“They’re the most delicious slippers in the world,” Arabella gushed. “And Miss Daltry brought them into fashion. I only wish I could have a pair, but Mama is quite heartless on the subject.”
“Might as well be made of diamonds, for the cost of them,” Lady Dagobert said, raising her head again. “A waste of money.”
“Likely to splinter and cut your toes off, are they?” Henry asked with interest. “I think I’m probably too curvy to trust myself to glass.”
“They’re not really made of glass,” Kate said, wracking her brains to try to remember what Rosalie said about them. “And yes, I will be wearing a pair.”
“All the best fashion is frightfully expensive,” Henry said. “My dressing chamber was positively littered with ostrich feathers after that craze last year at court. They cost a pretty penny, and the weight of seven of them gave me a terrible headache.”
“I shall wear a white satin petticoat with gold Brussels drapery to the ball,” the countess announced. “With eight white ostrich feathers. I seem to suffer no ill effects at all from such plumage.”
“White, white, white,” Henry muttered. “You’d think she was a bride. Someone should tell her that an expanse of snow always looks ten times wider than a plowed field.”
“Henry!” Kate said, giggling madly.
“You are right to correct me,” Henry said. “That field hasn’t been plowed in years.”
“I am wearing a draped tunic to the ball,” Effie said. “Do tell me what you’re wearing, Victoria? I find you such an inspiration.”
Kate hadn’t the faintest idea. “I brought three or four costumes with me,” she said airily. “I never make up my mind until the very last minute.”
“Will you wear your hair in the Grecian or the Roman style?” Lady Arabella asked.
“I really couldn’t say,” Kate said, elbowing Henry in a silent entreaty that she change the subject of conversation. “At the moment I am enamored of my wigs.”
“I brought a gorgeous wig with me,” Arabella said.
“Gentlemen don’t care for wigs on a gal,” the countess said, looking up again. “I’ve told you time and again, Arabella, that a gentleman looks to a woman’s hair to see what sort of breeder she’ll be.”
There was a moment of silence. “It’s a good thing that I like wigs,” Henry said. “Otherwise my three husbands might have looked elsewhere.”
“I apologize for my mother,” Arabella said quietly.
“I hear you, daughter,” the countess said. “If there’s any apologizing to do, I’ll do it myself.” She looked over at the settee. “I’m sorry, Henry. I had no call to be talking about breeding in front of you.”
“It’s years in the past,” Henry said with a little shrug. “But do you know, Mabel, I believe that’s the first time you’ve addressed me by the name I prefer?”
“I shall not do so again,” the countess said, returning to her letter. “It’s dreadfully vulgar to use first names in conversation, let alone a pet name of that variety.”
“I knew I had some particular reason for liking the name,” Henry said. “It’s my incurable vulgarity.”
“I’ll tell you what is vulgar,” the countess said. “Vulgarity is the way that Miss Emily Gill makes eyes at that prince. Admittedly, he is a prince.”
“A particularly luscious one,” Henry put in.
“He isn’t objectionable,” the countess said. “But he’s a foreigner, and a prince, and our host. And there’s a princess supposedly arriving this very day to marry the man. Emily Gill has been staring at him as if he were a god or something of that nature.”
“Surely not,” Henry said, much shocked. “Those gods never wear a stitch of clothing, at least none of Lord Elgin’s marbles do. I spent a great deal of time examining them, so I know.”
“Take it as you will,” the countess stated.
“She is enamored,” Arabella said. “She told me that the prince smiled at her last night and her heart beat so that she almost swooned on the spot.”
“Even if he didn’t have a princess on the way, he’d never marry her. This castle must cost a fortune to run,” the countess said, glancing about. “The cost of maintaining staff alone must be thousands of pounds a year.”
“I wish I had a fortune,” Arabella said, sighing. “He’s so handsome.”
“I’m not marrying you to a fortune hunter,” her mother said, finishing her last letter with a flourish. “Here, you—” She beckoned to a footman. “Have them out in the evening mail, if you please.”
“It’s very kind of you,” Effie said shyly. “I know my mother would say the same, but she was so overset by the news of Lord Beckham’s departure that she took to her bed.”
“Your mama has the fortitude of a chicken in the rain,” the countess said. “This should do it.” There was a grim certitude about her tone. “Even if that ne’er-do-well escapes from whatever ship the prince bundled him onto, he won’t dare show his face in polite society again. I’ve written everyone I know. And anyone I don’t know ain’t worth knowing.”
“Truly most kind,” Effie said.
“Including,” the countess continued, “the former Miss Wodderspoon. She was one of the first ladies he accosted. Luckily her betrothal was arranged in the cradle . . . do you know who she is now?”
Henry frowned; Arabella, Effie and Kate shook their heads.
“The Duchess of Calvert,” the countess said triumphantly. “I wrote her and the duke as well. I knew him when he was a boy, of course. I thought he’d better know the truth about his wife.”
“In my opinion,” Henry said, “the truth about one’s spouse becomes clear after a mere few weeks of marriage. If not a few hours.”
“I agree,” the countess said. “But it can’t hurt. If Beckham dares to show his nose in England, the duke will cut it off. There’s just one thing I’d like to know.”
They all regarded her in silence. The countess had a way of convincing a room that she knew everything, so a disclosure of ignorance was fascinating.
“Why’d he do it?” she asked.
“Men of that stripe can’t stop themselves,” Henry said with distaste. “I’ve run into them before. Beckham had no luck on his own merits, so he destroyed those who had the character to reject his advances, such as our own Miss Effie.”
“Not him ,” the countess said. “The prince. Why did the prince take after Beckham like that?”
“His Highness is like a king,” Arabella said worshipfully. “He saw an injustice and he addressed it, like King Solomon.”
“I think he has a moral nature and can’t stand a wrongdoer,” Effie said, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. “Like an avenging angel, he came down with the sword of heaven and smote the evildoer.”
“You’re not picking up that tripe at St. Andrew’s,” the countess said, frowning at Effie. “Don’t make me think that I should speak to your mother. She’ll have you reading the Bible this evening.”