grandfather. She wants to elope. I suspect she’s been reading too many romances.”
Constance took the letter and read the somewhat passionately incoherent screed, the writing liberally splattered with stains that one had to assume were tears.
“The poor child does seem to fancy herself between the pages of some melodramatic romance, doesn’t she?” Prudence remarked, watching her sister’s slightly derisive expression. “I doubt she’s even of age. In my opinion we should just write her a sensible response saying we only accept clients who are over twenty-one.”
“Except that’s not strictly true. We found Hester Winthrop a husband,” Constance pointed out.
“Yes, but that was to give Lucan a love interest other than Chas, and we knew it was a perfect match for both of them. We wouldn’t have promoted it if we’d had any doubts. I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of someone this young, about whom we know nothing. This so-called stepmother could be the most devoted and considerate woman, whose motives have been totally misunderstood by a spoilt gaby.”
“Yes, you have a point.” Constance folded the sheet and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of her hand.
“Apart from anything else,” Prudence continued resolutely, “we don’t have the resources to offer a youth-counseling service. We’ll be wasting an entire afternoon, not to mention the train fares to Wimbledon, if we agree to see her.” The glance she shot at Chastity told Constance that her sisters had been around this maypole several times already. It was hardly surprising. Chastity’s soft heart and truly empathetic nature frequently clashed with her sister’s pragmatic nature and unsentimental opinions. Constance, as the eldest, was often required to cast the deciding vote.
“I’m with Prue,” she said. “Sorry, Chas, but we have to be practical.”
Chastity merely nodded. Despite her gentle inclinations, she knew when to fight a battle and when to yield. In this instance, the damsel from Wimbledon would have to find her own salvation.
“So, that’s settled.” Constance set the letter on the table. Prudence looked relieved—she hated being at odds with either of her sisters. She offered Chastity a rueful smile that her youngest sister returned with a tiny shrug of resignation.
“What about the second letter?” asked Constance.
“Rather more promising, I think.” Chastity handed her the second letter. “Prue and I think we know who it’s from, although she’s using a pseudonym.” She pointed to the signature at the bottom of the neatly penned letter. “She can’t really be called Iphigenia.”
“Unlikely,” Constance agreed. “Wasn’t Iphigenia sacrificed by Agamemnon to get a fair wind to sail to Troy?” She read the letter. “Oh, I see. You think it’s written by Lady Northrop,” she said when she’d finished. “She’s always peppering her conversations with totally inapposite classical allusions.”
“Doesn’t it sound like her? Widowed, if not sacrificed, four years ago, in her prime . . . not yet ready to settle for a loveless future—”
“By which, of course, she means sexless,” Prudence interrupted Chastity. “And look how she describes herself. Wealthy, brunette, brown eyes, well-endowed figure, impeccable dress sense, attractive to men. Isn’t that Dottie Northrop to a tee? Apart from the dress sense,” she added with the authority of one who knew her own was beyond reproach. “That I’d quibble with.”
“She’s certainly not one to hide her charms,” Constance agreed. “And she’s certainly well endowed.”
“She’s also the most notorious flirt,” Chastity added.
“So, why does she think she needs help finding a suitable husband? She’s a veritable mantrap already.” Constance rose to refill her coffee cup from the tray on the sideboard.
“The men she attracts are not of the marrying kind,” Prudence pointed out.
“But whom do
we
know that she doesn’t
Constance took the letter and read the somewhat passionately incoherent screed, the writing liberally splattered with stains that one had to assume were tears.
“The poor child does seem to fancy herself between the pages of some melodramatic romance, doesn’t she?” Prudence remarked, watching her sister’s slightly derisive expression. “I doubt she’s even of age. In my opinion we should just write her a sensible response saying we only accept clients who are over twenty-one.”
“Except that’s not strictly true. We found Hester Winthrop a husband,” Constance pointed out.
“Yes, but that was to give Lucan a love interest other than Chas, and we knew it was a perfect match for both of them. We wouldn’t have promoted it if we’d had any doubts. I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of someone this young, about whom we know nothing. This so-called stepmother could be the most devoted and considerate woman, whose motives have been totally misunderstood by a spoilt gaby.”
“Yes, you have a point.” Constance folded the sheet and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of her hand.
“Apart from anything else,” Prudence continued resolutely, “we don’t have the resources to offer a youth-counseling service. We’ll be wasting an entire afternoon, not to mention the train fares to Wimbledon, if we agree to see her.” The glance she shot at Chastity told Constance that her sisters had been around this maypole several times already. It was hardly surprising. Chastity’s soft heart and truly empathetic nature frequently clashed with her sister’s pragmatic nature and unsentimental opinions. Constance, as the eldest, was often required to cast the deciding vote.
“I’m with Prue,” she said. “Sorry, Chas, but we have to be practical.”
Chastity merely nodded. Despite her gentle inclinations, she knew when to fight a battle and when to yield. In this instance, the damsel from Wimbledon would have to find her own salvation.
“So, that’s settled.” Constance set the letter on the table. Prudence looked relieved—she hated being at odds with either of her sisters. She offered Chastity a rueful smile that her youngest sister returned with a tiny shrug of resignation.
“What about the second letter?” asked Constance.
“Rather more promising, I think.” Chastity handed her the second letter. “Prue and I think we know who it’s from, although she’s using a pseudonym.” She pointed to the signature at the bottom of the neatly penned letter. “She can’t really be called Iphigenia.”
“Unlikely,” Constance agreed. “Wasn’t Iphigenia sacrificed by Agamemnon to get a fair wind to sail to Troy?” She read the letter. “Oh, I see. You think it’s written by Lady Northrop,” she said when she’d finished. “She’s always peppering her conversations with totally inapposite classical allusions.”
“Doesn’t it sound like her? Widowed, if not sacrificed, four years ago, in her prime . . . not yet ready to settle for a loveless future—”
“By which, of course, she means sexless,” Prudence interrupted Chastity. “And look how she describes herself. Wealthy, brunette, brown eyes, well-endowed figure, impeccable dress sense, attractive to men. Isn’t that Dottie Northrop to a tee? Apart from the dress sense,” she added with the authority of one who knew her own was beyond reproach. “That I’d quibble with.”
“She’s certainly not one to hide her charms,” Constance agreed. “And she’s certainly well endowed.”
“She’s also the most notorious flirt,” Chastity added.
“So, why does she think she needs help finding a suitable husband? She’s a veritable mantrap already.” Constance rose to refill her coffee cup from the tray on the sideboard.
“The men she attracts are not of the marrying kind,” Prudence pointed out.
“But whom do
we
know that she doesn’t
Similar Books
