The coach started with a jerk. Mr. Garrett Upton was off to spend a week at a country house party in Surrey.

CHAPTER THREE

“Young lady, I refuse to allow you to leave this house until you answer these questions to my satisfaction.” Mrs. Hortense Lowndes’s dark hair shivered with the force of her foot stamping against the carpeted floor in Jane’s father’s study.

Jane adjusted her spectacles upon her nose and stared at her mother calmly. Mama was in a high dudgeon today. She hadn’t even mentioned the fact that Jane had arrived dripping wet upon her father’s carpet and then hurried over to place her soggy book by the fire.

“Are you listening to me?” her mother prodded.

Jane glanced at her bespectacled father, who gave her a half-shrug and a sympathetic smile before folding his hands atop his desk and returning his attention to his book. Papa obviously wished this entire debacle was playing out elsewhere instead of interrupting his reading. Jane didn’t blame him. She looked longingly toward her own book. I do hope it dries and the pages aren’t adversely affected. Oh, wait. She should be paying attention to her mother.

“Of course I’m listening, Mama.”

Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her suspiciously. “Why are you wet?”

Jane pursed her lips. “I thought this was about Mrs. Bunbury.” Distraction. It always worked on Mama. Without taking his eyes off his book, Jane’s father smirked.

“Yes. Mrs. Bunbury,” her mother continued. “That’s exactly right. I have several questions about her.”

Jane took a deep breath. She carefully removed her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve. Stalling. A second tactic that usually worked on her mother.

“Mama, we’ve discussed this. I’m no longer a child. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m a bluestocking, a spinster.” She refrained from pointing out that her mother’s refusal to accept that fact was exactly why she’d had to invent this preposterous Mrs. Bunbury scheme. That would not be received well. Not at all.

“You most certainly are not!” Her mother stamped her foot again. “Why, I cannot believe my ears.” She whirled toward Jane’s father. “Charles, are you listening to this?”

Jane’s father’s head snapped up. He cleared his throat. “Why, yes. Yes, of course. Bluestocking spinster, dear.”

“No!” her mother cried. “Jane is not a bluestocking spinster.”

“No, of course not,” her father agreed before burying his head in his book again.

Hortense turned back to face Jane. She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “We’ve spent a fortune on your clothing and schooling. We’ve ensured you’ve received invitations to all of the best parties, balls, and routs. I do not understand why you cannot find a husband.”

“I don’t want a husband, Mama. I’ve told you time and again.”

“If you’d merely try,” Hortense pleaded.

As usual, her mother refused to listen. Hence, the need for Mrs. Bunbury.

Jane carefully replaced her spectacles. “I’m going to the house party, aren’t I?” Logic. It usually served to placate her mother, if temporarily.