“Sensible?” Gillian stared at her cousin in disbelief. “Are you telling me you ran off to marry knowing that your father disapproved of your husband, knowing he would disinherit you, knowing that such an elopement would cause a scandal that would even now keep all of the doors of Society closed to you, and yet you did it not for love, but because you were bored?”

Charlotte frowned. “Most of the doors of Society, not all, and I don’t see what that has to do with anything. You said you would help me. I really don’t think spending my five minutes discussing the past four years is helping me. I don’t see how chastising me for actions viewed by some as romantic and daring—”

“Not to mention heedless, hen-witted, and hasty.”

“—is going to benefit me now,” Charlotte finished, ignoring the interruption. “As I said, I simply cannot see my way out of this dreadful moil.”

“Coil.” Gillian chewed on her lower lip for a moment. Charlotte watched hopefully; whenever her cousin got that peculiar light to her eyes, it meant she was about to come up with a truly magnificent plan. “What of Lord Collins?”

“Matthew?” Charlotte snorted the name. “He’s cut from the same cloth Papa was. When Papa died almost four years ago, Matthew took up the banner of ostriching me.”

“Ostracizing, Char. You really should make an effort to use the correct word.”

“Pheasant feathers! Language should be fluid, it should work for me, not the other way around. And don’t distract me, I have only a few minutes remaining. I wrote Matthew when Antonio succumbed, but all I received back was a terse note to the effect that I was reaping what I had sown. There will be no help from my brother or the rest of the family.”

“Hmmm. Well, you do have certain assets we can work with…”

Charlotte’s dark lashes fluttered as she smiled depreciatingly and gazed down at her hands in what she knew to be an extremely fetching approximation of modesty. “Yes, of course, that’s very kind of you to say, especially considering the fashion is for dainty, blonde nymphs, not redheaded, green-eyed amazons like yourself.”

Gillian gave her a puzzled look. Charlotte allowed her dimples to peek out in a manner she had been told by several gentlemen was utterly charming. “My appearance.”

Gillian’s look of puzzlement deepened as her cousin explained. “You mentioned my assets, Cousin! It would not be meet for me to point out my many and various charms, but I am not so foolishly modest that I don’t recognize them. If you recall, Lord Darnley did write a sonnet about my eyes.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. “Oh, that.”

“He called them limpid pools of cerulean, whatever that is. And Lord Beckstand composed several lines about the gilt tones of my hair.”

“It’s a shade of blue, but I wasn’t speaking about something so trivial as your appearance, Char. I was speaking of your assets, your true assets.”