“I never accidentally do anything,” Araminta snapped.
Sophie silently agreed. Araminta was deliberate in all things. “I can ask the maids,” Sophie said. “Perhaps one of them knows something.”
“The maids are a pack of idiots,” Araminta replied. “What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail.”
Sophie waited for Araminta to say, “Present company excluded,” but of course she did not. Finally, Sophie said, “I can try to polish the shoe. I’m sure we can do something about the scuff mark.”
“The heels are covered in satin,” Araminta sneered. “If you can find a way to polish that, then we should have you admitted to the Royal College of Fabric Scientists.”
Sophie badly wanted to ask if there even existed a Royal College of Fabric Scientists, but Araminta didn’t have much of a sense of humor even when she wasn’t in a complete snit. To poke fun now would be a clear invitation for disaster. “I could try to rub it out,” Sophie suggested. “Or brush it.”
“You do that,” Araminta said. “In fact, while you’re at it . . .”
Oh, blast. All bad things began with Araminta saying, “While you’re at it.”
“... you might as well polish all of my shoes.”
“All of them?” Sophie gulped. Araminta’s collection must have numbered at least eighty pair.
“All of them. And while you’re at it...”
Not again.
“Lady Penwood?”
Araminta blessedly stopped in mid-command to turn and see what the butler wanted.
“A gentleman is here to see you, my lady,” he said, handing her a crisp, white card.
Araminta took it from him and read the name. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little, “Oh!” before turning back to the butler, and barking out, “Tea! And biscuits! The best silver. At once.”
The butler hurried out, leaving Sophie staring at Araminta with unfeigned curiosity. “May I be of any help?” Sophie asked.
Araminta blinked twice, staring at Sophie as if she’d forgotten her presence. “No,” she snapped. “I’m far too busy to bother with you. Go upstairs at once.” She paused, men added, “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
Sophie motioned toward the dining room she’d recently exited. “You asked me to polish—”
“I asked you to see to my shoes,” Araminta fairly yelled.
“All—all right,” Sophie said slowly. Araminta was acting very odd, even for Araminta. “I’ll just put away—”
“Now!”
Sophie hurried to the stairs.
“Wait!”
Sophie turned around. “Yes?” she asked hesitantly.
Araminta’s lips tightened into an unattractive frown. “Make sure that Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair is properly dressed.”
“Of course.”
“Then you may instruct Rosamund to lock you in my closet.”
Sophie stared at her. She actually wanted Sophie to give the order to have herself locked in the closet?
“Do you understand me?”
Sophie couldn’t quite bring herself to nod. Some things were simply too demeaning.
Araminta marched over until their faces were quite close. “You didn’t answer,” she hissed. “Do you understand me?”
Sophie nodded, but just barely. Every day, it seemed, brought more evidence of the depth of Araminta’s hatred for her. “Why do you keep me here?” she whispered before she had time to think better of it.
“Because I find you useful,” was Araminta’s low reply.
Sophie watched as Araminta stalked from the room, then hurried up the stairs. Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair looked quite acceptable, so she sighed, turned to Posy, and said, “Lock me in the closet, if you will.” Posy blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” “I was instructed to ask Rosamund, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.” Posy peered in the closet with great interest. “May I ask why?”
“I’m meant to polish your mother’s shoes.” Posy swallowed uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Sophie said with a sigh. “So am I.”
Chapter 5
And in other news from the masquerade ball, Miss Posy Reiling’s costume as a mermaid was somewhat unfortunate, but not, This Author thinks, as dreadful as that of Mrs. Featherington and her two eldest daughters, who went as a bowl of fruit—Philippa as an orange, Prudence as an apple, and Mrs. Featherington as a bunch of grapes.
Sadly, none of the three looked the least bit appetizing.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815
What had his life come to, Benedict wondered, that he was obsessed with a glove? He’d patted his coat pocket about a dozen times since he’d taken a seat in Lady Pen-wood’s sitting room, silently reassuring himself that it was still there. Uncharacteristically anxious, he wasn’t certain what he planned to say to the dowager countess once she arrived, but he was usually fairly glib of tongue; surely he’d figure out something as he went along.
His foot tapping, he glanced over at the mantel clock. He’d given his card to the butler about fifteen minutes earlier, which meant that Lady Penwood ought to be down soon. It seemed an unwritten rule that all ladies of the ton must keep their callers waiting for at least fifteen minutes, twenty if they were feeling particularly peevish.
A bloody stupid rule, Benedict thought irritably. Why the rest of the world didn’t value punctuality as he did, he would never know, but—