Lucie brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Remember I agreed to marry him as soon as the Married Women’s Property Act is amended?”
Catriona nodded.
“He has been taunting me about it lately.”
“Goodness,” Hattie said, frowning. “Why would he do that? What does he do?”
“Well. Ever since Montgomery pushed the bill through the House of Lords, I catch him looking at me. Smirking.”
“That sounds sinister,” Catriona remarked.
“It gets worse,” Lucie hissed. “He hums—he is humming the Bridal March. And then he pretends that he didn’t when I . . . What?”
“Nothing.”
Hattie’s shoulders had begun to shake beneath her cape.
“You’re laughing.”
Hattie put the back of her hand against her brow and raised her gaze toward the vaulted ceiling. “Woe is me,” she cried softly. “My terribly, terribly handsome, titled, and charming fiancé, whom I love, is greatly looking forward to marrying me.”
Lucie gave her a brooding stare. “I might actually have to marry him now,” she said. “I might be a married woman, and soon. So many laws still need amending, abolishing . . .”
“Ooh,” Catriona said, understanding dawning, “is that why you’re so keen on having this writ for restitution crushed all of a sudden?”
“Of course not,” Lucie snipped. “That writ should have never existed in the first place.”
“Good grief,” said Hattie. “Lucie, you can’t wait for the world to be perfect before you commit to him. The law won’t protect you from having your heart broken by someone you love in any case—they have that power regardless.”
“That’s solved, then,” Catriona said with sudden impatience. “It’s not about the dress, it’s about Lucie’s cold feet. Shall we hail a cab?”
“Absolutely,” Lucie said.
Hattie looked put out. “But that’s worse,” she said. “Cold feet are serious.”
Catriona adjusted her plaid. “Has anyone here expected Lucie not to have cold feet? Raise your hand.”
No hands rose.
“Well, then,” Catriona said. “Anyone seriously expecting Lucie to not marry Lord Ballentine when the time comes, raise your hand.”
She looked closely; not even a twitch of a finger was in sight. Lucie’s fine lips had flattened into a hyphen. Hattie looked reluctantly impressed.
“There,” Catriona said. “Are we all ready to hail a cab now? What’s in this valise, anyway, Hattie?”
“Biscuits and scones for the firefighters, fresh from the Randolph kitchen.”
“That’s kind of you,” Lucie said, her frown easing.
Hattie smiled, mollified. “You know I like to feed people.”
Everyone’s mood seemed somewhat restored. If only she could reason her way out of her own situations as easily, thought Catriona.
They formed a cluster on the pavement with the biscuit valise between them, taking turns in trying to hail a cab. It was morning traffic, and, in this weather, all cabs seemed to have been snatched up by tutors spilling out of the colleges along St. Giles.
“Why don’t we walk,” Lucie suggested. “It’s better to arrive late rather than never.”
“I can’t carry this for a mile,” Hattie said, and pointed at her valise. “It’s a lot of biscuits.”
The doors to St. John’s opened and released another man with a flipped-up collar and an umbrella onto the pavement. Catriona’s body recognized the outline of his shoulders before her brain did. By the time his cursory glance became a double take, her belly burned as if it had been jabbed with a hot poker.
Elias Khoury stopped and tipped his hat. “Lady Catriona. Good morning.”
His friendly smile beamed like a small sun on this dreich day; it nearly cleared the fog off her glasses. The heat spread up her throat into her cheeks. Lucie and Hattie had gone curiously still. They wore their polite, public faces while they took him in with eagle eyes. She supposed he looked dashing in his austerely cut camel’s-hair coat. His scent had taken on an earthy note in the damp.
“Erm,” she said. “May I introduce Mr. Khoury—he is a visiting scholar and an esteemed guest of Wester Ross.”
“You certainly may,” Hattie said with a meaningful little undertone.
Catriona glared at her, furtively. “Mr. Khoury,” she said. “Lady Lucinda. Mrs. Blackstone.”