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eyes of eligible young men who were supposed to vie for Isabella’s attention.
    Mr. Fermont gingerly sat down on the settee next to Lord Munthorpe, but made sure to keep as much distance between them as possible. The harmless puppy dog all at once looked sullen and ready to bite off the good earl’s nose.
    Folding her hands in her lap, Amy twiddled her thumbs. Indeed, it seemed to her that all of London was filled with the strangest people. She had found it amusing at first, she had to admit. Amusing and exciting. The smells and sounds of the big city, the endless clatter of hooves out in the streets, walking through Hyde Park in the afternoon, when fashionable gentlemen and ladies bloomed there like exotic flowers. She had enjoyed the shopping tours, too. Indeed, she had been awed by the amount on display, so much more than could be found in Mr. Clarke’s general store or at Miss Lettie’s millinery and haberdashery back at home. Yes, she had it found all very exciting. But now, after nearly three weeks of hustle and bustle, she longed for the quietude of her uncle’s library, craved burying her nose in his old books once more. And she would very much have liked to figure out why her last experiment had turned into the Blue Incident. But most of all she yearned for behaving like herself again and not being forced to act like a twittering dimwit just so she wouldn’t frighten the gentlemen witless by any display of female intellect.
    “…just talked about the superiority of a Town education,” Isabella warbled. “And we all agreed—didn’t we, my lord?—that the best tutors are to be had here in London.”
    “Ah.” Mr. Fermont shifted on the settee and threw a quick look at Lord Munthorpe. The earl mumbled something and hastened to stuff the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. Fermont looked down at his own cup of tea, which a footman had brought in. He cleared his throat. “Tutors,” he said, and raised his gaze back to Isabella. “For drawing, and dancing, and… and music…” His lips lifted a little in a somewhat desperate smile, but no dimple showed.
    “Indeed.” Isabella nodded.
    Mrs. Bentham’s frilly cap bobbed with pleasure. “And for French and needlework too, of course. With dear Isabella we were lucky enough to get a French governess. Now she speaks the language like a native, and I swear her stitches are the tiniest in all of London.” She beamed at the two gentlemen, who appeared suitably impressed by such accomplishments.
    Demurely, Isabella bowed her head. “Oh, Mother,” she murmured in a pretense of protest. “Surely such praise is too much…”
    “Surely not !” Mrs. Bentham insisted, and looked at the gentlemen on her settee as if giving them their cue.
    “Ah,” they said, almost in unison.
    Just barely, Amy resisted the urge to slap her hands onto her face and groan. She wondered whether her uncle had thought up all of this as a rather devious punishment, magicking her into a third-rate farce instead of sending her to London proper.
    A little frantically, Mr. Fermont’s eyes swiveled to her. “And you, Miss Bourne? Do you paint and sing and dance? Well, obviously, I already know you can dance, but—”
    “Amelia?” Mrs. Bentham cut in, her voice much less syrupy than before. “I am afraid the poor dear grew up in the most shocking wilderness, as I have already told Lord Munthorpe. It is rather sad, Mr. Fermont.”
    The tops of his ears turned a glowing pink. “Is that so? Oh, well… I didn’t know…” His voice trailed away. He shot a helpless gaze at Lord Munthorpe, who reached for another sandwich.
    Amy frowned. All right, so she had been sent in exile to London, was not allowed to speak any spells or to communicate with her cousins in any way, and was obliged to pretend she didn’t know left from right, but she would be damned before she sat another minute listening quietly to Mrs. Bentham’s veiled slights. She forced her lips to lift in a cheerful smile.