Page 28

Muriel tried not to sigh. “Muriel Pendrake.”

“The bicycle gel!” Lady Chiswick nodded triumphantly. “Just so.”

Bother. She should have known.

Lady Chiswick leaned forward. “You plan to bicycle scads of miles with the Mutton Chops.”

“Legs of Lamb,” corrected Sir Reggie. He tilted his head with a thoughtful frown. “Or was that the dance troupe I saw that time in Leicester Square?”

“I know why,” continued Lady Chiswick, ignoring her son. “You are one of those gels who loses her head over men in uniform.”

“What’s this?” Muriel’s cheeks heated. “You don’t mean—like Lydia in Pride and Prejudice? I think the phenomenon is specific to regimentals. Officers, not…bicyclists.”

“You cannot fool me, gel. I could tell which one caught your fancy.” Lady Chiswisk persisted. “Your eyes were out on stalks, like a lobster’s.”

Muriel willed the floor to open. That was just how she felt when she looked at Kit Griffith. Was it so very obvious to everyone? Did her eyes really seem to pop from her face?

“He is as handsome as he is rich.” Lady Chiswick’s gaze hardened. “And he is not for you. My Clarinda has caught his fancy. It is to be expected. Clarinda has every advantage.” She allowed a pregnant pause. “I have decided to encourage the attachment.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? Looks and money aren’t everything. The man is a rake.” As soon as she said it, Muriel’s stomach gave a tiny kick. Good Lord, was she really joining into the spirit of this nasty, nonsensical competition?

“Nothing doing.” Sir Reggie piped up. “We were school chums. I’d never say he’s a rake. More of an axle.” He chuckled at his own joke while both Lady Chiswick and Muriel stared. “Axles allow wheels to rotate,” he explained. “And he lives and breathes bicycles. So, he’s an axle, not a rake. The humor depends on the other definition of rake, which is—”

“He is neither a rake nor an axle,” interrupted Lady Chiswick. “He is a bachelor of pleasing appearance and address, good family, and large fortune. And since their fateful meeting last year at Lord Etherington’s ball, he has been in love with your sister.”

“How do you figure?” Sir Reggie wore an expression of earnest inquiry.

Lady Chiswick made a vague gesture. “He shows the telltale signs.”

“Right-ho.” Sir Reggie returned his attention to his plate. After a brief moment, he lifted his head, and his fork. “Such as?”

“Such as…” Lady Chiswick looked cross. “He was speechless to see her again.”

“Oh, but that was because he couldn’t place her.” Sir Reggie explained around a mouthful of fried whiting. “Then he saw me and twigged.”

Lady Chiswick spoke more coldly. “He invited her to call on him at Titcombe Hall.”

“Did he? Where was I?”

Lady Chiswick said something sotto voce in reply, but the exchange already had faded from Muriel’s notice. Her brain whirred along its own track.

Clarinda. It was a pretty name. How did Griffith think of her? Was she Clarinda with the school-chum brother? Or did he associate her with the marriage-minded Lady Chiswick? Or something more intimate, a heart-shaped birthmark beneath her left collarbone?

She glared down at her dissected toast, a jumble of angular fragments and dark crumbs. Had Griffith lied to this Clarinda, pretending to offer something more permanent than a tickle? Or had he lied to her? Led her to believe that no particular woman claimed his affection, when he was all but engaged to a young miss?

Either way, she felt confirmed in her negative assessment of his character. Of course he had a large fortune! He was only playing at being an artist. Even his talk of shamelessness amounted to nothing. It was a spoiled rich boy’s fantasy of rebellion, a bohemian spin on sowing one’s wild oats before landing at the altar. He was detestable, but typically so, his every action evidence of the shallow purpose and lazy hedonism that characterized men of the upper echelons.

She’d wasted too much time thinking about him already.

“I pray Clarinda does not lose her head,” she said, rising from her chair. “A bit of rational evaluation will shatter her illusions. Better now than later.”

“How do you dare?” Lady Chiswick paled. She put so much starch in her voice it creaked. “Your temerity astounds me.”

“I have heard that before,” Muriel admitted, feeling suddenly tired. Doubtless, she’d hear it again. In New York City, as her professional prospects crumbled.

“Good day, then,” she said, and turned away.

“It is unnatural!” Lady Chiswick cried after her. “A woman astride a bicycle. Only one thing comes to mind.”