No, her only hope was Amy, who was bound to have some sort of idea as to where she should start. Amy always had ideas. Henrietta engaged in some desperate calculations. Even assuming that Amy sat down and replied to her letter the instant she received it — of course, it was easily possible for Amy to be distracted, leave it on her writing desk, and rediscover it a month later, but Henrietta refused to entertain that possibility — but, assuming the best, assuming Amy wrote at a speed at which no woman had written before, and handed it back to the courier before he could do more than gulp a glass of ale in the kitchens of Selwick Hall. Assuming the courier had fresh horses lined up along the way and rode as if ten highwaymen were dogging his heels. Assuming all that… it would still take at least another day, Henrietta concluded glumly.
Blast.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Lady Uppington, poking Henrietta in the arm. Henrietta rubbed irritably at the spot. Splendid. Now she was itchy and bruised. "There's Miles dancing with Charlotte. Isn't that sweet of the dear boy ?"
"Perishingly," said Henrietta sourly, following the direction of Lady Uppington's punitive finger towards the dance floor, where Miles was pacing the elegant figures of the quadrille with Charlotte.
One could see — or, at least, Henrietta could see — that he was making a valiant effort to make conversation with Charlotte, even though he hadn't the slightest idea what to say to her. She could tell from the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the corners, and the way his brows drew together in concentrated thought, as if he were working very hard on a complicated philosophical theorem. He must have devised something, a comment about the weather, most likely, because his entire face cleared with relief. His eyebrows went up, his mouth opened, and a big, engaging smile spread across his face.
Henrietta's heart clenched in a way it had no business clenching over Miles.
Over Charlotte's shoulder, Miles caught Henrietta's eye and grinned.
Henrietta started, blushed, and swallowed half a glass of champagne the wrong way.
Those bubbles up her nose hurt.
When Henrietta had gotten over the worst of her coughing fit, Lady Uppington turned an inquisitive eye on her wheezing daughter. "You know, darling, you don't appear to be in a very good mood this evening."
Henrietta repressed the urge to growl, partially because it would be undignified, and partially because her throat felt like it had been stripped raw by the champagne.
"I'm fine."
"Darling." Lady Uppington gave her a deeply reproachful "Don't try to lie to your mother" look. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing! I am having a brilliant time. Brilliant. Utterly, absolutely brilliant." Henrietta flung out her arms, which had the unfortunate side effect of giving the ruffle full reign along the sensitive underside of her arms. Henrietta scowled. "My sleeve itches."
"I told you not to choose that lace," Lady Uppington said unsympathetically, waving to an acquaintance.
Was twenty too old to put oneself up for adoption?
As Henrietta watched, Miles returned Charlotte to her grandmother, made a manful effort to dodge the dowager's deadly pug dog, and beat a hasty retreat. Right in their direction. Henrietta snatched down the hand that had automatically risen to smooth her hair.
Someone else had clearly been monitoring Miles's movements as well, because as Miles moved towards their party, a dark figure glided out to intercept him. Today she was wearing smoky purple instead of black, but the figure inside the dress was unmistakable. It was That Woman. Seen up close, she was even more infuriatingly beautiful — why couldn't she have a bad side? Or spots? A nice, red spot would stand out so well on that perfect white skin.
It wasn't fair to hate her just because she made every other woman in a fifty-foot radius look like a troll, Henrietta scolded herself. After all, look at Helen and Aphrodite, made miserable by their very beauty — and, frankly, without much else to recommend them. It must be very difficult to look like that. Hated by women, pursued by men for all the wrong reasons. Maybe she was shy.
Hmph. Even Henrietta couldn't make herself believe that one. There was nothing shy about the way the marquise was draping herself over Miles's arm. At that rate, why didn't she just fling her arms around his neck and have done with it? As if she had read Henrietta's thoughts, the marquise chose just that moment to lift a gloved hand to Miles's cheek.
Oh, for goodness' sake! Henrietta had had enough of standing gawking on the sidelines like a spectator at a bad play. She was really supposed to be dancing with Turnip Fitzhugh, but if Turnip hadn't come to claim his dance, there was no reason she shouldn't amuse herself by chatting with her old friend Miles.
With a bright social smile fixed upon her lips like a shield and champagne glass held aloft like a cavalry officer's baton, Henrietta marched determinedly over to Miles, and placed herself at his arm.
"Hello!" she said brightly.
"Uh, hello," said Miles, blinking at her sudden appearance.
Resolving to give the horrid woman a chance, Henrietta turned to the marquise with the friendliest smile she could muster, and said in her warmest voice, "I have been admiring your gown all evening. The lace is exquisite!"
The marquise eyed her rather as she would an importunate ferret. "Thank you."
Henrietta waited for the requisite return compliment. It did not materialize. Henrietta experienced a certain grim satisfaction at the knowledge that the woman was just as dislikable in person as she was from a distance. Good. Now she didn't have to try to be nice to her.
Miles belatedly remembered his duty. "Madame de Montval, may I present Lady Henrietta Selwick?"
"Selwick?" The marquise pursed her lips becomingly in thought.
Was there any gesture the woman used that wasn't becoming? Henrietta would have willingly wagered the entire contents of Uppington House, including three Canalettos, assorted Van Dykes, and the family tiara, that the marquise had practiced her entire range of facial expressions in front of a mirror.
"Oh, of course!" The marquise unfurled her fan with a little trill of laughter. "The noble Purple Gentian! Are you related?"
"My brother," said Henrietta shortly.
"Those of us, my dear, who suffered in the late unpleasantness know only too well what a debt we owe him. But you would have been far too young too remember."
"In the nursery, crawling around on all fours and drooling," Henrietta agreed, so sweetly that Miles glanced at her sharply. She was tempted to make some comment about the marquise's advanced age, but nobly declined to sink to her level. Besides, she couldn't think of a clever way to phrase it.
In Henrietta's moment of hesitation, the marquise turned her attention back to Miles, placing a gloved hand caressingly on his wrist. "I so enjoyed our drive in the park today," shernurmured.
It was all Henrietta to do to keep her jaw from dropping in indignation. Their drive in the park! But… but… that was her drive. Of course, she'd been the one to turn the invitation down, but that reflection did nothing to alleviate the sting.
"I never knew the Serpentine could be so enthralling," the marquise continued, looking up at Miles from under long, dark lashes.
What could possibly be enthralling about the Serpentine? It was a body of water. With ducks.
"It all depends on what angle you look at it from," said Miles modestly.
Preferably, thought Henrietta, from within the water, while being violently pecked by maddened warrior ducks.
"Or," countered the marquise with a sultry smile, "on one's companion."
Miles made noises of humble denial.
The marquise begged to disagree.
Hen clamped down on the urge to wave a hand in front of their faces and trill, "Hello! I'm here!"