Lady Florence’s bosom companion sat next to her, a Miss Jane Pagril. A pretty brunette with a generous mouth that looked as if it smiled readily.

Preshea suppressed an inclination to dislike both ladies. Cheerful people were abominable.

Lord Lionel Bicker-Harrow, the only Snodgrove son present, was a match to his sisters in the matter of appearance, only a great deal more whiskered. He leaned his stocky frame against the piano where his affianced, Miss Fanny Leeton, palpated melodically.

The former actress stopped her playing to rise and curtsey upon introduction. Her execution was flawlessly subtle. The actress reminded Preshea of her days at finishing school, where she had learned the tricks of the stage from various mistresses of it and received a tongue-lashing every time she did not perform to the highest standards. Believe it or not, Preshea had once not been subtle enough – too quick to show anger, too sentimental in her expressions. Miss Leeton was so easy with her manners that Preshea envied her.

The actress approached. “Lady Villentia, how nice to meet you.”

“Miss Leeton, an honor. I’ve seen you perform. Such skill. Although I am not so fond of the theater as my late husband, and thus unfamiliar with your more recent work.” A hit and a hint that Preshea’s visits to the West End were not her idea, and that she was not inclined to let an actress forget that she was, in the end, only an actress.

Said actress took this barb with grace. “Pity. You missed some of my best work.”

“Now, now, Miss Leeton, you are engaged to Lord Lionel, are you not? I should say your best work is ahead of you as wife and mother.” Preshea could play the dutiful spouse card as hard as any actual denizen of a happy home.

Hypocritical that the third son should be allowed to marry a theatrical when the first daughter might not even consider a fortune hunter. Of course, the rules dictated that while gentlemen might marry beneath them, ladies never could. Preshea could not be too offended on behalf of the fairer sex. After all, she had climbed the social ladder herself via this exact double standard. Still, the duke’s objection to one and favor to the other might be more a matter of address than gender. For Miss Leeton had poise where Mr Jackson had none.

“Well put, Lady Villentia,” praised the Duchess of Snodgrove.

“And so sad that you were never blessed.” The actress had barbs of her own.

Preshea inclined her head. Perhaps not professionally trained, but a worthy opponent. In that one phrase the actress reminded everyone that Preshea was lacking (four marriages, none of them fertile). This cast doubt on Lady Villentia’s success as a woman. Of course, she did not know Preshea had taken precautions (children incommoded assassinations).

Preshea pretended injury. “Yes, it is sad.”

Captain Ruthven stiffened at the hurt in her voice.

Miss Leeton was as gorgeous in person as on the stage. She was not one of those actresses dependent on face paint. She had a fine straight nose, blue eyes, and a full mouth. Plus – curse it – she was tall.

Lord and Lady Blingchester comprised the final members of the party. Lord Blingchester looked like a florid and somewhat surprised codfish. Despite being younger than the duke, he was a devoted companion and political ally. His wife was of that aristocratic breed that specializes in mannish features. Snodgrove had described her as a good Christian and Miss Pagril’s aunt. Neither of which seemed to her benefit. She was squarish, stoutish, and sported a demanding coiffure.

Lady Blingchester made no attempt to hide the fact that she objected to Preshea’s presence, manners, and dress. No doubt she would interrogate her husband that night as to the presence of that woman. Preshea was accustomed to being that woman in social situations involving the Lady Blingchesters of the world.

Preshea addressed the duchess. “Thank you kindly for inviting me.” For the benefit of the others, she explained, “The duke and I are on the boards of several charitable organizations together. I do hope it is no inconvenience, Your Grace?”

Said in front of everyone, there was only one possible answer. “Certainly not, Lady Villentia. You are most welcome.”

Captain Ruthven and Mr Jackson made equally polite murmurs of gratitude.

The duchess moved them on before having to admit that either of the gentlemen was most welcome. “Your luggage is being taken up – shall we go in to tea?”

She led the way to the conservatory. The party trailed obediently after.

The conservatory was impressive, if cold. It was to be low tea, quite relaxed. To Captain Ruthven’s evident relief, a number of small sandwiches were laid on in addition to the traditional cakes.

He positioned himself near the food and inhaled more than was polite. He lurked under a palm frond of exactly the right height to drape over his head like a jaunty cap, in the apparent hope that it would hide his indulgence. Preshea found it harder then it ought to be to stop herself from smiling at the big man’s antics.

She forced herself to focus on Mr Jackson.

The fortune hunter took a chair near Lady Violet – one of the horrors of a casual tea being that precedence did not hold. The couple instantly engaged in an animated discussion on the merits of bee pollination. Preshea considered joining them, but that would appear ham-handed. She must develop a strategy first.

Instead, she conversed with Miss Pagril and Lady Florence on the upcoming season’s fashions. A topic upon which any young lady could opine.

“I like them prodigiously,” Miss Pagril said with vigor. “Contrasting colors, excess draping, the gathering of overskirts to the back. It’s harmonious.”