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“Lord Denford does not seem set against me, so that bodes well for our life together,” Lily said.

“I perceive that if the Baron’s daily life is not impacted in any way by Giles’s marriage, he will not interest himself overmuch in your doings. You would be at liberty to arrange the household of Standen Park as you wished.”

Lily pursed her lips and smoothed the muslin skirts of her dinner gown. “My father would be pleased by the association.”

“But really, my dear, what matters is if you two are pleased.”

Lily rubbed the fine fabric of her skirt between her fingers. “Indeed? Is that what dictated your choice of husband?”

Sophronia turned aside, hunting through the objects strewn across her dressing table for her reticule. “I had other considerations besides my own happiness bearing on my marriage. You, I am glad to say, are free of the same constraints. Choose well, my dear, and choose wisely.”

“I think I know his character, and daresay I understand his heart.” Lily said this soberly, and Sophronia tamped down a smile, for Giles was as easy to read as polished glass. He was as clear as a still pond, and not deep.

The girl looked at her knees. “He would not take the lead in our marriage. I think it would fall on me for that.”

Sophronia agreed. Lily had been led all her life by others, and some women wanted that in their marriage too, a protector and benefactor and guide. They preferred to defer to a husband.

Sophronia did not want that again, were she ever to remarry. And as she looked around for probable candidates for Rowden’s affections, as she promised herself she was doing, she sensed he would not be content with a biddable woman who deferred to him in all things. He would take more interest in a woman with her own mind, who would occasionally challenge him and bring him somewhere new.

That was the purpose behind her expedition tonight. To find out more about Rowden.

“And do you think you would be happy?” Sophronia asked.

Lily met her gaze. “I think I could be content. And that is enough to wish for, is it not?”

“It seems like a young, lovely girl like yourself, with so many choices before her, should be able to ask for more.” Sophronia kept smoothing the same stretch of her glove, though the crease had vanished.

“Love?”

“In all its romantic glory? Yes, of course.”

“Is that what you would look for in your next marriage?” Lily asked.

Sophronia hesitated, then decided to resort to honesty. Lily was not a child to be fed fairy tales. She was a young woman facing marriage, making the most important decision of her life. She should come to the matter fully informed.

“I think love is a grand thing to hope for,” Sophronia said. “But for myself, I require a basis more sturdy. Infatuations may wane. Affections will be tempered over time with obstacles and changing fortune.”

She opened her fan to inspect the pastoral scene, a shepherd wooing a shepherdess. “Marriage is a long game with deep play. It is best to have some principles or a deeper purpose as a guide through it. Love is an impractical notion that cannot be relied on. At least, not in my experience.”

“Yet you would counsel me to marry for love,” Lily said.

“I would counsel you to follow your heart and do what will best serve you and the people you care about,” Sophronia answered. “That is what I did, and I have never regretted that goal. For you, yes, I hope the goal is love, sincere, mutual, and lasting.”

“But why would you not wish the same for yourself?” Lily argued.

Sophronia checked her watch. “I do believe it is time for me to be on my way. You need not wait up for me, either of you. Nate will see me to the Albion, then see me home.”

Lily took her seat before the dressing table and let the maid begin taking down her hair. “I hope you find what you are looking for, Sophronia,” she said.

“An amusing evening? I feel assured I will have one.”

“That, and the other thing you are looking for,” Lily said.

Nate the groom, whose discretion Sophronia trusted above that of the footmen who seemed in the Baron’s confidence, joined her at the foot of the stairs of the townhouse, a linkboy at his side. The walk to the Albion was short, and while some of the buildings along St. James’s provided oil lamps for their patrons to find them in the evening hours, one navigated Piccadilly by the light of the moon, which tonight was no more than a whittled crust of cheese. The linkboy trotted ahead of them with torch lifted high, trailing the scent of burning pitch and tow. Sophronia consulted Nate on what he knew of the Albion.

“Right famous wid the gentry morts,” Nate reported. “Not yer Brooks or White’s, it ain’t, but there’s many as likes it better.” He nodded as they passed the bow window set into the columned façade of White’s, its seat of distinction occupied with gentlemen and several bottles of wine.

“Them at the Albion don’t care what your party is, nor your politics, and long as ye can say who sent ye,” Nate added. “I likes the beef there better’n anywhere else, and a decent quality sack.”