“And you will not believe what I tell you of Lord Panning. No! He was caught retying his cravat while leaving the pantry. There are those who claim a maid has recently been dismissed from their employ . . .”

If Lady Pinckney were to be believed, the whole town was in an uproar and everyone unhappy.

“What a to-do! You will be pleased to hear the musicale was splendid, simply angelic. Our lovely debutantes showed their talents quite well, but did you hear that new Italian woman’s selection? She sang a piece from the opera! The opera . . .”

Scarlet listened politely and nodded her head whenever Lady Pinckney looked her way. Maybe she would forebear her personal attacks, and Scarlet herself would be spared.

Forbearance not her strong suit, the baroness said next, “Oh, my dear, how lucky you are your husband is dead.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Scarlet felt the familiar stab of loneliness. Dear Rupert had been gone only these past two years, and thoughts of him were tinged with ache.

Lady Pinckney had married the Baron Lord Michael Pinckney, yet she appeared to loathe him. “You have all the best luck, Lady Cavendish. When you marry a man for position and title as you obviously must have done, and then you have to endure his presence in your life for only, what, three years?” She sipped her tea, watching Scarlet over the rim of her cup, eyes calculating.

“Two and a half,” Scarlet replied.

Lady Pinckney fanned herself. “Like I said, all the best luck. And now, here you sit, the wealthiest woman in London, and a widow at that.” Lady Pinckney clucked her tongue. “Though if I were in such a position, to be sure, I would make much better use of all that had been given me.”

Scarlet limited her response to raised eyebrows. Maybe the woman would stop.

“Oh yes, indeed. Have you considered how much good your substantial wealth could accomplish? How much the League of Orphans could use your support?” She shook her head in disappointment and bit the edge of her sandwich.

Scarlet stared absentmindedly out the window, the crux of her frustration so aptly demonstrated by the annoying Lady Pinckney. At times, desire bubbled up inside to share with someone, to worry jointly with another human, or at least to know that someone at home worried and waited for her return. But Lady Pinckney would never be that someone, and so she pursed her lips.

Searching for a distraction on the lawn, she sat up abruptly in her chair. Two familiar riders approached down the front lane.

Lady Pinckney must leave, and now.

Scarlet stood up. “Ah, my dear Lady Pinckney.” The odious woman looked up in surprise as Scarlet stood over her. “I am terribly sorry I may no longer be the brunt of your dull wit this morning.”

Lady Pinckney began to demur and then paused and frowned.