For a few seconds Sarah stood still and straight, and then she sighed, her shoulders falling into a slump. “Maybe Gregory Bridgerton,” she said dejectedly. “He seems like he might be a romantic.”
“Enough to elope?” Iris asked.
“No one is eloping!” Honoria exclaimed. “And you are all playing in the musicale next month.”
Sarah and Iris stared at her with identical expressions—two parts surprise and one part indignation. With a healthy dash of dread.
“Well, you are,” Honoria muttered. “We all are. It’s our duty.”
“Our duty,” Sarah repeated. “To play terrible music?”
Honoria stared at her. “Yes.”
Iris burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny,” Sarah said.
Iris wiped her eyes. “But it is.”
“It won’t be,” Sarah warned, “once you have to play.”
“Which is why I shall take my laughter now,” Iris replied.
“I still think we should have a house party,” Sarah said.
To which Honoria replied, “I agree.”
Sarah looked at her suspiciously.
“I just think that it would be ambitious to think of it as a means to getting out of playing at the musicale.” Foolish more than ambitious, but Honoria wasn’t about to say that.
Sarah sat at a nearby writing desk and picked up a pen. “We agree on Mr. Bridgerton, then?”
Honoria looked over at Iris. They both nodded.
“Who else?” Sarah asked.
“Don’t you think we should wait for Cecily?” Iris asked.
“Neville Berbrooke!” Sarah said firmly. “He and Mr. Bridgerton are related.”
“They are?” Honoria asked. She knew quite a lot about the Bridgerton family—everyone did—but she didn’t think they’d ever married any Berbrookes.
“Mr. Bridgerton’s brother’s wife’s sister is married to Mr. Berbrooke’s brother.”
It was just the sort of statement that begged for a sarcastic comment, but Honoria was too dumbfounded by the speed at which Sarah had rattled it off to do anything but blink.
Iris, however, was not as impressed. “And this makes them . . . casual acquaintances?”
“Cousins,” Sarah said, shooting Iris a peevish glance. “Brothers. In-law.”
“Thrice removed?” Iris murmured.
Sarah looked over at Honoria. “Make her stop.”
Honoria burst out laughing. Iris did, too, and then finally Sarah succumbed to her own giggles. Honoria rose and gave Sarah an impulsive hug. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”
Sarah smiled sheepishly in return. She started to say something, but just then Cecily sailed back into the room, her mother at her heels. “She loves the idea!” Cecily announced.
“I do,” Mrs. Royle affirmed. She strode across the room to the writing table, sliding into the chair as Sarah quickly hopped out.
Honoria watched her with interest. Mrs. Royle was such a medium woman—medium height, medium build, medium brown hair and medium brown eyes. Even her dress was of a medium shade of purple, with a medium-sized ruffle circling the bottom.
But there was nothing medium about her expression at that moment. She looked ready to command an army, and it was clear that she would take no prisoners.
“It’s brilliant,” Mrs. Royle said, frowning slightly as she looked for something on her desk. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. We will have to work quickly, of course. We shall send someone down to London this afternoon to notify your parents that you will be detained.” She turned to Honoria. “Cecily says that you can ensure that Lord Chatteris makes an appearance?”
“No,” Honoria answered with alarm. “I can try, of course, but—”
“Try hard,” Mrs. Royle said briskly. “That will be your job while the rest of us plan the party. When is he coming, by the way?”
“I have no idea,” Honoria replied, for what had to be—oh, bother it all, it did not matter how many times she had answered that question. “He did not say.”
“You don’t think he’s forgotten?”
“He is not the sort to forget,” Honoria told her.
“No, he doesn’t seem as if he would,” Mrs. Royle murmured. “Still, one can never count upon a man to be as devoted to the mechanics of courtship as a female.”
The alarm that had been percolating inside Honoria exploded into full-form panic. Dear heavens, if Mrs. Royle was thinking to pair her up with Marcus . . .