George repressed a sigh. She’d been in London over a week and up until this morning had successfully managed to avoid Aunt Beatrice. This was all Oscar’s fault. If he hadn’t been so careless as to leave a letter from Violet laying around, their Aunt Beatrice would never have found out about Harry and would never have felt compelled to come and lecture George on the proper way to conduct an affair. True, Oscar had placed the damning letter in the drawer of his desk, but any fool knew that would be the first place Aunt Beatrice would start browsing when the butler left her alone in the study when she’d come to call.

Definitely Oscar’s fault.

“They are much too sentimental, poor dears,” Aunt Beatrice continued. She bit into a piece of cake and then frowned down at it. “Is this a prune filling, Georgina? I’ve specifically told you that prunes do not agree with me.”

George glanced at the offending slice of cake. “I believe it is chocolate cream, but I can ring for a different pastry.”

Aunt Beatrice had invaded George’s London town house, settled into a gilt chair in her pretty blue and white sitting room, and all but demanded tea. George thought Cook had done an outstanding job, considering she’d had no notice of potential guests.

“Humph.” Lady Beatrice poked at the cake on her plate, disemboweling it. “It looks like prunes, but if you are quite sure.” She took another bite, masticating thoughtfully. “As a result, they are competent—barely—at running the government but a complete wash at domestic doings.”

George was at a loss for a second before remembering that her aunt had been discussing men before prunes. “Quite.”

Perhaps if she feigned an attack of the vapors . . . But knowing Aunt Beatrice, she’d probably throw cold water in her face until George admitted consciousness and then continue with her lecture. Best to sit it out.

“Now, contrary to what men will tell you,” her aunt continued, “an affair or two or more is good for a lady. Brings a certain mental alertness and, naturally, roses to the cheeks.”

Lady Beatrice touched her own cheek with one manicured fingernail. It was indeed rosy, but more from rouge than nature. It was also decorated by three black velvet patches: two stars and a crescent moon.

“The most important thing for a lady to remember is to be discreet.” Aunt Beatrice sipped her tea. “For instance, I have found that if one is engaged with two or more gentlemen over the same period of time, it is imperative they not find out about each other.”