St. Clare was silent for a moment. When he finally responded, his words were quiet ones, inaudible to his friend and quickly lost in the noise of the crowded theater. “Miss Honeywell is the pattern card.”

Chapter Seven

The following afternoon when Maggie and Jane returned to Green Street after a morning of shopping, culminating in a lengthy visit to Hookham’s Library, they were met by a note from Lord St. Clare.

“Rather presumptuous of him to write you, don’t you think?” Jane asked, stripping off her gloves. “But then, perhaps such things are done with ladies on the continent? What does he say, Margaret? Is it a love letter?”

“No, indeed.” Maggie skimmed the note. “It’s the veriest commonplace. He’d like to pick me up for our drive an hour earlier. I prefer it, actually. But it hardly gives me any time to get ready. I shall have to go up and change directly.”

Jane ushered her toward the drawing room. “There’s time yet for a cup of tea. Carson? Tea and biscuits, if you please.”

Maggie sank down on the sofa, the note still held in one hand. She looked at it again. Properly looked at it. And then she stared.

“Is anything the matter?” Jane came to sit next to her. “Margaret?”

“What?” Maggie glanced up, startled. “Oh, no. It’s nothing. I only thought…for a moment…” Her heart was hammering so swiftly, she scarcely knew what she thought.

“You’ve gone as white as the paper that note is written on. Here—” Jane plucked the missive from Maggie’s fingers. “What has he said to upset you so? Let me see…” She quickly read the note. “He’s only requesting you respond and tell him if four o’clock will suit. There’s nothing shocking in that. No doubt you misread his handwriting.” She squinted at the scribbled blotches of ink. “Heavens, what an atrocious scrawl. It’s a bit like those Egyptian hieroglyphs one sees in the British Museum.”

“Yes. It’s very untidy,” Maggie said distractedly. She moved as if to get up. “I shall have to write out a reply.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’ll play secretary.” Jane rose from her seat.

Maggie was grateful for her friend’s solicitude, even as she regretted the necessity of it. Her head was spinning, her mind tumbling over itself at the possibilities raised by that note. The very real—very stark—possibilities. She prayed Jane wouldn’t press her on the subject. Not now. Not when Maggie could barely comprehend the matter herself.