she’d simply snagged the closest sleeve available to her and blurted out something desperate. The only thought in her head had been getting safely away from Sir Reginald in a manner that wouldn’t earn her his wrath or punishment. He had been pursuing her for too long that night, her polite refusals meaning nothing to him, and the influence of too much of the evening’s good wine had emboldened him. A dance with him could have ruined her before any plan had the chance to come to fruition.
Hence the desperation.
A desperation, which, unfortunately, surpassed any recollection of the actual person with whom she had danced. He was tall, he scowled, and he had dark hair. Beyond that, there was nothing in her mind to recollect Lord Radcliffe at all.
It seemed a shame to learn the name of the man from someone else, but to also doubt she would know him again should their paths cross once more. Hardly respectable, hardly polite.
So much for making a good impression with Society.
There wasn’t much she could do about that, and there wasn’t much she could say for herself. Her attendance at events would give her more opportunity to improve her abilities at names and faces when under impossible stress from Sir Reginald. However, she would seriously consider returning to Scotland if he began to appear at every event she attended.
The thought of her native land filled her with familiar pangs of longing, and she inhaled deeply, as if the stale London air could somehow match that of her beloved Highlands.
Home had ceased to be so for some time now, and her family would not welcome her back should she have appeared. Her mother alone, perhaps, and her younger sister if she were in the proper mood, but her father would turn her away at once. She had no fortune now that her husband was dead, and the family had wasted her dowry on a man who’d died before the ink dried on the contract.
Or so the latest letter from her father had said.
Her duty now was to find another husband and use whatever provisions Archie had left her to make the most of it. Edith didn’t have the heart to tell her father that Archie had left her almost nothing and that she wouldn’t be in a position to give her father the ties to Society he was seeking.
He might have told her to go along with Sir Reginald’s schemes, for all she knew. He’d had no problem with selling his daughter to her first husband; having his daughter be mistress to a baronet might have been a capital idea to him. Provided she could benefit financially from the connection, and the family could, as well.
If only she had the means to return to Scotland without returning to her family. There would be so much freedom and joy in that. But freedom and joy were not in the cards for Edith at present, and perhaps not even in the future.
She would settle for security and self-respect. Maybe even security alone.
Edith shook her head and raised her chin as she approached Charlotte’s home, knowing that her friend was rather inclined to looking out of the windows in anticipation of arrivals. She would never escape the meeting without interrogation if she were caught making anything less than a pleasant face.
She had a feeling there would be questions enough for her as it was.
Entering the grand house, Edith sighed to herself as she shrugged out of her worn cloak. The maids in the Wright household were well used to her tattered things and controlled their expressions accordingly. She never apologized for the state of her clothing, and they treated her as they did every other guest in the house.
It was a well-choreographed pantomime.
“If you’ll follow me, Lady Edith,” the friendly housekeeper said with a gesture towards the drawing rooms.
Edith refrained from reminding the woman that she knew full well where Charlotte’s favorite drawing room was, having been to the house almost weekly for a year or so. She needed to keep all the good connections she could, even if they be servants in the grand houses. If Sir Reginald got his way, or if Edith had to resort to less respectable means of securing her future, these guardians of the entrance would be key to not losing every connection Edith had in the world.
The sound of at least a dozen doors slamming shut rang in her mind in the imagined scenario, and she shuddered at hearing