Page 57 of The Trouble with Anna

Charlotte heaved a sigh. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but just in case—” She fished in her bodice for a small white square of linen and pressed it into Anna’s hands. “Here! I made this for you. Use it wisely.”

Anna eyed it doubtfully. “A handkerchief?”

“It’s not just a handkerchief, it’s a secret weapon. I’ve embroidered a message on it.” Charlotte took the handkerchief and shook it open so Anna could see the riot of flowers and ribbons stitched in white on the crisp linen. When Charlotte folded the handkerchief to line up the embroidery just so, a word emerged.

Anna’s eyes went wide. “Bollocks?”

“Shh!”

“Bollocks?” Anna whispered.

She must have looked utterly bemused, because Charlotte’s forehead wrinkled. “You do know what bollocks are, don’t you? A man’s… undercarriage.”

“Yes, thank you, I understand the mechanics! What I don’t understand is why you embroideredthatword on a handkerchief.”

“Because it’s very useful. If your nerves play up, simply narrow your eyes, concentrate as hard as you can, and think,Bollocks! Bollocks to the lot of you! Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!You’ll feel better at once.”

Before Anna could protest, Charlotte squeezed her shoulder and pushed the door to the grand salon open.

“Bollocks!” she mouthed, and shoved Anna through.

Anna stopped dead in the doorway, staring. The room glowed—candlelight flickered from the graceful arms of the chandeliers and off the low tables, where fat roses from the Dowager’s hothouse spilled out of polished silver vases. But it was the people whocaught Anna’s attention. Charlotte had been true to her word and there were only twenty.

Anna swallowed.

A room full of twenty strangers.

“Lady Anna!” Lord Hartley hailed her from a corner where he was talking to a group of men. “Who took the Queen’s Plate at Ascot in ’90? It was William Pratt on Brimmer, was it not?”

Anna walked forward in terror. She couldn’t seem to make her brain work.

The Queen’s Plate, Ascot, 1790.

Pratt. Brimmer. The Queen’s Plate.

She could find the answer, if only she weren’t busy swallowing her own tongue.

“Pratt on Brimmer, yes?” Hartley prompted.

The men were all looking at her, and Anna’s stomach started to curdle. She clutched her handkerchief.

Bollocks! Big, stinky bollocks!

Nothing happened.

All at once, Julian’s voice shivered through her.My god, Anna, why do you give no value to the best parts of yourself?

“Brimmer was ’88, my lord,” she answered. “In ’90, Milksop took the last heat by five lengths.”

A small redheaded man next to Hartley crowed. He had a sly, foxy look about him, as if he were just about to steal a chicken. “That’s five guineas for me, Hartley!”

“Lady Anna, how could you? Pickerton here will have a fat head all night.”

She smiled at Hartley. “I’m not the one who tried to take a victory off Milksop.”

The redhead chortled. “A young lady of remarkable sense! I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

“You won’t look so smug if you take her out on a horse,Pickerton. She’ll run circles around you,” said Lord Hartley. “Lady Anna Reston, may I present Mr. Charles Pickerton?”

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