The maids had come and gone, but they had a way of circling back with a fresh pot or flowers or some other excuse to eavesdrop on their betters. Portia sipped her tea and wished she’d thought to ask one of the maids for a headache powder.
But then, Mama would doubtless get wind of that request, and an interrogation would follow.
“You deserve a scolding,” Flavia said. “I know Johnny is a cousin of some sort, but he’s also a grown man, and we don’t really know him that well. If Mrs. Roberts hadn’t assured me she’d remain in the library for the duration, I would have been kept awake until all hours watching you make a fool of yourself with Johnny.”
Portia tried a bite of toast. “I did not make a fool of myself. I merely kept up with him. I took one sip for every two of his—his rules—and won sixpence off him. I took very small, almost invisible sips, Flavie, so don’t be a nag.”
Had Mrs. Roberts been there the whole time? Lurking on the mezzanine perhaps. The evening’s details were a bit hazy.
Flavia regarded her with something that looked very like pity. “You undertook a drinking contest involving strong spirits and an unattached gentleman. Portia, that will not serve.”
Portia’s conscience, when last she’d consulted that tiresome article, did not care in the least that Flavia had turned up puritanical at this late date. Flavie had no sense of adventure and was doomed to live a dull life. Portia’s inherent shrewdness nonetheless admitted the rebuke was deserved.
If Johnny got to boasting in his clubs, if he let the wrong words slip over cards with fellow former officers…
“I’ll give him back his sixpence and swear him to secrecy, but honestly, once I get him compromised with Hecate, he will be forever in my debt, and you will think me the greatest genius ever for putting him there. Besides, Johnny is almost as aged as Mr. DeGrange. Tippling with him is nearly like tippling with an old uncle.”
Flavia spread jam on a croissant and did so without creating the usual cascade of crumbs. “We saw Johnny and Mr. DeGrange in the altogether, Porry. They are nobody’s doddering uncles, and you have been foolish.”
Portia set aside the tea tray, flipped back the covers, and pushed to the side of the bed. “I’m foolish because I engage in the occasional minor diversion? Foolish because I make the smallest inconsequential wager when ruralizing at the family seat? Flavia, I despair of you. We are no longer schoolgirls, and gentlemen like a woman with a bit of dash. We will be in our third Season next year, and you know what that means.”
Flavia bit off the end of her croissant and munched placidly, like the silly cow she was. Three Seasons and no offers was tantamount to ruin, only without the adventures.
“Porry, you are apparently intent on getting Johnny compromised with Hecate, so why does it matter if he likes a woman with a bit of dash? You don’t need to attract his notice. You plan to solve all his problems by discovering him in flagrante linen closet-o with the family heiress. Instead, you have given him the worst sort of gossip—true gossip—about you.”
Portia steeled herself for the rush of pain that always followed upon rising after a bit of indulgence. She stood, and the pounding in her temples became the afflictions of the damned.
“Please don’t make me cross, Flavie. I will say things I regret if you make me cross.”
“You should be regretting what you did last night, Portia. I found you asleep in the window seat on the landing.”
“No, you did not. I’d recall that if you did.” A vague wisp of memory, of cold glass at Portia’s back and Flavia undressing her, tried to intrude.
“You doubtless waved off the maid who was to light you up, and that will have caused talk belowstairs.”
Flavia was beginning to sound a lot like Mama, and Mama lately had taken to sounding like Hecate.
“I hate the countryside.” Portia’s mind, still a bit foggy—from excessive fatigue, of course—lit upon a consoling thought. “Perhaps I need a tonic.”
“You need a spanking,” Flavia said, rising. “Let’s get you dressed.”
A spanking, like a naughty girl. On any other day, that comment would have been merely the sort of annoying observation Flavia was prone to, one of a hundred petty vexations Portia brushed aside in a morning.
“Don’t be insulting, Flavia. If I’m currying favor with Johnny, I’m doing it for you and Mama. When he has control of Hecate’s fortune, you will thank me for humoring him last night.”
Flavia disappeared into the dressing closet and emerged with a muslin day dress at least three years out of fashion. Little better than a schoolgirl’s rag.
“You fancy Johnny because you know you cannot have him,” Flavia said, retrieving Portia’s half-empty tea cup from the tray and passing it over. “I grant you, he’s a splendid specimen, and he can be charming, and cousins do marry, but Johnny is apparently set on gaining the family fortune.”
Portia finished her tea, unable to dismiss Flavia’s observation entirely. “Johnny has dash and daring, two qualities one does not often find among the Mayfair tulips. All that time in the wilderness honed his courage, no doubt.”
Flavia took the empty tea cup from her. “Shall you wash, Porry?”
Portia took a sniff in the general direction of her armpit. “I’ll have a bath later. I want to do one more draft of my notes.”
Flavia held out a hand for Portia’s nightgown. Flavia would have made a good lady’s maid, which was a cheering thought. When Portia was married to Lord Phillip, she might keep Flavia around as a sort of unpaid companion. Many spinster sisters dwelled with a married sibling and made themselves useful despite having neither husband nor children of their own.
“If you are done with your tray, make use of the toothpowder, please,” Flavia said, folding up Portia’s nightgown and placing it beneath the pillows. “All in your ambit will thank you, and you might consider ringing for some parsley.”
“Don’t be half-witted. Chewing parsley makes me bilious. Have a look at my notes. Tell me what you think. They’re in the drawer of the escritoire.”
Flavia obliged. She was a better speller than Portia, but she apparently found nothing to correct.
“You will lure Johnny to the gallery?” Flavia set the notes aside. “On the night of the ball, the gallery will be lit. It’s a public room with lovely views from the balcony. Half the shire will be milling around there at some point in the evening.”
“Which is why I’ve asked for Johnny to post at eight of the clock, before the guests start to arrive, when everybody will be rushing around, making last-minute preparations, servants everywhere. Our mistake before was not waiting until enough witnesses were on hand.”
“But the gallery? If Hecate is admiring Great-Uncle Nunn’s portrait, and Johnny is across the room, perusing the painting of him and Emeril in their regimentals, nobody will find that in the least compromising. Johnny and Hecate are cousins, and she’s on the shelf.”
Flavia, in the venerable tradition of blind hogs, had a point. “Hecate wouldn’t ask Johnny to meet her in a linen closet.” Portia tried to sort through other possibilities, but Flavia’s nattering, the bright sunshine, and the hopeless, infernal birdsong conspired to rob her of her powers of concentration.