Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

She blinked and gave a little laugh. “Oh, no, Miles.”

“I like a plainspoken woman, in fact.” He managed to don a falsely penitent look. “Although this preference is a recent discovery. I must confess to a perverse enjoyment when being taken to task. It is rather . . . invigorating, I find.”

Jenny’s hand trembled. He watched her clatter her cup on the saucer. The sound seemed to startle her, and the cup began to tip. She tried to right it and only succeeded in doing worse. It toppled, spilling chocolate down the front of her bodice.

Iris cried out in alarm. “Oh dear, are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Jenny stammered. “Thank goodness it wasn’t hot. Oh, dear, now we surely shall be late.”

“Today of all days.” Iris cast a worried look at Hatherleigh. “This will make a terrible first impression. The Reverend Morley abhors tardiness. Do you recall what he did to Amelia Cosgrove last spring, pointing her out to everyone as she took her seat late? I swear, the poor woman’s complexion was as red as a ripe cherry for a week.”

Brent came to the door. “Madam, the carriage is in front.”

“Oh, dear,” Iris cried, wringing her hands.

“I shall hurry and change,” Jenny assured her and started for the door.

“We shall never make it to our pew before Reverend Morley’s procession!” Iris looked apoplectic.

Miles acted quickly. “I suggest then that you and Cassandra go on ahead, and I will bring Jenny right behind, using my carriage. I am certain we can have her put to rights and be under way without too much delay. Have your man send word to have my carriage brought around.”

“No!” Cassandra cried, then gathered herself together and spoke more reasonably. “That is quite unnecessary. Jenny will make haste—go on, Jenny. We should all arrive together. Mother, tell him that is a terrible idea.”

Jenny didn’t move—she did not take orders from Cassandra, Miles was proud to see—and Iris hesitated. “I think we should go, Cassandra. I could make some excuse . . . well, the truth will suffice, and perhaps Reverend Morley will understand if I forewarn him.” She waved to her daughter. “Come, hurry, so that we can arrive while he is still out greeting everyone.”

“I’ll stay as well, then,” Cassandra declared. “You go on, Mother. I will be along with Jenny and Miles.”

“Do not be ridiculous, Cassandra,” Hatherleigh said flatly. “Do you not think it unseemly for your mother to go into church alone and have the whole of her family lagging behind? We will be but a moment.”

Cassandra was clearly frustrated. Miles supposed he should be flattered, but an idea occurred to him that made him suspicious of the young girl. Was it her possessiveness that had caused Jenny to keep her distance?

Iris spoke in a firm voice. “I think it best, Cassandra. Please come along.”

Leveling a narrow look at her cousin, Cassandra snapped, “Jenny, why do you have to be such a bother? Oh, all right. Try to hurry, will you?” She flounced and followed her mother out of the house.

Jenny looked to Miles, bewildered for a moment. He suppressed the urge to rub his hands together, for he was quite pleased.

He said, “I would like to avoid being dogged by the infamous reverend. Could you make haste?”

As she hurried away, he called after her, “Come directly out to the carrigeway when you are finished. I will be waiting at the door.”

It did not take her long to change. She emerged less than a quarter of an hour later in a fresh dress, her hat in her hand.

“Excellent, Miss Alt. Your speed is appreciated.” Kicking the fold-out step into place, Miles held out his hand to her. He saw that she hesitated, her eyes wary behind her lenses. He waited, hiking one brow. “We must be under way,” he reminded her.

She took his hand with a shrug and allowed him to hand her into the carriage, where she pretended to fuss with her dress while he reclined in the seat across from her. He rapped upon the wall behind him, a signal for the driver to go.

She pushed up her glasses nervously. “I thank you for waiting for me. I am not normally late, not as a rule. But . . . What are you looking at?”

He raised a finger and pointed at her, waving it generally in the region of her head. “You might wish to don your hat.”

Quickly, she jammed the hat on her head. As she was about to place in the pin, he shook his head. “Oh, dear. It looks like a sparrow collided with your head.”

Adjusting the angle, she asked, “Is this better?”

Leaning forward, he studied her critically. “Not that I’m an expert on these things,” he said, and grabbed one side, giving it a neck-jarring yank. “That should do.”

She winced. “Well, I suppose that does it for my hair. It is no doubt squashed unmercifully.”