“Such an insult,” Lady Twombley murmured. “Such an insult.”

To me?Annabel wanted to ask. But she didn’t dare.

“Basil saw the whole thing,” Lady Twombley said with a wave toward her friend.

Now approaching panic, Annabel turned to the gentleman, who sighed and said, “It was quite a to-do.”

“What happened?” Annabel finally cried out.

Finally satisfied with the level of Annabel’s distress, Lady Twombley said, “Lord Newbury attacked Mr. Grey.”

Annabel felt the blood drain from her face. “What? No. That’s not possible.” Mr. Grey was young and supremely fit. And Lord Newbury was…not.

“Punched him right in the face,” Mr. Grimston said, as if it were not anything out of the ordinary.

“Oh my goodness,” Annabel said, her hand covering her mouth. “Is he all right?”

“One presumes,” Mr. Grimston replied.

Annabel looked from Lady Twombley to Mr. Grimston and back again. Damn and blast, they were going to make her askagain . “What happened next?” she asked, not without irritation.

“Words were exchanged,” Mr. Grimston said with a polite yawn, “then Lord Newbury threw his drink in Mr. Grey’s face.”

“I should have liked to have seen that,” Lady Twombley murmured. Annabel shot her a horrified look, and she just shrugged. “What we cannot prevent,” she said, “we might as well witness.”

“Did Mr. Grey hit him in return?” Annabel asked Mr. Grimston, and to her own horror she realized she was a bit giddy inside. She shouldn’t wish for one person to cause another pain, and yet—

The thought of Lord Newbury being knocked to the floor…after what he’d tried to do to her…

She had to try very hard to keep her eagerness off her face.

“He did not,” Mr. Grimston said. “Others were surprised by his restraint, but I was not.”

“He is quite a rogue,” Lady Twombley said, leaning forward with a meaningful glint in her eyes, “but he’s not arash sort, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Annabel bit off, thoroughly out of patience with her vague comments, “I don’t.”

“He cut him,” Mr. Grimston said. “Not quite the cut direct. Even he wouldn’t dare, I reckon. But I do believe he called into question his lordship’s manhood.”

Annabel gasped.

Lady Twombley laughed.

“The way I see it,” Mr. Grimston continued, “one of two things is likely to occur.”

For once, Annabel thought, she wasn’t going to have to prod. Judging from the rapacious gleam in his eye, there was no way Mr. Grimston was going to keep his thoughts to himself.

“It is quite possible,” he continued, clearly pleased with the hanging-on-every-word silence that filled the room, “that Lord Newbury will marry you immediately. He will need to defend his honor, and the quickest way to do so would be to plow you well and good.”

Annabel drew back, then felt even sicker as Mr. Grimston looked her up and down.

“You do look the sort to breed quickly,” he said.

“Indeed,” Lady Twombley added with a flick of her wrist.

“I beg your pardon,” Annabel said stiffly.

“Or,” Mr. Grimston added, “Mr. Grey will seduce you.”

“What?”

This caught Lady Twombley’s interest instantly. “Do you really think so, Basil?” she asked.

He turned to her, completely turning his back on Annabel. “Oh, to be certain. Can you think of a better way for him to exact his revenge against his uncle?”

“I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave,” Annabel said.

“Oh, I thought of a third!” Lady Twombley chimed, as if Annabel had not just attempted to evict her.

Mr. Grimston was all ears. “Really?”

“The earl could choose someone else, of course. Miss Winslow is hardly the only unmarried girl in London. No one would think less of him for looking elsewhere after what happened last night at the opera.”

“Nothing happened at the opera,” Annabel ground out.

Lady Twombley looked at her pityingly. “It doesn’t matter if anything happened or not. Surely you realize that?”

“Go on, Cressida,” Mr. Grimston said.

“Of course,” she said, as if bestowing a gift. “If Lord Newbury chooses someone else, Mr. Grey will have little reason to pursue Miss Winslow.”

“What happens then?” Annabel asked, even though she knew she should not.

They both looked at her with identically blank expressions. “Why, you’ll be a pariah,” Lady Twombley said, as if nothing could have been more obvious.

Annabel was speechless. Not so much at the words, but at the delivery. These people had come into her home—her grandparents’ home, but really, it was hers for the time being—and insulted her in every possible manner. That they were most probably correct in their predictions only made it worse.

“We are so sorry to be the bearers of unpleasant news,” Lady Twombley cooed.

“I think you should go,” Annabel said, standing. She would have liked to have made the request in a quite different manner, but she was all too aware that her reputation was now hanging by a thread, and these people—these awful, horrible people—had the power to pull out their little scissors and cut.

“Of course,” Lady Twombley said, coming to her feet. “You will be overset, I’m sure.”

“You do look flushed,” Mr. Grimston added. “Although that might just be the burgundy of your gown. You would do well to find a shade with a touch less blue to it.”

“I shall take that under advisement,” Annabel said tightly.

“Oh, you should, Miss Winslow,” Lady Twombley said, sailing to the door. “Basil has such a cunning eye for fashion. Truly.”

And just like that they were gone.

Almost.

They had just made it to the front hall when Annabel heard her grandmother’s voice. At—good heavens, Annabel looked at the clock—half ten! What on earth could have got Lady Vickers out of bed at such an hour?

Annabel spent the next ten minutes standing near the open doorway, listening to her grandmother receive the gospel according to Grimston and Twombley. What joy, she thought flatly, to hear it all again. In such impeccable detail. Finally, the front door opened and closed, and one minute later Lady Vickers stormed into the room.

“I need a drink,” she announced, “and so do you.”

Annabel did not argue.

“Annoying weasely little pair they are,” her grandmother said, tossing back her brandy in one gulp. She poured another, took a sip, then poured one for Annabel. “But they’re right, dash it all. It’s a fine mess you’ve got yourself into, my girl.”

Annabel touched her lips to the brandy. Drinking at half ten. What would her mother say?

Her grandmother shook her head. “Foolish, foolish girl. What were you thinking?”

Annabel hoped that was a rhetorical question.

“Well, I suppose you didn’t know any better.” Lady Vickers topped off her glass and sat in her favorite chair. “You’re lucky your grandfather is such a good friend to the earl. We’ll save the match yet.”

Annabel nodded dutifully, wishing…

Wishing…

Just wishing. For anything. For something good.

“Thank heavens Judkins had the sense to alert me to all your visitors,” her grandmother went on. “I tell you, Annabel, it makes very little difference what sort of husband you take on, but a good butler is worth his weight in gold.”

Annabel could not even begin to think of a response.

Her grandmother took another drink from her glass. “Judkins said Rebecca and Winifred were here earlier?”

Annabel nodded, assuming that meant the Ladies Westfield and Challis.

“We are going to be inundated. Just inundated.” She looked over at Annabel with narrowed eyes. “I hope you’re prepared.”

Annabel felt something desperate uncurling in her belly. “Can’t we say we’re not at home?”

Lady Vickers snorted. “No, we can’t say we’re not at home. You got yourself into this mess, and you’ll take it like a lady, which means holding your head high, receiving every guest, and remembering each word so that it might be dissected later for analysis.”

Annabel sat, then stood when Judkins entered, announcing the next set of visitors.

“You’d best finish that brandy,” her grandmother said to her. “You’re going to need it.”

Chapter Twelve

Three days later

If you don’t do something to repair what you’ve done, I shall never speak to you again.”

Sebastian looked up from his eggs into the magnificently furious face of his cousin’s wife. Olivia wasn’t often angry, and truly, it was a sight to behold.

Although all things considered, he’d have rather beheld it turned upon someone else.

Seb looked toward Harry, who was reading the newspaper over his own breakfast. Harry just shrugged, the motion clearly indicating that he did not judge this to be his problem.

Sebastian took a sip of his tea, swallowed, then looked back up at Olivia with a carefully blank countenance. “I beg your pardon,” he said cheerfully. “Were you speaking to me?”

“Harry!” she exclaimed, letting out a huff of indignation. But her husband just shook his head, not even looking up.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed menacingly, and Seb decided he was quite glad not to be in Harry’s future shoes, when he had to face down his wife that evening.

Although really, one would hope Harry would be shoeless by that point.

“Sebastian!” Olivia said sternly. “Are you even listening to me?”

He blinked her face into focus. “I hang on your every word, dear cousin. You know that.”