Sylvia glanced back at this woman who’d become her friend, and then at Annalee, who looked over the room with a like happiness. “This is ours,” Annalee said. And after living without ever really having anything of her own, there came a thrill of triumph in this.
The moment proved short-lived.
Someone shoved the door open hard, and as one, Sylvia and her new living companions whipped their gazes in that direction.
Their butler, Mr. Flyaway, a former fighter Lila’s husband had arranged to work in the new role of head servant, frowned at them. “There be someone at the door,” he said without preamble or bow. Unconventional in his delivery, the burly man had nearly brought Sylvia’s mother to a faint upon her first visit. “Not a relative.” Sylvia, however, found his direct style refreshing. “It be a young lady.” He handed over a card.
Accepting it, Sylvia looked at the name emblazoned there. “Miss Emma Gately,” she murmured, and looked questioningly to her friends.
Valerie shrugged. “You know I don’t know . . . any of those sort. Not ladies.”
Yes, having been born outside the peerage and living on the streets of East London, she hadn’t had many dealings with members of Polite Society.
“And she’s not someone I keep company with,” Annalee offered, and then she flashed a wicked half smile. “Which likely means she’s polite people.”
Polite people. As in members of the ton.
“Shall I send her away?” Mr. Flyaway asked impatiently.
“Yes,” Annalee said. Uncorking her flask, she took a sip. “See that you do.”
And yet . . .
“Wait!” Sylvia called. Three sets of eyes went to her. “Show her in. I’ll see her.”
“She’s got company with her. Two other ladies, one a sister. One a friend, she said.”
Sylvia’s intrigue redoubled, along with her worry. What reason would not one but three ladies have to seek her out? Unless they were somehow connected with the Fight Society?
The moment the thought slid in, she shook her head, refusing to let herself think of it.
“Sylvia?” Valerie spoke in a gentle voice. “Are you certain you want to receive them? Annalee and I can go see what they are here about.”
They would shield her. It was thoughtful and kind, and yet, Sylvia was tired to her soul of being someone whom people felt they needed to protect.
“Please send them in, Mr. Flyaway,” Sylvia repeated, and the butler hurried off.
A short while later, he showed in a trio of ladies. The three, all dressed in meticulous white, high-necked, heavily ruffled gowns, filed into the room. That was, however, where all similarities ended: one possessed crimson curls, another dark ringlets, and the third, the somewhat gangly, tall leader of that group, honey-blonde hair that had been drawn back severely at her nape.
Though Sylvia assessed the tall one to be a mere eighteen or nineteen, the young lady had a serious look to her. She also possessed a determined set to her mouth as she glanced amongst Sylvia, Annalee, and Valerie . . . before ultimately settling all her attention on Sylvia.
Mr. Flyaway drew the door shut behind them.
“May I help you?” Sylvia asked gently.
“Are you the Countess of Norfolk?” the blonde asked in surprisingly firm and decisive tones for one so young. Sylvia hadn’t been anywhere nearly as self-assured when she’d been this girl’s age.
Annalee reached for her silver case and removed a cheroot. Touching that tip to a nearby candle she always kept lit for such a necessity, she took a draw and exhaled out the side of her mouth. “Who is asking?” she answered for Sylvia.
“I told you,” the dark-haired woman whispered none too discreetly to the lady at the center of her group. “This was a silly idea—”
“Hush,” the blonde lady said dismissively . . . and commandingly. She proceeded on with introductions. “My name is Miss Emma Gately, and this is my younger sister, Miss Isla Gately.” Her sister dipped a curtsy. “And my dear friend, Lady Olivia Watley.” Lady Olivia offered a curtsy of her own.
There came a brief pause. “And how may I help you?” Sylvia asked, looking at them.
There came the first spark of indecision in Miss Emma Gately’s eyes. “You are independent. Establishing this . . . society. And I would ask to be part of it. To learn from you, how to assert myself and to be interesting, and . . . also, to determine what I might do to win the heart of a gentleman.”
A . . . society? Sylvia rubbed at her temple, wholly befuddled. “I’m sorry?” she ventured, as even Annalee, who was always ready with a retort, found herself gape-mouthed and silent.
“Her betrothed doesn’t like her,” Isla Gately blurted, earning a sharp look from Emma. “What?” The younger girl shifted back and forth. “He doesn’t.”
Miss Emma Gately bristled. “That is neither here nor there; the part that matters is . . . learning how to assert one’s independence. How to be in control of one’s life and future marriage and—”
“Why don’t we slow down a bit,” Valerie interrupted.
Sylvia motioned to the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit?”
Moving in unison, the girls ventured deeper into the room and claimed the indicated seating.
“Now,” Sylvia began when she and Annalee and Valerie had also found their chairs. “Perhaps you might explain a bit more about who you are and how you think I might help you, Miss Gately?”
“Emma,” the young woman offered. “My name is Emma, and”—she drew in a breath—“I’ve been betrothed since I was a babe of only six.”
Silence met that pronouncement.
“That is . . . horrific,” Annalee said, and took another pull from her cheroot.
“Indeed,” Emma agreed. “To the Earl of Scarsdale. Our families are close and thought the best way to cement that connection was through two of their children.”
Sylvia stiffened. The earl, one of her late husband’s closest friends, was a rogue of the first order.
Emma’s gaze homed in on Sylvia. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question but an astute observation for one so young.
“I do.” And perhaps it was only that she’d just moved in and was tired from the work they’d done in their new residence, all while caring for a child, but Sylvia spoke without restraint. “And neither do I think you should go about transforming yourself for him, or for any man. But especially not him.”
“I told you!” Lady Olivia exclaimed, and then shifted her attention from Emma over to Sylvia. “I’ve told her time and time again that she doesn’t want to win such a man.” Unfamiliar to Sylvia until now, the young woman grew in her estimation.
With her cheroot clamped between her lips, Annalee clapped her hands. “Clever girl.”
“I’m twenty-one years old. Not so much a girl,” Lady Olivia replied.
“You came here, asking me to help you marry a man?” Sylvia said to Emma. “Well, I’d be more inclined to tell you how and why to avoid marriage to such a man.” She paused. “Any man,” she amended. “Not a single one of them is worth tying oneself to, particularly a scapegrace like Scarsdale, who wouldn’t have the sense to see you.”