Page 38 of The Unlovable Lady

“Then I had better try very hard.”

“You had better.”

He returned her to her aunt through the middle of the room, by the longest way available.

Chapter Thirteen

“Rosalind, put down the list.”

Charlotte came into Augusta’s morning-room without waiting for the footman to finish announcing her, bringing cold air, bright cheeks, and two young ladies Rosalind knew by sight and not at all by conversation.

Rosalind looked down at the paper in her hand. “It is not a list.”

“It has six lines and numbers beside them. It is a list.” Charlotte took it from her neatly and carried it out of reach. “Lady Holt, I have come to carry your niece away before she discovers anything else in this house that can be counted.”

Augusta, who was reading by the fire, did not look up. “Take her. If she resists, tell Hannah to bring her cloak and put it on her by force.”

“Aunt!”

“I have watched you count candles for twenty minutes. They were all present yesterday. I see no reason to suspect desertion overnight.”

Miss Mayfield laughed — a dark-haired young woman with a composed face that made the laugh seem a pleasant surprise. Beside her, Miss Lennox was already smiling, as though she had come in at the middle of a joke and meant to stay for the rest of it.

Charlotte made the introductions with great economy, the confiscated paper still held behind her back, and then laid out the business of the day. “We have a commission. Mrs. Mayfield requires sweetmeats for her Christmas supper, and Miss Mayfield has been entrusted with the choosing of them.”

“An error my mother will regret before nightfall,” Miss Mayfield said.

“She has asked us to advise her. Miss Lennox insists upon almond cakes. I say lemon. Miss Mayfield claims not to care, which is plainly cowardice. We are going to Gunter’s to settle it.”

Rosalind looked from one bright face to another, and the first question rose in her before she had thought at all. “How many people are expected at the supper?”

Charlotte closed her eyes. Miss Lennox laughed aloud, and Rosalind looked between them, entirely at sea.

“You see?” Charlotte said to the others. “I told you. We have not got her out of the room, and she is already calculating portions.”

“It matters how many people there are.”

“It matters to Mrs. Mayfield’s housekeeper,” Miss Mayfield replied. “My mother has one, and she is terrifying. None of us would dare count a cake in her presence.”

“Then what precisely are we to do?”

“Taste them,” said Miss Lennox, and her smile widened at whatever showed in Rosalind’s face. “It is difficult work, but somebody must undertake it.”

“Go,” Augusta said from behind her book. “And Rosalind — you are not to reorganize Gunter’s.”

“I have never reorganized a confectioner’s in my life.”

“Then preserve the record.”

The footman appeared again at the door, and the name he announced was Lord Dover’s.

James came in with the cold still upon his coat and stopped at the sight of the gathered company. His gaze found Rosalind first; it did not linger beyond what the room allowed, but it warmed before it moved on, and her heart gave its small leap and settled.

“Lady Holt. Lady Rosalind. Miss Danforth.”

“Perfect,” said Charlotte, with a delight Rosalind had already learned to be wary of.

“I have learned to distrust that word when you say it.”