord Smythe smirked knowingly. “The man can be such a martyr at times, eh, Sebastian?” he nudged his friend playfully.

“He is-,” Lord Forster hesitated clearly sensitive of Priscilla’s immediate proximity, “a diligent son and nephew.”

Rexington Smythe gave a low laugh.

“Indeed. He’ll be working himself quite to death if he carries on much in the same vein for longer. You should get him to come to the ‘King’s Arms’, Miss Keane. He could use a night off. In fact, you should tell him to bring you along. I’m sure you could benefit from the company and society therein,” he bowed lightly to her.

“The- ‘King’s Arms’?” She moved a glance between Sebastian and Lord Foster, worried she might be exposing some damning ignorance and dug frantically within her memories for the name.

At her expression, Rexington Smythe lift a wounded hand to his chest and exclaimed theatrically:

“Oh, you cut me, madam. Perhaps I shouldn’t be too surprised the Viscount’s not been singing my praises however, should I, Foster?” he turned, inviting Lord Foster to share on the joke, despite the latter’s visibly growing discomfort.

Electing to ignore the jibe, Lord Foster addressed Priscilla with an explanation instead:

“The King’s Arms’ is an exclusive restaurant.”

“Dining hall,” Smythe corrected.

“Dining hall, yes.”

“A very very exclusive dining hall.”

Lord Foster gave a not-so-subtle eye roll:

“So exclusive you could barely get in,” he allowed. “Unless you have the owner’s blessing.”

“Which you do,” Lord Smythe smiled at Priscilla with another bow and as he rose up he added a wink to go with the rest of the performance: “I am the owner if that wasn’t clear, Miss Keane.”

“I surmised as much, my lord. Consider me as impressed as I am flattered.”

“Surely not, Miss Keane” Lord Smythe’s eye twinkled, “I would never do you the dishonour of thinking you so easily impressed. I am merely attempting to make my impression on you before you can be swayed by anyone else. Besides, if we are to partner up and convince dear old Astley to relax a little, I would need to endear myself to you somehow.”

“I think I can safely promise assistance anyone with Lord Astley's best interest in mind, my lord,” Priscilla returned as gallantly as she could manage, while her curiosity was reaching uncomfortable levels. If someone did not explain to her exactly who Rexington Smythe was and quite soon, she was afraid her ears would start steaming.

“That may be the best news I have heard all morning,” Lord Smythe said and turned to Sebastian. “So, I will see you tonight, Foster?”

The men said their goodbyes and once Lord Smythe was safely out of earshot, Sebastian Foster beat Priscilla to breaking the uncomfortable silence:

“I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Keane.” Seeing her confused expression and managing to thoroughly misread it, he added: “Or an explanation at least. Lord Smythe is an old friend, he- akhem, lacks some of the reserve typical in new acquaintances.”

“Perhaps. Though I have found a young man of noble birth and good money can behave in any which way he likes, Lord Foster.”

“That is certainly true more often than it should. But Rexington is a good man.” The statement was simple enough though Priscilla caught a certain weight, dragging behind it like an anchor.

“I never thought he wasn’t, my lord,” she turned to him in question.

Sebastian Foster’s elegant features strained under some internal discomfort and he avoided her eye.

“I wasn't sure if the Viscount- That is, if you had already been made familiar with his,” he cough, “relationship with Lord Astley.”

“I had never heard his name until you introduced us not two minutes ago.”

When she could see the young Lord about to hesitate again, she put her friendliest face on.

“Come now, my lord, we are friends now, are we not? I gave some underwhelming medical advice to your mother and you subjected yourself to an obvious set up with gracious forbearance. If this does not bind us forever in gratitude, I know not what will. Surely you can confide in me now.”

The tension eased out of Lord Forster in a gentle chuckle.

“Are you always this forward, Miss Keane?”

“Only when out of earshot of Lady Basington.”  This won her another chuckle and the Lord’s allegiance seemed to be, at least temporarily, won.

“Smythe, Astley and me, we were all in Oxford together. Viscount Astley and I had been casual acquaintances in the city, we became friends during our studies. Rexington, however… His mother, the Baroness Sissily Smythe, was never in the best of health and Rex had spent the majority of his childhood in the country, keeping her company. We had barely seen any of him until he showed up at Oxford, moody and boisterous.”

“Youth can do that.”

“Youth, among other things. His mother, the Baroness, had passed away not two months before he joined, which must be blamed at least in half for his behaviour.”

Priscilla nodded with sympathy.

“By the time the rest of us found out however, him and Viscount Astley had already headed off to a rocky start. I’m afraid that although each of us improved with time, the bitterness of those first impressions still lingers.”

“So what do you think Lord Smythe would like to use me for in this scenario? Bait?”

“Or a lifeline?” Lord Foster mused. “Rex might be trying to mend old fences.”

“I am not a very good builder, my lord” Priscilla said, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Or perhaps he merely saw a beautiful lady and wished to introduce himself?”

“Oh, you are a better and more generous friend than each of these men deserve, my lord,” Priscilla laughed at Lord Foster’s valiant attempts at excusing any hint of dishonour from his friends’ behaviour.

“Well if you would allow me to be a good friend to you as well, Miss Keane, I would suggest that you do not mention the invite to the ‘King’s Arms’ in front of Lady Basington. She will take it even worse than the Viscount might.”

Before Priscilla could discover why that would be, she noted they had reached the bench once again where the Baronesses were sitting and bit her lips storing one last question for future reference.