Edward shrugged. “Individually I understand them, but collectively . . .” He shook his head. “A very different matter.”

The men had not seen what Diana had, attuned as she was to both her friends’ moods. She had noticed the flash of sadness in Petra’s hazel eyes, the sudden loss of vivacity on her mobile countenance. And she had responded automatically. If something was upsetting her friend, then something had to be done about it.

The opulence of the Criterion itself was carried into the ladies’ room, where jugs of iris perfumed the air, and plush couches, gleaming vanities and gilded mirrors offered a cushioned sanctuary for its clients. An attendant in a black dress and crisply starched apron stood ready to repair a torn flounce, sew a loose button, hand out softly scented towels.

Diana cast a quick glance around and said, “Good, we’re alone for a moment.” She sat down on one of the deeply cushioned couches and gestured to her friends to join her. “What’s troubling you, Petra? You looked stricken suddenly.”

“Yes, I noticed it too,” Fenella said. “Has something happened, darling?” She put a comforting hand over Petra’s.

Petra had always been cursed with a too expressive countenance. She had never been able to keep her emotions from showing on her face, or in her eyes. But she had no intention of telling her friends the real reason for that moment of sadness. However, she had an alternative account on offer.

“Have you come across Guy Granville?”

“Lord Ashton . . . only by repute,” Fenella said with a slight frown. “He’s something of a philanderer, isn’t he?”

“According to the scandal sheets,” Diana said. “I’ve seen him around, but he’s not a regular on the society circuit. According to Rupert, he has his own exclusive circle who consider themselves too important to enjoy society’s frivolity.”

“He doesn’t make any secret of his opposition to women’s suffrage,” Fenella said, still frowning. “He’s always writing about it, and sending letters to the Times.”

“All true,” Petra responded. “Once upon a time I thought I was in love with him.”

“What?” her friends demanded in unison.

She gave them a lighthearted account of the summer of Guy Granville, giving little indication of the depth of her hurt and mortification, before saying, “Anyway, I met him again this afternoon at Westminster. Joth invited him to tea because he wants his help with some legislation about draining the Levels, and he wanted me to turn on the charm, soften him up, as it were. Of course, he didn’t know that I was probably the last person willing to do that.”

“So what did you do?”

“I wasn’t very friendly,” Petra told them with a laugh. She was already feeling much better. “But then I had a vague idea that I might lead him on a little. Get him interested and then . . .”