Dedication
This is where I’m supposed to write some pithy little Instagrammable sound bite, but this book isn’t dedicated to anyone but me. Keep up the great work, gorgeous!
The High Tea
Society Papers
Sweet sippers, do we have a scandal for you!
Some attendees of Lady Harthington’s resplendent Snowdrop Ball received an eye full of more than they’d likely expected to see this past week. Cuckolded by his own valet in plain sight of the manor — a parvenue scandal with a capital P! Our loyal little serving spoons tell us the lady of disrepute was one Miss E, and we have no doubt the wick she had left on the embers of his Lordship’s generosity has been thoroughly extinguished. This tea trollop has surely seen the end on her season, for no respectable lady would act in such a way. Good riddance, we say!
Sip slowly, my dears!
Lady Grey
Eleanor
Dear Miss Eastwick,
On account of the unfortunate incident involving Lord Pemberly and his valet at Lady Harthington’s Ball, Her Majesty has no choice but to deem your Season a failure. With no other suitors of an appropriate station and no dowry, you are hereby ordered to attend the Monsters Ball, your last hope of securing a marriage for the Season.
The parchment crumpled in her fist as her hand closed. The letter from the Queen was the ultimate humiliation. So kind of Her Majesty to ensure you’ll never forget how utterly inept and unmarriageable you are. Eleanor wasn’t sure why she kept punishing herself by reading it over and over again. Perhaps as a way to remind herself of the precariousness of her position and how important this last card to play was, she reminded herself, placing the letter in an empty drawer, tucked out of sight, wishing she could hide away her humiliation as easily.
The High Tea had recounted the entire mortifying incident to all of London society, making her and Lord Pemberley both laughingstocks. Some attendees of Lady Harthington’s resplendent Snowdrop Ball received an eye full of more than they’d likely expected to see this past week. Cuckolded by his own valet in plain sight of the manor — a parvenue scandal with a capital P! Our loyal little serving spoons tell us the lady of disrepute was one Miss E, and we have no doubt the wick she had left on the embers of his Lordship’s generosity has been thoroughly extinguished. Good riddance, we say!
Her face heated further at the thought. The High Tea was the scourge of London. A gossip publication devoted to the ton’s marriage market, they had eyes at every ball, every garden soirée, every riding excursion, and game of croquet. Perhaps he hadn’t seen it. After all, lords of high standing had no use for trivial gossip. This Marquis of Basingstone likely wouldn’t either. I’m sure he has more important things to worry about than some silly inaccurate slander.
The incident with Lord Pemberley’s valet was not her fault. The man was rude and quite insistent in his failed manners, and she hadn’t required his assistance in the first place. If he was going to offer his hand to help her descend the carriage steps, the least he could have done was to ensure the pathway was cleared of loose stones and frolicking spaniels. That Lord Pemberley had turned just in time to see her sprawled out over his manservant — her knees coming down on either side of his legs as if she were mounting a horse, clawing at his waistcoat to regain her balance, the man’s big hand attempting to steady her and instead cupping a generous handful of her posterior — was all simply a dreadful misunderstanding.
She should have cut her losses then, but like the foolish optimist she was, she had continued into the ball, hoping against hope that the incident outside would remain in the dust. Her faith in her fellow revelers was misplaced. Lady Harthington eyed her as if she were a particularly unattractive bug every time Eleanor happened to find herself in the crosshairs of the woman’s gaze, and Lord Pemberley seemed intent on forgetting she existed. She wound up spending most of the evening sitting at a cluster of tables with the other wallflowers, wishing she had simply stayed in Paris.
A failure. A failure. A failure. Heat rose to her cheeks every time she read the blasted missive, and Eleanor knew that moment was no exception. Pull yourself together. He’s going to be here any moment; you don’t need to look like a strawberry when he does.
Resting her forehead against the cool marble on the side of the fireplace, she sucked in a centering breath, counting to three before turning, casting her gaze over the room once more. Everything was perfect. Or at least as perfect as they could make it under the circumstances. The table was set for tea. The sterling tea service belonged to her grandmother, a wedding gift, and Eleanor had repolished it that morning herself, ensuring that she could see her face in the surface of the pot and sugar bowl and in each dainty spoon. Fresh flowers were set in a cut crystal vase in the center of the table, and the firelight winked off the leaded glass. If the sun were shining, it would have cast her prison of rainbows on the far wall beyond the base, but as it was the middle of the night, the effect was only aided by the lamps and candles around the room.
Eleanor went around fluffing chintz pillows and straightening the curtains, ensuring the side window that overlooked the garden was framed in a way that gave the room an ethereal, moonlit glow. Lucy had been practicing her tea-making skills for nearly two weeks in preparation for that night. She’d finally achieved the mastery of steeping the tea just long enough to achieve a rich golden hue from the tightly rolled leaves, removing the kettle from the heat and decanting the leaf-less tea into the sterling pot before it turned bitter. She and Coraline had painstakingly prepared the dainty savories, turning each tiny square of quiche and smoked ham into a culinary delicacy fit for the Queen herself. Hopefully, fit enough for the Marquis of Basingstone. His Lordship didn’t need to know that his meal had been prepared by children, for she certainly didn’t anticipate that he would ask to speak with the cook.
The tea service would fetch a fine price at auction if it came to that. The tea set and the needlepoint chairs, the fine crystal, and all of the porcelain. The grandfather clock in the front hall had a face inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and Eleanor was certain that, too, would do handsomely if it was sold to the right bidder. She had already sold off most of mother’s jewelry, saving one special piece for each of the girls. Father’s silver-topped walking stick had gone the way of the baubles and gems, along with the pianoforte that had been her entire childhood. Soon the house would be an empty shell as she sold off their belongings one by one. Like a cavernous dollhouse, devoid of furniture or dolls or any carefree little girl to play with it, all of their memories and fine things scattered to the wind like ashes.
Stop it. He’s going to be here any moment. You need to remember yourself. Remember your manners. Show him that you are, in fact, a lady of good standing. Uncle Efraim wouldn’t have suggested this if the Monsters Ball wasn’t your last hope. Drawing in another deep breath, Eleanor moved back to the fireplace, posing herself in a way that she hoped was alluring, and readied herself. She was already able to hear the clip-clop of horse hooves and knew that would likely be his carriage. This is it. She was going to be taking courting advice from some dreadful old man, possibly one with a wandering hand, but if he had a nephew or a cousin of marrying age, it would be all worth it in the end. You’re doing this for the girl.