that true brilliance is in the details.”
“That’s rather cruel, isn’t it? I should go back and tell her.”
Olivia gave her a sour look. “Certainly, if you’re the sort of person who would betray a friend’s confidence. And you wish to humiliate me.”
“I don’t, of course, but—”
“She didn’t have to come,” Olivia interrupted. “Nobody is making her moon over a certain gentleman. Or pay attention to anonymous notes. She could simply invite him to call on her, couldn’t she?”
“I suppose Miss Reynolds would see that as too forward.”
“They’re pretty well acquainted. They portrayed lovers in a play last autumn. And it would be much more sensible than lurking by an ancient god’s foot, wouldn’t it?”
They were fair points, but Verity remained uncomfortable. “Promise you won’t send her any more notes.”
“Pah, you’re no fun.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Oh very well, Miss Prim. I swear.” Olivia put a hand over her heart.
Verity didn’t like being thought stuffy, but Miss Reynolds had looked so forlorn. She still wondered about going back to tell her the truth, but just then they reached the rooms displaying items from Captain Cook’s voyages. Immediately, Olivia was full of amusing comments and charming questions, reminding Verity of why she’d liked her in the first place. She also made no complaint as Verity examined every piece and imagined what it had been like to come upon them in a newfound landscape. Still, the rest of the tour was not quite as delightful as Verity had imagined it would be.
It was late afternoon before they returned to Olivia’s home, and when they entered the drawing room, they found Lord Randolph there, inquiring after Hilda. “She slipped away from Sebastian’s house,” he told them. “And as he is on duty, I’ve been delegated to find her. I thought she might be visiting Miss Beatrice.”
“Who is not here,” said Olivia’s mother. “She said she was going to practice dramatic speeches in her bedchamber.” The lady sighed. “We appreciated her thoughtfulness in sparing us.”
Olivia snorted.
“Perhaps she’s been kidnapped by pirates,” suggested Peter, who was once again lounging on the drawing room sofa, nursing his broken arm.
“Pirates wouldn’t want her,” replied his younger sister, Selina, looking up from her card game.
“They wouldn’t want you!” exclaimed her opponent, five-year-old Gerard. “You’re cheating again. I know you are.”
“I’ll search Beatrice’s room,” said Olivia above the noise of their dispute.
“Nurse looked,” said her mother.
“She doesn’t know Beatrice’s hidey-holes.” Olivia went out.
Randolph was relieved that the two girls were most likely together. Hilda thought she was up to anything, an opinion for which she had some justification. She was clever and fearless. But London held hazards beyond her experience.
“Did Olivia enjoy the museum?” asked Mrs. Townsend, amusement clear in her voice.
“She liked Apollo’s toes,” said Miss Sinclair in an oddly dry tone.
“You went to the British Museum?” asked Randolph. “Did you see Ramses?”
“No.”
It seemed she hadn’t liked the exhibits. Or perhaps she didn’t know the name. “He was an Egyptian ruler many thousands of—”
“I know,” interrupted Miss Sinclair. “It is impossible to see everything in the museum in one visit.”
Her friend returned, waving a piece of notepaper. “I’ve got it. They’ve gone to visit Mrs. Siddons.”
“The actress?” Randolph was startled.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Townsend. “Beatrice saw her in Douglas. She found her suicide scene utterly devastating. People say this play may be Mrs. Siddons’s last.”
“But how did she come to know the lady?” Randolph asked. Mrs. Siddons was a respected figure, unlike some other women of the theater, but schoolgirls weren’t likely to be acquainted with her.
“Wrote to her, apparently,” Miss Townsend answered. “Multiple times, I would imagine. The poor lady finally gave in to the siege and invited her to call.” She brandished the page as evidence. “What a poor conspirator Beatrice is. She left this in her ‘secret’ cache under a loose floorboard. Can she have forgotten that she showed me the place? I’ll have to teach her proper plotting.”
Randolph didn’t understand the look Miss Sinclair gave her. “Does she give her address? I’ll go and fetch them.”
“I don’t suppose we could just let Beatrice come home on her own,” said Mrs. Townsend. She added, “No,” just as Randolph said the same. “She really cannot go haring off without telling me,” their hostess continued.
And something might have happened to them, Randolph thought but didn’t say. Wasn’t it getting rather late for visiting? “I’ll return her to you.” He held out his hand for the note. “May I see?”
“I’ll keep this,” replied Miss Townsend. “The address is Westbourne Green. Where will we find