Page 116 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

She was composing letters in her mind when music drifted up from the drawing room. At first, she simply sat and listened before she decided to be brave and headed downstairs.

It was a cozy scene: Lucy at the pianoforte, Isaac hovering near her, Emily flipping through a book, making idle comments, and Mr. Newell perusing a newspaper.

One by one, they became aware of her in the doorway, stopped what they were doing, and turned. They all stared at her, like actors in a play where no one knew the next line. They were all waiting. For her. Whatever happened next in her little family, it was up to her.

Cassandra turned to Lucy. The room grew so big she might as well be on a stage before a breathless audience of four thousand rather than four.

“What’s that music you’re playing, Lucy?” she asked, amiably. “I don’t think I know that tune.”

Three heads swiveled to look at Lucy, for the next line was hers.

Lucy stroked the keys and adjusted the sheet of music unnecessarily. “Isaac bought a bunch of songs yesterday, and I’m trying them out,” she said. “This one is my favorite so far.”

“Oh dear, Isaac.” Cassandra tried to stay cheerful and amiable. “I hope they aren’t, ah, sailors’ songs.”

He looked a bit sheepish. “Theyseemall right to me, but to be honest, I find it hard to tell. Perhaps I’ll learn what’s proper as I keep better company.”

“Better company? You won’t find that around here,” Cassandra said dryly.

Inadvertently, she met Lucy’s eyes, and she thought she saw the glint of a conspiratorial smile.

“Mrs. DeWitt?” Mr. Newell waved his hand in the air. “I checked all the songs, Mrs. DeWitt. I assure you they are not unsuitable.”

“Mr. Newell, you are a godsend.”

Another pause. A thousand different futures lay before them.

Cassandra said, “Very well, Lucy. Let’s hear you sing this one.”

She looked at Lucy, and Lucy looked at her, and everyone looked at both of them, and then Lucy said, “It’s called ‘The Skylark’s Dream’.”

Lucy began to play the pretty tune, and sing the pretty words, in her not-drunk, pure mezzo alto. Isaac prepared to turn the pages, the others returned to their reading, and Cassandra sat at the writing desk. No one asked what they would do next, and if they were to ask, Cassandra would say that they were staying in London a few more days, after which they would return to Sunne Park and carry on as if nothing had ever happened at all.

* * *

Cassandra wason her seventh attempt at a letter to their grandmother, when the butler announced Lady Hardbury.

Arabella swept in, elegant in a blue-and-white promenade gown. She paused and looked imperiously down her nose at them, but ruined her own effect when a wry smile curved her lips.

“What a disappointment,” she drawled. “I had hoped for more blood and bruises. I was even prepared to help hide a body; Hardbury and I were placing bets on whose it would be.”

“We are being very civilized,” Lucy said. “We are singing nice songs and saying nice things.”

“And now you can put on your nice gowns so we can take a nice stroll in Hyde Park.”

“Oh,canwe?” said Emily, throwing an imploring look at Cassandra. “It is such a lovely day for a walk.”

“A walk, before all of society?” That thought made her feel faint too. “I cannot face them, Arabella. They’ll give me the cut.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Arabella said. “They’ll be too busy gawking and pointing to give you the cut.”

Cassandra laughed despite herself. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“We can go in disguise,” Emily suggested.

“Stop worrying, Cassandra, it will not be as bad as you fear,” Arabella said. “You will be happy to learn that Lord and Lady Bolderwood absconded for the Continent last night, and everyone agrees they behaved disgracefully. Furthermore, you are widely liked, which makes it easier for others to overlook your transgressions. The best part—and I am exceedingly proud of this—is that Hardbury, Dammerton, Sir Gordon Bell, and I have put it about that throwing glasses is an ancient Warwickshire tradition performed for luck, and that perfectly respectable people do it all the time. And can you imagine? Most seem willing to believe it, and some even claim to have alreadyknownthat.” She shook her head slightly. “It makes me wonder what other nonsense society will believe if the right people say it. Oh, and at least six gentlemen wish to court Lucy, and they hesitate only because they are unsure whether to seek permission from the Duke of Sherbourne or Mr. DeWitt.”

“Six?” Lucy said faintly. She didn’t look pleased. “Oh.”

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