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Horrible thing! It was obviously intended for one purpose only: to draw a gendemans notice to areas it should not stray.
    A sigh announced Sophie's return to the room. She was on the outs with the housekeeper, whom she blamed for the soggy biscuits the guests had received. "Incompetence," she muttered as she sank onto the chair beside Lydia. "Most unfortunate."
    Lydia nodded grimly toward the sideboard. Ana had moved on to the newest bouquet, an eruption of luridly pink tea roses, threaded with bushy sprigs of colchi-cura, columbine, and geranium. The note had included no signature, but the language of the flowers, joined together, clearly admitted their origins. I shall ever remember; my best days fled; I am resolved to win; I expect a meeting. "Entirely unfortunate," she said.
    Sophie lifted a brow. "You're certain it's from San-burne? It's such an awful arrangement, and he's rumored to have very good taste."
    "Ha! That's not the only rumor I heard today." They went on for hours. Sanburne was a rascal, a ruffian. A veritable Adonis, and an excellent sportsman. He drank heavily—but with style. He was a most modern sort of heathen: his maternal uncle had left him a great deal of land, which he'd sold to purchase some filthy factories in Yorkshire. Now he made a fortune bilking laborers of their life's blood, and delighted at every opportunity to rub his father's nose in his commercial talents. "The flowers are definitely from him," Lydia muttered. Remembering the profusion of gemstones that sprouted from his fingers, she added, "I find them quite in character. He's as gaudy as his bouquet."
    "Glamorous, Lydia. He's very popular, you know."
    "Popular! With a whole lot of drunkards and South Africans, no doubt. Mrs. Bryson was telling me all about it. She says that his parties are famous for all manner of ill-bred mashers."
    Sophie snorted. "Any man without whiskers is a masher in her book. And his circle's very smart—about as smart as the Marlborough House Set, I'd reckon, but even harder to crack, because they've all been friends for ages." Her sudden sigh reeked of envy. "Do you remember when George used to take an interest in society? He might have known Sanburne. Why, when we first married, there wasn't a party he didn't attend. Now look: all he wants to do is sit around with his clubmen discussing politics. Even the wives talk of nothing else."
    What did you expect? They are politicians. Lydia knew better than to say it, though. Address one complaint, and Sophie would only find another; she was constandy discovering new reasons to be disappointed in George. No doubt a kind and noble sister would help Sophie to see his strengths. Good luck to you, Ana.
    "Not that Sanburne wouldn't make a brilliant catch." Sophie pulled out her little book. "Do you have a pen?"
    Lydia let out an astonished laugh. As the only matron amongst them, it had fallen to Sophie to play Ana's chaperone. She carried a little diary she called her "campaign journal," in which she kept a list of well-born bachelors, adding relevant details as they became available. But this was too much. "You can't think to add him—he's already contracted to Gatwick's daughter!"
    "Is he? I can't get a straight answer for it. Besides, they say she is in love with someone else."
    "Oh, that's just what we want for Ana: a man who antagonizes his father for fun, and keeps a fiancee who doesn't care for him." Lord, what a tangle. Lydia could not understand these high-flyers. They had nothing better to do than make hashes of their lives, while the rest of the world cheered them on for it. Never mind that lesser mortals would be tossed out on their ears for such tomfoolery.
    "Well, I wouldn't push her at him. But if he showed an interest. . ."
    Here was exactly why Papa had asked her to keep an eye on Sophie's matchmaking. "Absolutely not. And what of Mr. Pagett? I thought you'd vowed to have a proposal within the fortnight."
    Sophie sat forward, her lip jutting mutinously.