Charlotte smiled politely at Penelope, who shot her a questioning glance. “Who?” she asked the girl tucked behind her.
“Tannenbrook.”
Ah, yes. The object of Viola Darling’s relentless affection. Of course, James had not yet returned said affection, but that did not deter Viola in the slightest. “I do not see him. Perhaps he has left.”
“Oh, but he was just there near the window.” Viola nudged her to one side. Then, the petite, raven-haired beauty shifted to stand beside her, raising up on her toes to see past the crowd and sighing with disappointment. “He is gone.”
Charlotte leaned down near Viola’s ear. “Take heart, Vi. Another evening, perhaps. The season has only just begun.” She patted her friend’s indigo-clad shoulder.
“I suppose my Tannenbrook hunt must continue another day.” She smiled up at Charlotte. “Was Cousin Penelope sharing news of this morning’s peculiar sighting?”
“She mentioned you saw Lady Rutherford, yes.”
Viola laughed lightly, the sound resembling a tinkling fountain. Tilted blue eyes sparkled. “Astonishing, really. I do so hope she was able to keep her vase. She appeared quite attached to it.”
“Miss Darling said Lord Rutherford was there, as well,” Aunt Fanny interjected. “Perhaps he was able to help her.”
Someone else nudged Charlotte’s arm from behind, and she stumbled, bumping Uncle Frederick’s shoulder. “Beg your pardon, Uncle,” she murmured automatically.
“Doubtful,” Viola answered Fanny. “He strolled past the wagon without a glance and appeared to pay no mind to her plight.”
“Charlotte.”
She spun around at the hiss of her name, accidentally elbowing Uncle Frederick’s shoulder again. What manner of evening was this, with everyone creeping up on her from behind? It was most distracting. “Andrew?”
Her cousin nudged her arm, his sandy head bobbing and jerking in the direction of the entrance.
“What on earth …?”
“Pryor,” he whispered, eyes flaring.
She swallowed at the mention of her father’s solicitor. “Here?” It could only mean one thing: Her father wished to see her rather urgently. She recalled the letter she had left unopened earlier. Drat.
“You may take the carriage if you wish. I shall distract him,” Andrew offered.
He was a dear, her cousin. He’d long been her champion, from the moment she had arrived in England at age five, motherless and lost in a country not her own. He had called her his “sis,” wrapped pudgy, two-year-old arms around her neck and given her a sloppy kiss.
Now, she laid a kiss of her own upon his cheek. “No need,” she sighed. “I shall see what he wants.”
Moments later, as she descended the stairs into Mr. Pennywhistle’s foyer, the bald, paunchy Mr. Pryor ceased his arguing with the Pennywhistle butler and exclaimed, “Miss Lancaster! I was just explaining to Briggs, here, the urgency of—”
“Mr. Pryor,” she said, her voice clipped. Honestly, the man was the worst sort of pest. “I presume my father wishes to see me.”
He blinked rapidly, then nodded, then rattled off a rapid stream of words that made her long for the mild annoyances of the twins. “Yes, yes, yes. Indeed, he does, Miss Lancaster. Did you not receive my letter this morning? I simply must find a better means of delivery. Those boys I hired are nothing more than pickpockets—”
“Can this not wait until tomorrow? I am attending a dinner, as you can see.” She waved at her plum-silk gown with its black embroidery and silver spangles, and then up the stairs toward the drawing room from which laughter and conversation echoed faintly.
“Apologies, but I would not advise it. Mr. Lancaster is most insistent.”
“It is he who insists I attend these sorts of events, Mr. Pryor. As you have previously noted, my allowance depends upon it.”
The solicitor’s light brows rose along the expanse of his forehead. “Yes, yes, yes. He wishes to discuss that very matter.”