a chair in here eventually,” she promised, not for the first time.
Edith was in truth Lady Edith Charbonneau, an earl’s daughter. Had her father not died deeply in debt and without an heir, Edith’s life would have proceeded in a far loftier realm than Rowena’s. But it hadn’t. After being orphaned as a young adult, left to care for her teenage step-brother, Edith had taken a post as a lady’s companion to the Duchess of Emory—the present duke’s mother. Edith and Rowena had been permitted to occupy the same space between gentility and those who earned their bread, and therein they made friends.
After two years of seeming domestic tranquility, Edith had left her post abruptly some five months before. She told Rowena she was pleased to have more time to work on a manuscript of domestic advice, which once sold, would secure the financial future of both Edith and the step-brother, Foster, for whom she served as guardian.
This wasn’t an explanation of why, or what had happened. But Edith didn’t share explanations easily. She was a Gunter’s ice in person: elegant, beautifully constructed, cool, sweet. She was also so very much that she sometimes made Rowena feel quite medium. She was very tall, very pretty, very well-mannered, very vigorous, very intelligent—and very independent. She’d been very fashionable as well, though in recent months, the threat of penury had led her to sell whatever could be sold. She now wore an unfashionable pink cloak over a gown stripped of all ornament—yet not even this could chip at her dignity.
She was also very kind, which made her a most excellent friend, and she understood how quickly fortunes could fall and privilege could be destroyed.
So Rowena wouldn’t pry into her friend’s reasons for leaving what seemed to be a good post. She could merely accept what Edith told her, offer a listening ear and a stack of novels, and carry on with her work.
“Working, working,” Edith commiserated. “How busy you keep. Have you had any news from your landlord?”
“None that’s good.” Briefly, Rowena explained her plans with Simon Thorn to increase income and better advertise the shop. “I’ll reap great rewards in a few months, maybe even a few weeks. But it might not be soon enough.” She hated to think about that, so she hadn’t been—but ignoring the problem over time had only made it more urgent.
Edith poured out a cup from the teapot Alice had left in the workshop that morning, adding milk and sugar to her tea. When she spooned in yet more sugar, Rowena wakened to the awareness of other problems beside her own. Had her friend eaten that day? Edith was looking thin, and it would be just like her to give her own breakfast to Foster.
So Rowena made up an excuse. “I’m hungry. Will you join me in a scone? Cook made some yesterday, and they’ll be dense as rocks if we don’t finish them today.”
“You eat while you’re working?”
Rowena set aside the tools she’d been using to pry apart the unfortunate violin for the shop window. “I can pause for a few minutes.” She rang for Alice and ordered a tray.
As she spoke, she noticed that Edith drank deeply of her tea, wincing at the heat even as her eyes closed in relief. When Alice departed, Edith smiled. “Thoughtful of you, Rowena. I’ll be delighted to share your prandial pleasures.”
“Prandial pleasures,” Rowena echoed with a laugh. “I’m hearing alliteration everywhere. This is what comes from reading How to Ruin a Duke.”
“I wouldn’t know, since you won’t relinquish it,” Edith said crisply.
“It’s the greatest guessing game society’s played in a long while. Every other customer in my shop is speculating about who the author might be. The butler in Emory’s household? That poor woman the duke all but jilted last year? Everybody has a theory.”
Edith looked thoughtful, cradling her teacup in slender hands. “I begin to wonder myself, Ro. Emory always seemed dignified to me. I know men can behave quite differently when ladies aren’t around, but Emory…” She trailed off and stared into the teacup, as if fortunes might be read in the dregs.
“I thought you didn’t care for him,” Rowena said delicately. Edith had never said so directly, but her silences could be telling.
“I respected him, and his current situation would try the patience of a saint. I do not envy the author of this book when Emory discovers his or her identity. There’s ruin, and then there’s ruin.”
Rowena suspected that Edith understood real ruin