Page 48 of Thief of the Ton
“I-I hardly noticed.”
“You must have done,” Henrietta continued. “You were staring at them earlier when they were over by the fireplace.”
Eleanor flushed scarlet.
Lavinia came to her rescue. “Perhaps Eleanor was looking at the painting hanging over the mantelshelf.”
Eleanor glanced toward the fireplace. “You mean the Stubbs?”
Henrietta cocked her head to one side. “Stubbs?”
“He painted horses, Hen,” Lavinia said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“Horses are forriding, not looking at,” Henrietta said. “One horse is the same as any other.”
“I doubt Mr. Stubbs would have agreed with you,” Eleanor said, taking on a rare note of animation. “Horses—like people—are individuals, each with their own distinguishing features. The difficulty with the horse is that we are more used to studying faces of men and women, and therefore are less able to distinguish one horse from another. Stubbs understood that more than any man. He studied the anatomy of horses to such an extent that he was aware of every bone, every sinew beneath the pelt, which is why his likenesses are so remarkable, as if he captured the horse’s soul, and—”
She paused, then looked away. “Forgive me,” she said, more quietly. “Mother is always admonishing me for rattling on.”
Henrietta let out a snort. “Your mother’s afineone to talk—she rattles on a great deal about how perfect your sister is, when Juliette is nothing but a…” She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, forgive me, Eleanor. I meant no insult to your family.”
Eleanor let out a giggle, then stifled it with a cough.
The dancing continued, and Lavinia followed the dancers with her gaze as they moved to and fro in time to the music. Juliette clung to her partner while he wheezed his way across the dance floor. Lady Irma Fairchild’s partner seemed a little more appealing, a young man dressed in a flamboyant ensemble—bright green jacket and cream breeches—that belied his dull features and witless expression. Close by, Lavinia caught sight of the haughty profile of Lady Arabella Ponsford with none other than Heath Moss. Did that sour-faced miss know that her partner was working his way through the beds of the bored wives of London Society?
A hand caught Lavinia’s sleeve.
“I’ve finished the painting. Shall I bring it round tomorrow?”
“Hush, Eleanor!” Lavinia said, giving her friend a nudge. “It’s our secret, remember?”
“Even from Henrietta?”
“Fromeveryone.”
“What are you whispering about?” Henrietta asked.
Eleanor flushed scarlet.
“My necklace,” Lavinia said. “What do you think of it?”
Henrietta’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then she nodded and glanced at Lavinia’s necklace.
“It’s a little unusual,” she said. “Is that arealemerald in the center?”
“What doyouthink of it, Eleanor?” Lavinia asked. “You could paint it, if you like.”
Eleanor shook her head. “It’s pretty enough, but it lacks the depth of shine you’d normally see in an emerald. Are you sure it’s real, Lavinia?”
“Eleanor!” Henrietta cried. “Must you be so brutally frank?”
“I’m only speaking the truth,” Eleanor replied. “The only color I see is green.”
“Emeraldsaregreen, Eleanor,” Lavinia said.
“They’re not merelygreen,” came the reply. “I’ve a ring that belonged to my grandmother, and the stone has many shades of green, and blue—like an ocean. When I look at your stone, I see only green.”
Lavinia covered the necklace with her hand to conceal it from her friend’s observant eye. The stones in the necklace—which had arrived last week, the direction on the parcel written in Lady Betty’s clear hand—were most decidedlynotreal.
