“…sixty-three, seventy, seventy-seven…”
She looked at her uncle. He was eating. He wasn’t even looking at her.
“…eighty-two, eighty-nine…”
“Eh, that’s enough,” Lord Davenport announced, coming in right atop the eighty-two.
The giddy feeling in her chest quickly drained away. She’d rebelled—possibly for the first time in her entire life—and no one had noticed. She’d waited too long.
She wondered what else she should have done already.
“Well done,” Haselby said, with an encouraging smile.
Lucy managed a little smile in return. He really wasn’t bad. In fact, if not for Gregory, she would have thought him a rather fine choice. Haselby’s hair was perhaps a little thin, and actually he was a little th
in as well, but that wasn’t really anything to complain about. Especially as his personality—surely the most important aspect of any man—was perfectly agreeable. They had managed a short conversation before supper while his father and her uncle were discussing politics, and he had been quite charming. He’d even made a dry, sideways sort of joke about his father, accompanied by a roll of the eyes that had made Lucy chuckle.
Truly, she shouldn’t complain.
And she didn’t. She wouldn’t. She just wished for something else.
“I trust you acquitted yourself acceptably at Miss Moss’s?” Lord Davenport asked, his eyes narrowed just enough to make his query not precisely friendly.
“Yes, of course,” Lucy replied, blinking with surprise. She’d thought the conversation had veered away from her.
“Excellent institution,” Davenport said, chewing on a piece of roasted lamb. “They know what a girl should and should not know. Winslow’s daughter went there. Fordham’s, too.”
“Yes,” Lucy murmured, since a reply seemed to be expected. “They are both very sweet girls,” she lied. Sybilla Winslow was a nasty little tyrant who thought it good fun to pinch the upper arms of the younger students.
But for the first time that evening, Lord Davenport appeared to be pleased with her. “You know them well, then?” he asked.
“Er, somewhat,” Lucy hedged. “Lady Joanna was a bit older, but it’s not a large school. One can’t really not know the other students.”
“Good.” Lord Davenport nodded approvingly, his jowls quivering with the movement.
Lucy tried not to look.
“These are the people you will need to know,” he went on. “Connections that you must cultivate.”
Lucy nodded dutifully, all the while making a mental list of all the places she would rather be. Paris, Venice, Greece, although weren’t they at war? No matter. She would still rather be in Greece.
“…responsibility to the name…certain standards of behavior…”
Was it very hot in the Orient? She’d always admired Chinese vases.
“…will not tolerate any deviation from…”
What was the name of that dreadful section of town? St. Giles? Yes, she’d rather be there as well.
“…obligations. Obligations!”
This last was accompanied by a fist on the table, causing the silver to rattle and Lucy to jerk in her seat. Even Aunt Harriet looked up from her food.
Lucy snapped to attention, and because all eyes were on her, she said, “Yes?”
Lord Davenport leaned in, almost menacingly. “Someday you will be Lady Davenport. You will have obligations. Many obligations.”
Lucy managed to stretch her lips just enough to count as a response. Dear God, when would this evening end?