“Indeed. Indeed, he is not.” She nodded once in accord.

Mrs. Blankenship’s twin daughters edged away from Papa’s and their mother’s side to stop before Imogen and Mercy.

“Good day, Miss Bates, Miss Kittinger,” they greeted in near unison. Turning then, they tracked Mr. Butler through the crowd. The girls sighed dramatically. “Penning is so handsome, is he not?”

“And no longer Penning,” Imogen offered with false cheer, but they did not seem to hear her.

“He has accepted Mama’s invitation to our ball,” Emily, the more effusive of the Blankenship sisters, trilled, very nearly dancing in place. “It is so thrilling.”

Imogen canted her head. “Is it?”

Emily continued as though Imogen had not spoken. “He’s never attended any of our fetes before, although we have been invited on occasion up to Penning Hall.”

“There has been nothing held at the hall following the late Duke of Penning’s passing. Not so much as a tea since then,” Imogen reminded, unwilling to let the point slide. She wished everyone would recall how little Mr. Butler had to do with anything or anyone in Shropshire. Unlike his father, he cared not one whit for their community. His present interest was only spawned by his need.

Emily fluttered her hand in dismissal, still staring dreamily after Mr. Butler.

It really was too much. What would it take for others to realize he was no grand catch anymore?

“And there is his other . . . affliction,” Imogen heard herself declaring.

Emily glanced at Imogen sharply, proving she was not completely oblivious of her remarks. “What affliction?”

“Yes, what affliction?” Mercy seconded, her expression rightly wary. She knew me only too well.

“I should not speak of it . . .” Imogen hedged, her mind working feverishly, wondering if she dared say what was even teasing at her mind.

Now both the Blankenship sisters were looking at her expectantly, waiting.

Imogen cleared her throat and glanced around as though to make certain there were no eavesdroppers . . . although she knew once she uttered the words, they would be the tattle of Shropshire. The girls, like their mother and brother, could not keep a secret, but that would be the point of what she was about to do.

“Well . . . the man is stark bald. He wears a wig,” she rushed to whisper. “It’s quite unfortunate. Oh, they’ve done their best to conceal it with a very realistic-looking wig. The best money can buy, but he’s been bald ever since he was a lad.”

The girls gasped, swinging their gazes to rest on the former duke. “No! His hair seems so very real.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mercy murmured. Imogen shot her a quelling look.

“Indeed. It is very convincing.” Imogen nodded with feigned grimness. “However, if you were to give it a hearty tug it would pop clean off his head.” She made a popping sound with her tongue against her cheek and the girls’ eyes widened even further.