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After two years traveling from Andhra Pradesh to West Bengal, living in a variety of primitive conditions, he’d acquired a certain self-possession, but a few weeks in London drawing rooms had him feeling as awkward and ungainly as he had in his youth, trailing behind his elder brother. Harold, who was only three years his senior, delighted in ragging Lancelot over his clumsiness at sports and awkwardness with the fairer sex.

Pushing aside those memories with the same single-mindedness he used to push through the crowded drawing room, Lancelot arrived at the saloon filled with card tables.

He located his hostess, a tall, stately woman walking among the green baize tables and stopping to chat with the card players.

When he approached Lady Abernathy, she held out her hands to him. “Marfleet! How delightful to see you among us. I haven’t had a chance to properly welcome you back. Your mother wrote that you were terribly ill and recuperating in Hampshire.” His hostess’s pale brow furrowed briefly as she scanned his face. “I must say you look in fine fettle now.” She clucked her tongue. “We Europeans are not meant for those ferocious climes overseas, so I hope you are home for good.”

“I’m much better now, thank you, ma’am.”

She looked around the room. “What do you think of my little gathering?”

“You certainly draw a lot of people to your evenings.”

She laughed. “I like to think so.” She patted his hand. “Now, what may I do for you, dear?” Her light-blue eyes looked shrewdly into his. “Your mother has made it no secret that she and your father wish you to settle down. I’m surprised to see no bevy of young ladies on your arm.”

His cheeks warmed, but she had given him the opening he needed. “Well, it’s precisely to beg an introduction that I come to you.”

Her finely plucked eyebrows rose a fraction. “Oho, which of our young ladies has caught your interest? I shall present her to you forthwith.”

He cleared his throat. “There are two young ladies in your drawing room. I’m not familiar with them, so I thought perhaps . . . ?” He left the request dangling, his heart thumping.

He had no need to say more. She tucked her hand in his arm and began to steer him back the way he’d come. “Show me. I am all curiosity.”

When they stood in the doorway of the drawing room, he said, “Over there, straight in front of us, the two brunettes in the white gowns.”

“Yes, I see them. They are new in town. I am not acquainted with them personally. Lady Beasinger brought them. She is sponsoring their season.” Lady Abernathy turned to him, her eyes serious. “They have nothing to speak of. One is a vicar’s daughter from some little village, I forget which Lady Beasinger mentioned; the other a merchant’s daughter.” Her fine lips thinned. “With little dowry since he died bankrupt.” She gave him an appraising look. “Are you still interested in an introduction?”

A vicar’s daughter? His interest rose as he wondered which of the two. “Yes, very much so.”

She straightened her shoulders as if resigned. “Ah, love is blind to those practical matters a parent thinks about.”

He said nothing, his gaze on the young lady he’d offended.

“Very well, since you remain silent, let us hence.”

On their way, she caught her butler’s attention and whispered something to him. He replied and she nodded. “Ah yes, I remember now. Miss Jessamine Barry and Miss Megan Phillips,” she said to herself as if to memorize the names.

The first name caught Lancelot’s attention. Jessamine.
Gelsemium sempervirens
, yellow jasmine. Would it be the one he’d spoken to, with her dark curls set off so appropriately by yellow ribbons?

It took a few moments to navigate across the room, but finally they stood in front of the two young ladies, who looked wide-eyed at them, their glances shifting from him to Lady Abernathy. Finally, the one Lancelot had not spoken to smiled. The other remained serious.

“My dear Miss Barry, Miss Phillips”—Lady Abernathy nodded to each in turn—“Mr. Lancelot Marfleet begs an introduction.” As their gazes fixed on him, she addressed him. “May I present Miss Jessamine Barry.” With a flourish of her hand toward the young lady in yellow ribbons, she paused before proceeding to the other young lady. “And Miss Megan Phillips.”

They each curtsied as Lancelot bowed.

“Well, I shall leave you to become acquainted. Pity we have no dancing this evening,” his hostess murmured as she departed.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said to her retreating back.

Feeling as awkward as at his first dancing lesson, he turned to the two young ladies. Now what? He didn’t even remember why he’d wanted an introduction.

Ah yes, so his mother would have nothing to reproach him with on the morrow. “I . . . beg your pardon for addressing you so rudely a few moments ago,” he said to Miss Barry as she stared back at him.

She had green eyes, he noticed, fringed by black lashes. Her dark hair caught the light from the chandeliers and reflected like
the polished gaboon ebony cut and shipped from West Africa and made into chess pieces and piano keys for Europeans.

She only tipped her head in acknowledgment.

Fiddling with his watch chain, he found nothing more to say. He’d always found small talk excruciatingly difficult. Flippancy came more easily to him, as evidenced by his first remarks to her, which had led him to this awkward situation.

He cleared his throat. “Lady Abernathy said you are lately come to town?”

She nodded.

As if embarrassed by her companion’s reticence, the other young lady volunteered, “Yes, sir, we’ve been in London but a fortnight.”

She was a pretty girl, her countenance friendly. Although of similar build and coloring as Miss Barry, the likeness ended there. Her chin was squarer, her nose straighter, her eyes gray, her hair dark brown.

“You have been in town about the same amount of time as I. I haven’t seen you, though, until this evening,” he said in stilted tones.

“That is not strange,” Miss Phillips replied with a little laugh. “We spent our first week sightseeing with a guidebook and know scarce anyone in London so have attended few parties.”

His lips quirked upward, feeling a little more at ease by her friendly candor. He chanced a glance at Miss Frosty, as he was beginning to call her. Instead of smiling, she was looking fixedly at her companion as if trying to transmit a message without words. Surely, she couldn’t object to Miss Phillips’s attempt to make conversation?

“Where do you hail from?” This time he addressed Miss Barry directly to see if she would deign to speak to him.

“Alston Green,” she murmured, barely moving her lips.

“In Horsham,” Miss Phillips added helpfully.

“Ah yes, West Sussex. Pretty country round about there. My family is from a little west of there, in Hampshire.”

Miss Phillips nodded, then with a glance at Miss Barry, volunteered,
“Jessamine—Miss Barry—was born and bred there, but I moved there with my mother and brother almost fifteen years ago. My mother is originally from the village.”

Miss Barry’s compressed lips and flared nostrils confirmed her displeasure at her friend’s offering of information.

“But we’ve been the best of friends ever since. I can hardly remember a time I didn’t know Jessamine—Miss Barry—so feel as if I’m originally from the village.”

He nodded. “Where did you live beforehand?”

A shadow crossed Miss Phillips’s pretty gray eyes. “Bristol.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That must have been a change for you from the city to a village.”

“Yes, though meeting Miss Barry, who is our nearest neighbor, made all the difference.” Her expression sobered. “My father was a merchant in Bristol, until he passed away.”

“I’m sorry.” He remembered Lady Abernathy’s words. Miss Phillips’s father had died bankrupt. Bristol, a city dependent on its seafaring trade, had been hard hit from so many years of the blockade with France.

“It was a difficult time for my mother, brother, and I. Of course, I was but a child so do not remember it so well as they. It happened many years ago.”

“Still, the loss of one’s father must be a terrible blow.” He was grateful he still had both of his parents even when they didn’t always see eye to eye on his way of life. Thankfully, being the younger son put him under no undo obligation to conform to their manner of life—until lately.

“Do you live in London?” Miss Phillips asked him in friendly inquiry.

His nervousness disappeared. It wasn’t hard to feel at ease with Miss Phillips. She had a generous smile that bordered on the saucy but didn’t cross over into flirtatious. “No, my parents have a place in town—on Grafton Street—so I have spent a fair amount of time
here, though not lately.” He cleared his throat again, reluctant to offer any more about himself, afraid he’d appear to be boasting. “I’ve been in India the last two years.”

That got Miss Barry’s attention, but it was Miss Phillips who expressed her curiosity. “India? What took you there, the East India Company?”

“I went out with the Church Missionary Society.” He looked down, experiencing the familiar hesitancy at explaining. “I’m a vicar and felt called to go as a missionary.” He raised his gaze as he finished, curious to gauge Miss Barry’s reaction. Experience had taught him he’d either face disbelief or embarrassed silence.

His words appeared to have neither effect. Miss Barry’s green eyes narrowed as if she were assessing him. Miss Phillips’s eyes shone. “A missionary, how exciting! You must tell us about your time there.”

He shrugged, feeling ill at ease again. “It was not an easy task,” he said slowly, finding it hard to encapsulate his experience in a few sentences, which was all people usually wanted to hear.

In an effort to turn the topic, he addressed Miss Barry, remembering her words of dissatisfaction. “You are enjoying your season thus far?”

“It is certainly different from what we’re used to in Alston Green,” she answered in a careful tone.

“We attended assemblies there and in neighboring Billingshurst, but they were nothing like these parties,” added Miss Phillips when Miss Barry said nothing more. “It is a bit difficult to fully appreciate these great houses when one is a stranger in town.”

He nodded, his sympathy engaged. Even when one had grown up among the “ten thousand,” the parties of the ton were intimidating. “I daresay. Your patroness is—”

“Lady Beasinger,” Miss Phillips finished for him. “She’s Miss Barry’s godmother. It was very sweet of her to include me in her invitation to Miss Barry.”

Lancelot nodded. “Yes, my mother knows her. She seems a kindly person. She’s a bit on in years, though, and perhaps is not acquainted with the younger set.”

Miss Phillips nodded eagerly. “That’s precisely so. She goes out very little in society these days except to a few card parties among her small circle.” She indicated the crowd around them. “This is our first evening at a real society event. Unfortunately, she left us here for the card room and thinks just by standing around, young gentlemen will come flocking to us.” Her cheeks dimpled again. “But it seems to have worked.”

He couldn’t help chuckling, but he saw that Miss Barry didn’t share the joke.

Before he could think of some appropriate rejoinder, Miss Barry spoke to him directly. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Marfleet, I believe I see someone we must greet.”

He swiveled around.

“Oh? Who?” Miss Phillips asked.

Miss Barry gave her companion a sharp look.

Realizing Miss Barry was only trying to get rid of him, he stepped back. He had probably outstayed his welcome in any case. “I shall not keep you. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

Miss Phillips looked disappointed but said nothing to contradict her friend. She held out her hand. “It was a pleasure indeed. I hope we see you again.”

He bowed over her hand and then turned to Miss Barry. But she neither offered her hand nor smiled. “I look forward to it,” he murmured, moving out of their way.

He observed them crossing the room, delayed several times by the throng. Miss Barry was in the lead, her hand upon her friend’s arm as if she were towing her along.

Only when they reached the doorway did he realize he was still wearing his spectacles. His face heated up and he swallowed, imagining the sport Harold would have if he were with him.

Sir Lancelot, you managed
to converse for a quarter of an hour with not
one but
two
pretty ladies, and you ruined it all
with those spectacles.

Then he’d throw back his blond head and roar with laughter.

Hang it all! What did Lancelot care what Miss Barry and Miss Phillips thought of his appearance? It was worth it to see them both clearly. And
clearly
, Miss Barry didn’t care if she ever saw him again.

Miss Phillips hadn’t seemed to notice his spectacles at all.

Remembering his brother, Lancelot decided it was time to hunt for him.

After searching all the public rooms in the elegant town house, he realized Harold had left, probably as soon as he’d deposited him here. No doubt to some gaming den.

Jessamine bit back her annoyance as she pushed herself in front of a bejeweled lady, ignoring the lady’s exclamation as she accidently trod on her satin slippers.

“Impertinent chit,” the lady said to her escort. “I vow, Lady Abernathy is allowing all sorts of nobodies at her routs these days. Probably a mushroom’s daughter by the looks of her.”

“Did you hear that?” Megan whispered.

Jessamine nodded abruptly, keeping her pace up. All she wanted was to exit this room with its odious people. Never had she felt so out of place. “Some people, even in London’s best homes, have no manners,” she said shortly.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Megan asked when they were halfway across the room.

“I wanted to get away from that impertinent gentleman.”

Megan stared at her. “Mr. Marfleet? I thought he was quite charming.”

“Charming? With all that red hair and—and spectacles?”

Megan’s gray eyes twinkled. “Spectacles?”

Jessamine felt herself blush to the roots of her hair, thinking of the pair she carried in the leather case in her reticule. “But no one wears them in public like that, not to a rout!”