“No more!” Maggie protested with a groan. “It’s bad enough that I must hear it thirty times from George, but when you begin to recite it, it’s the outside of enough.”

“Come now, you can’t pretend to be unimpressed.”

“I’m not unimpressed. Neither do I stand in awe. According to St. Clare all of the Beresfords are skilled with a pistol. It’s no great accomplishment for them. By the by, speaking of the Beresfords, I must remember to return Lord St. Clare’s flask to him.”

“And you must take your new parasol,” Jane advised. “The sun is out today, and as pale as you are, without it you’re likely to burn. And you mustn’t overtax yourself. No matter how ardently Lord St. Clare presses to prolong your outing—”

“Ardently,” Maggie scoffed. “Really, Jane.”

“Why not? I don’t claim he’s after your hand, but your late-night visit to see him has clearly aroused his interest. Perhaps he means to make you one of his flirts? You needn’t look put out by the idea. There are worse ways to spend the season than being chased after by a golden-haired viscount, you know. And only consider, while he’s pursuing you, I shall no doubt have the constant company of Lord Mattingly.” Jane paused, before confessing, “I had the most awful tendre for him the year of my come out.”

“Lord Mattingly?” Maggie gave her friend a quizzical smile. “You never mentioned that before.”

“Considering that the highlight of my first season was Lady Barbara Latimer christening me ‘Spindleshanks’ and all the rest of the young ladies, and most of the young gentlemen, gleefully taking up the moniker, it has seemed to me that those few months of my life are best forgotten.” Jane’s own smile became rueful. “Besides, it’s a dreadfully depressing story. Lord Mattingly was a dark and dashing Corinthian, and I was then much as I am now. Too tall, too plain, with nothing to recommend me but my brains. And you know how gentlemen feel about ladies with brains.”

Before Maggie could make a reply, the door to the drawing room creaked open and a rustle of twilled silk announced the entrance of Jane’s aunt Harriet.

A small woman with snowy white hair and a wrinkled face that put one in mind of a bleached walnut, she shuffled into the room with the aid of her ebony cane. “There you are, my dears,” she said in a warbling voice.

“How was your nap, Aunt?” Jane asked.

“What’s that?” Aunt Harriet slowly lowered herself into a wing chair. “My cap?” She touched a blue-veined hand to the delicately beribboned bit of lace tied over her thinning locks.

“Your rest!” Jane said a little more loudly.