“Pray do not drag me into such a conversation. A man speculating on women’s ages can never get out of it without scars.”
Flora and Vanessa laughed together.
Then Flora winked at Vanessa. “Your Grace has not yet allowed me to correct your impressions about my friend’s character. The fashion part, I’ll grant you. Vanessa’s attire is always flattering and in good taste—she works hard to make it so.”
“By her judicious shopping, you mean,” he said, with annoying condescension.
“No, indeed. Vanessa spends quite some time reworking her gowns and retrimming her bonnets and hats. That sparkling net overdress on her present gown? She took it off of one of her mother’s old dresses and put it onto her plainest claret evening gown from last season. And that trim on her white satin turban? She embroidered it of gold silk thread. Once she added the dyed claret feathers, her suit of clothing was complete, with only the cost of some thread and a couple of feathers.”
Vanessa blushed at being thus unmasked. So to speak. “Heavens, Flora, don’t give away all my secrets.”
“He’s a man,” Flora said. “He probably doesn’t understand half of what I just said.”
“I beg to differ,” he put in, leveling his intent gaze on Vanessa. “My sister used to do such things. Probably still does.”
“My point is,” Flora went on, “while I will admit that Vanessa enjoys frolics and folderol as much as the next young lady, she also has hidden depths.”
“Don’t waste your breath, Flora,” Vanessa said. “He thinks me merely a frivolous fribble, and nothing you say will alter that impression.”
“I never called you a fribble,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but admit it—you think me foolish, frittering my days away in featherbrained fun.”
At Vanessa’s unconscious alliteration, Flora cocked her head. “Have you ever noticed how many words there are that begin with an F and mean something silly or useless? Especially things often attributed to ladies. Why, we’ve already mentioned frolic, frivolous, fribble, foolish, fritter, featherbrained, fun, and folderol. Then there’s flibbertigibbet and—”
“Fashion,” Vanessa said. “Men think fashion is the utmost in silly. Unless, of course, they’re talking to their tailors, at which point they all wish to be fashionable.”
Flora nodded. “Meanwhile, women are criticized for that very thing. There’s flashy and fancy and fast, fudge and fustian—”
“And ‘fuss,’” Vanessa said. “Women are always accused of making a fuss out of nothing. Except that it’s only ‘nothing’ to the men.”
“Which is why the most obvious word is ‘female,’” Sheridan drawled.
Both women gasped. When they drew themselves up to give him an earful, he held his hands up. “I’m joking, for God’s sake. There are F words meaning inconsequential used specifically for men, too, you know. Fop. Foxed. Um . . .”
Vanessa tipped up her chin. “You can’t think of any more, can you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But there are numerous words meaning ‘fool’ or ‘nonsense’ for every letter in the alphabet. A for arse, B for buffoon and blockhead and balderdash, C for clodpate and clown, D for dolt and dunderhead—all of those are generally reserved for men, by the way—and dunce—”
“Not to mention dimwit,” Flora said helpfully.
“Every letter, hmm? What about Z?” asked Vanessa.
“Zany,” Sheridan said.
“Q?”
“Questionable,” he said.
“I’ll accept that, although it’s a bit questionable.”
Sheridan rolled his eyes. “You are the soul of wit.”
Vanessa laughed. “What about P?”
“Poppycock.” He smirked at her. “I can do this all day, you know.”
A voice came from the door to the box. “Please don’t.” Mr. Juncker flicked some lint from his coat sleeve. “It’s best to leave wordplay to the writers.”
Sheridan eyed him askance. “Let a man pen a few farces and suddenly he’s an expert.”
“They’re not farces,” Vanessa said. Thanks to her bargain with Sheridan, she was forced into the position of defending Mr. Juncker. “They’re comedies, and excellent ones, too.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Sheridan drawled. “What do you think, Miss Younger?”
Belatedly, Vanessa realized she hadn’t yet introduced Mr. Juncker to Flora. But as Vanessa turned to her friend, words left her entirely. Flora’s face was the pallor of paper and her eyes were haunted.
When Vanessa looked back at Mr. Juncker, she saw him staring at Flora as if she’d risen from a grave.
“Miss Younger?” he asked in a clipped tone. “Still?”
“Yes, still.” Flora looked as if she wished to sink into the floor. “And you, sir? Are you still a bachelor?”
“I am,” Mr. Juncker said. “I’m just . . . I did not expect . . . How long have you been in London?”
“Not long.” Flora clearly wished she could be anywhere but London at the moment.
Sheridan looked at Vanessa as if seeking an explanation of this stilted interaction. She had none to give. Flora hadn’t once mentioned Mr. Juncker. Then again Vanessa had never encountered her friend at one of his plays, either.
“The two of you know each other?” Vanessa asked.
Flora merely nodded, but Mr. Juncker said, “We met in Bath. Years ago.”
Lady Whitmarsh rose, having just then noticed the new arrival in her box. “Haven’t you done enough to my dear Flora, Mr. Juncker?” She made a motion as if she were shooing a hen. “Go on now. The next act is about to begin, and you don’t want to miss your chance to glory in it.”
Apparently Lady Whitmarsh knew what had happened “years ago,” too. Now Vanessa was desperate to know it herself, although she would have to put off finding out until she could get Flora to herself.
Mr. Juncker bowed to Lady Whitmarsh and started to leave, but Sheridan called out, “Juncker, hold up! I need to speak to you.”
Vanessa tensed. What was Sheridan up to now? She didn’t trust him to keep quiet about their supposed plan to make Mr. Juncker jealous, so she followed him into the corridor just in time to hear him say, “Thorn told me to remind you that you’re invited to Thorncliff after the play.” Sheridan saw her and added, “You’re invited to Thorn’s supper as well, Miss Pryde. You and your mother.”
Mr. Juncker glanced past them through the doorway into the box, to where Flora had already turned to face the stage and Lady Whitmarsh still stood glaring at him. “Tell your half brother I had already fully meant to attend. But I may be a bit late.”
“As may we,” Sheridan said, tucking Vanessa’s hand into the crook of his elbow in a wonderfully proprietary manner.
Mr. Juncker appeared too distracted to notice. They could hear voices on the stage, signaling the beginning of the third act, but even that didn’t make him stir from contemplating the back of Flora’s head.
Then he shook himself, as if to free his body from a spider’s silken web. “I shall see you both then.” He walked back to his box, obviously deep in contemplation.