“Actually not,” Roberta said. “I’m legitimate, but from a far branch of the family tree. I only wish that I resembled Jemma.”
“You have her blue eyes,” he said, grinning at her.
“Roberta is going to be my project,” Jemma said. “I’m going to dress her up to look absolutely gorgeous, which of course she is, and then marry her off to whomever she wishes. It’ll be great fun.”
Roberta felt a queer compression around her chestbone. “Are you sure?” she asked. “It will be frightfully expensive. I’m not sure how much I can persuade my father to contribute.”
“Jemma’s husband can manage a dozen debuts and not notice,” Damon said. “I don’t know why Beaumont bothers with his speechifying; he could just buy the votes he needs to get a bill passed, in the time-honored fashion. That’s what father always did.”
“I’m afraid that the third earl—our father—was a tad disreputable,” Jemma said. “You interrupted me, Damon. I was trying to warn Roberta that she might not want my chaperonage.”
Damon looked her over so carefully that Roberta felt herself getting pink. “It’s true that your reputation was marred by merely walking into this den of inequity, or it will be once the English ladies get the measure of my sister. Jemma is unlikely to be a prudent chaperone. The Reeves have been disreputable back to the days of King Alfred, and though I regret to say it, the tendency bred true in both of us.”
“Jemma has neglected to tell you that I am the only child of the Mad Marquess, to use the term the popular press prefers,” Roberta said. “So the ton will have more hurdles than Jemma’s reputation to consider when it comes to my marriage.”
His eyes widened. “You grow more fascinating by the moment. Do tell me a bit of poetry.”
She scowled at him, and then relented. “My father’s letter to you, Jemma, takes the form of a poem in fourteen stanzas.” She opened her little knotting-bag and handed over her father’s letter.
“It’s entitled ‘Epistle to a Duchess,’” Jemma said. Roberta watched her smile fade into a look of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I’m intelligent enough for poetry,” she said, finally.
Which was a kind assessment. “It’s not a question of your intelligence,” Roberta said. “I’m afraid that Papa’s poetry is obscure in the extreme.”
Damon took the poem. “This isn’t so bad. It ever was allow’d, dear Madam, Even from the days of father Adam. Well, I don’t see much of difficulty here, Roberta. Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,” he continued. “What’s tautology again? I can’t remember, if I ever knew. And so take that for my apology. He’s apologizing, Jemma.”
“For what?”
“For imposing his daughter upon your presence,” Roberta said firmly.
Damon was still reading ahead. “Here he’s talking about the solid meal of sense and worth, set off by the dessert of mirth. Very nice rhyme!”
“Sometimes his poetry is quite good,” Roberta said with a flash of loyalty. “He’s writing an excellent poem on David and Bathsheba, for example. One can really understand what he’s describing.”
“Well, this poem ends with your most obedient,” Damon said. “I think he’s asking you to bring out his daughter with all the pomp and circumstance Beaumont can afford, Roberta. My expert judgment.”
Jemma took back the poem and puzzled at it for a moment. “But what’s the part about a rude ungrateful bear, enough to make a parson swear?”
“I find with Papa’s poems that it’s best not to devote oneself too strictly to meaning,” Roberta said.
Damon let out a bark of laughter.
“There is just one more thing that I should tell you,” Roberta said.
Brother and sister turned to look at her. “Wait, don’t tell us,” Damon said, with his irresistible grin. “The family character bred true in you as well, remote relative though you are. Let’s guess: You have a child—you, with such a young, innocent—”
“No!” Roberta said.
But before she could continue, he said, “Your turn, Jemma.”
Jemma looked thoughtful. “At some time last year, you were at an inn. You gazed out of the window and were instantly struck by an ungovernable passion for my brother.”
Roberta’s mouth fell open but Damon didn’t notice. “Very nice! Can you work Teddy into the picture?”
“More than anything, Roberta wished to be a mother, but unfortunate circumstances have decreed that she will have no children of her own, therefore Teddy will become her most cherished possession.”
Damon was laughing. “What about me? I want to be her most cherished possession.”
Jemma turned to Roberta. “You must forgive us; it’s an old game that we—” She stopped. “You did see Damon last summer! And you fell in love with him? How very peculiar. Are you sure you wish to marry my brother? I can assure you that he’s terribly annoying.”
Roberta started giggling. “No, I don’t wish to marry your brother!”
“There’s no need to be quite so emphatic,” Damon observed. “I would quite like to marry you myself, although I see that I shall have to assuage my grieved heart elsewhere.”
“But I saw something on your face,” Jemma said. “I’m sure—”
“I went to a ball given by Lady Cholmondelay,” Roberta said hurriedly, getting over the rough ground as quickly as she could. “And I did meet someone. I should like to marry him. In fact, I have made up my mind to it.”
“How useful,” Jemma said. “Love at first sight. I’m sure it must be most delicious. I would quite welcome it myself. I’ve fallen in love many times but never without thoroughly discussing the impulse with my closest friends.”
Her brother snorted. “Not to mention your less-than-close friends and the other half of Paris. Although I thought it was love at first sight between Delacroix and yourself. All Paris thought it was.”
Jemma looked insulted. “Absolutely not! I spoke to each of my intimate friends before I allowed myself to feel a patch of affection for the man. That is my invariable practice. A man about whom one knows nothing is invariably boring or diseased.”
“There you have it, Lady Roberta. You might want to rethink your love at first sight,” Damon said.
“I do know quite a lot about him,” Roberta said shyly.
“If there is one thing in the world that I love it’s a challenge,” Jemma said. “The bigger the challenge, the better!”
Roberta took a deep breath. And told them.
She was answered by silence.
Chapter 4
That afternoon
H arriet, Duchess of Berrow, hadn’t been in London for a year, and she hadn’t been to Beaumont House in at least eight. It was just the same, of course: a huge, jumbled assortment of mullioned windows and towers that had no place in London. Terraces sprawled on two sides, in blatant defiance of the properly contained attitude of a townhouse. It looked as if it had been picked up in Northamptonshire, transported by a giant’s hand to London, and plopped down on the street. The other houses around it—elegantly built in the Portland stone everyone preferred—looked positively affronted at having to reside beside such a monstrosity.