“No!” Honoria exclaimed, loudly enough that both the other women turned to look at her. “I mean, he wouldn’t like that, I’m sure. He doesn’t like people going out of their way for him.” She could see from her mother’s expression that she was not finding this to be a strong argument, so she added, “And Iris doesn’t travel well.”

A blatant lie, but it was the best she could come up with so quickly.

“Well, I suppose,” her mother conceded. “But there is always next year.” Then, with a flash of panic in her eyes, she added, “Although you won’t be playing, I’m sure.” When it became obvious she would have to explain, she turned to Mrs. Wetherby and said, “Each Smythe-Smith daughter must leave the quartet when she marries. It is tradition.”

“Are you engaged to be married, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked, her brow knit with confusion.

“No,” Honoria replied, “and I—”

“What she means to say,” her mother interrupted, “is that we expect her to be engaged by the end of the season.”

Honoria could only stare. Her mother had not shown such determination or strategy during her first two seasons.

“I do hope we’re not too late for Madame Brovard,” her mother mused.

Madame Brovard? The most exclusive modiste in London? Honoria was stunned. Just a few days ago her mother had told her to go shopping with her cousin Marigold and “find something pink.” Now she wanted to get Honoria in to see Madame Brovard?

“She will not use the same fabric twice if it is at all distinctive,” her mother was explaining to Mrs. Wetherby. “It is why she is considered the best.”

Mrs. Wetherby nodded approvingly, clearly enjoying the conversation.

“But the downside is that if one sees her too late in the season”—Lady Winstead held up her hands in a fatalistic manner—“all the good fabrics are gone.”

“Oh, that is terrible,” Mrs. Wetherby replied.

“I know, I know. And I want to make sure we find the right colors for Honoria this year. To bring out her eyes, you know.”

“She has beautiful eyes,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. She turned to Honoria. “You do.”

“Er, thank you,” Honoria said automatically. It was strange, seeing her mother act like . . . well, like Mrs. Royle, to be completely honest. Disconcerting. “I think I will go to the library now,” she announced. The two older ladies had entered into a spirited discussion about the distinction between lavender and periwinkle.

“Have a good time, dear,” her mother said without even looking her way. “I tell you, Mrs. Wetherby, if you had a lighter shade of periwinkle . . .”

Honoria just shook her head. She needed a book. And maybe another nap. And a slice of pie. And not necessarily in that order.