“I would be glad to hear any advice you could give me,” said Beatrice. She was uncommonly assured for her age. “I am dedicated to the stage. Particularly the comic roles. I was named for a character in Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing, you know.”
“Not Dante?” murmured Flora.
Only Robert and Randolph appeared to hear.
“Does your family let you act?” asked Hilda.
“However would they stop me?”
“Lock you in your room?”
Beatrice met Hilda’s eyes. Randolph watched the two girls exchange a wealth of silent information. An instant alliance seemed to form, and Hilda went to sit beside Beatrice on the sofa. They soon had their heads together in an intense, inaudible conversation. Randolph was struck by an elusive resemblance between them. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first. Hilda was blond and green-eyed and Beatrice dark, with the stockier figure. Then he got it. They had the same stubborn set to their chins.
Miss Townsend chattered on about Lady Victoria Moreton’s December wedding, in which she had served as a bridesmaid. The topic appeared to amuse Robert and Flora more than Randolph would have expected. He barely listened, straining to overhear what Hilda and Beatrice were plotting. Because they clearly were plotting. They weren’t sophisticated enough to disguise it.
“So Miss Reynolds is also in London,” Olivia said. “Do you have her direction? I should call, of course.”
Flora looked surprised, then pleased. She readily gave the address. A few minutes later, Olivia rose to go. The grins that Hilda and Beatrice exchanged as the Townsend sisters departed only confirmed Randolph’s suspicions. Those two would bear watching.
“A pair of slightly…fatiguing young ladies,” Robert said when they were gone. Hilda frowned at him.
“Their father’s a nabob,” Flora replied. “Positively dripping with oriental jewels.”
At Robert’s raised eyebrow, she looked self-conscious. Indeed, the remark wasn’t like her, Randolph thought.
“I’m quoting an acquaintance,” Flora added. “Their mother is a relation of the Duke of Devonshire.”
“Cavendish or Boyle?”
“I don’t know.” Flora turned away, dismissing the topic with a turn of her shoulder. “Are you enjoying London, Hilda?” she asked.
“I think I shall,” said Hilda, who’d obviously been filing this information away. “Even more than I expected. Miss Beatrice Townsend invited me to call on her.”
“You must ask your sister for permission,” Randolph said.
“Of course I will. But she’ll be happy. She was saying just the other day that it was too bad I hadn’t any friends of my own in London.”
Perhaps he should drop a word about Miss Townsend in Georgina’s ear, Randolph thought. He became certain of it when he mentioned the menagerie on their drive home, and Hilda said, “Oh, never mind.”
Seven
Verity waited while her landlady’s footman knocked at the door of Olivia Townsend’s home in Berkeley Street. The door opened. A tall gray-haired butler looked down at them. He would have been imposing if he hadn’t been swaying visibly, with the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat undone. The scent of brandy wafted down to them.
Verity’s escort looked at her, scandalized. Verity ignored him and mounted the step to the threshold. “Miss Verity Sinclair to see Miss Townsend,” she said.
The butler moved back, allowing them to enter. Verity’s shoe crunched on something as she walked in. There were bits of shattered crystal in the corners of the entry hall, she noticed. A chain dangled high above, where a chandelier would commonly hang.
“If you will follow me,” said the butler, articulating carefully. Walking behind him up a curving staircase, Verity was glad that he held the handrail. If he tripped, he would undoubtedly take her tumbling down with him. The man opened a door on the upper floor, gestured her through, and said, “Miss, er, to see you.” He shut the door on Verity’s heels, leaving her to face what seemed to be a crowded drawing room.
Olivia came forward, holding out her hands. “Verity!”
“‘Why, what’s the matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?’” declaimed a girl of fifteen or so who stood by the hearth. She held a book rather close to her eyes.
“Is that beastly stuff supposed to cheer me up?” interrupted a boy of perhaps ten, reclining on a sofa at the side. One of his arms was in a sling.
“You don’t deserve cheering up,” replied the reader. “Not after wreaking havoc.” She savored the final words like a connoisseur sipping a fine wine. “And it’s Shakespeare!”
A tall, square-shouldered woman rose from a chaise and moved languidly forward. “Mama, this