There was no trace of deception in his face. So he was no help. Verity shifted impatiently, wondering if this evening would ever end.
The crowd of chattering guests shifted, and she saw Georgina and Emma through a gap. Lord Sebastian’s wife was as beautiful as ever, but Emma looked positively radiant. Verity had never seen her appear so happy.
“Interesting,” Lord Robert said.
“What?”
“Lady Emma’s new glow. We must go and investigate.”
“You notice such things?” So how could he have missed his brother’s youthful attachment?
“A pink of the ton knows all,” replied Lord Robert lightly. “It is part of our…compelling appeal. So I have to make sure that I do.”
“Know all?”
“Precisely.”
“But no one can, can they? All is far too big.” They moved toward the Stane ladies.
“Very perceptive, Miss Sinclair. A great deal of it is sleight of hand. Or sleight of mind, I should say.” He seemed to be amusing himself. “Switch ideas so adroitly that people don’t even notice they’ve been diverted. Better yet, make them laugh.”
Emma did when they joined her, without any ploy from the famous Pink. “I’m going to marry Mr. Lionel Packenham,” she told Verity. “He called this morning and made an offer. It was the most romantic thing.”
“Ah,” said Lord Robert. “Splendid.” Having discovered the cause of Emma’s glow, he fell into conversation with Georgina. They moved away a little.
Mr. Packenham was the gentleman Olivia had characterized as a wet fish, Verity remembered. The one with such a perfect pedigree and pile of money that he didn’t “require a chin.” She could picture him. He wasn’t handsome, but he had a shy, pleasant smile. “I’m not well acquainted with Mr. Packenham.”
Emma nodded. “He doesn’t push himself forward. Or foist his opinions on people who aren’t the least interested.”
This seemed a curious encomium for a bridegroom.
“Indeed, he doesn’t have a head full of opinions,” Emma added.
“And you like that about him?” Verity asked.
“Excessively. He’s very kind and…peaceful.” She blinked and nodded. “We are agreed that we shall have a calm, regular life. I will set my own routines. And no one will get me into trouble when I don’t even want to do the thing,” she finished fiercely.
Verity had never seen Emma so vehement.
“Lionel thinks I’m perfect,” she went on. “He said so. He doesn’t dismiss me as a less pretty version of Georgina, or stupider and less lively than Hilda. He hasn’t even met Hilda.” She said it triumphantly.
“Of course you aren’t those things.”
“I’ll get up each morning knowing just what will happen,” Emma said. “My household will be quiet and ordered and soothing.”
“You don’t think that will be a bit boring?” Verity couldn’t help but ask.
“Not in the least! It sounds like…heaven.”
And probably a pipe dream, Verity thought. But there was no reason to spoil her friend’s mood.
“Also, Lionel is not particularly fond of dogs.” Emma spoke as if this was a precious virtue. “Did you know that my mama has twenty-three pugs? She breeds them. We shall have no canines, of any kind. Lionel’s not interested in history either. Not at all. He would never make a child of his memorize some moldy old saga! He was shocked at the idea that I had to do so. And he thinks, very rightly, that creatures like badgers should be left to gamekeepers.”
Rather bewildered, Verity realized that Emma’s glow was partly smug satisfaction. She was pleased with herself, with her purposeful acquisition of Mr. Packenham. Verity tried to picture dire encounters between her friend and ravening badgers. Her imagination failed. You never knew about people, she thought. Even the quiet individuals had stories lurking beneath their placid surfaces, and unexpected passions. “I wish you very happy,” she said.
“I intend to be. You and Randolph must come and visit us in Somerset. You won’t want to bring a dog, will you?”
Unlike Emma, she had no clear picture of her future, Verity thought. It had veered into uncharted territory. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well, you should,” Emma said. “If you want things to be as you wish, you have to think about it. Not just dogs, I mean. Everything.”
From an unexpected source came wise advice.
Nineteen
Randolph sat in his room holding the lute, but not playing. Exhaustion was at the root of this lethargy, he thought. He hadn’t slept well for many days. When he was more rested, he’d see what needed to be done. He ought to climb into bed right now in fact, even though it wasn’t yet ten. Would he rest any better tonight