The crowning question was, of course, had anyone told her? Charlotte’s mother fended off dozens of gently worded questions designed to get at the heart of the issue. Was her daughter cool toward Alexander Foakes because she knew of his incapability, or was she innocently following her own instincts? Or was she, as some less kind people said, a wily young woman who, knowing that the fervor caused by the earl’s courtship could only work in her favor, kept everyone guessing on purpose?

But the truth was that no one had told her. All London knew of Alex’s impotence, but Charlotte had no idea. She had grown suspicious about his past marriage, given the sly remarks people had made about him in her hearing, but the remarks were vaguely malicious rather than informative. And impotence was certainly not something that would spring to her mind in terms of Alex. After all, she of all people could have attested to the opposite.

Her mother was torn. Had Adelaide not had the strong suspicion that Alex was the man with shot-silver hair who took her daughter’s virginity three years before, she would unhesitatingly have told Charlotte the truth and warned—nay, commanded—her to have nothing further to do with him. But … what to do? Her daughter had not confided in her, and Charlotte’s demeanor did not encourage Adelaide to broach the subject.

Marcel, on the other hand, had never been informed about his daughter’s misadventures in the garden three years ago. And so he was violently opposed to the prospect of Charlotte accepting Alexander Foakes’s hand in marriage.

“And so I shall tell him,” he blustered at his wife. “And so I shall tell him, if he has the impudence to ask me for her hand! I will not have one of my daughters marrying a limp carrot, a—” He broke off, remembering that there are phrases which a gentleman does not repeat in front of a gentlewoman even if the lady in question is his wife.

“I understand, Marcel,” said Adelaide soothingly. “And I agree with you, darling, of course. But I think we should allow Charlotte to dance with whomever she wants.”

“Don’t be a peahen, Adelaide! She has no idea, has she?” Marcel swung around, his eyebrows furrowed.

“No,” Adelaide admitted.

“Well, you have to tell her, that’s all. I suppose it will be embarrassing, but she has to know the facts at some point. Blast it! You must have told Violetta and Winifred something before you set them off on their weddings, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Adelaide unhappily, “but—”