dismissal. “I recommend that we tell anyone who inquires that Miss Winlow is the daughter of one of Mother’s old friends. Since this is your first season, Meredith, it would only be natural that you would want your dear friend at your side.”
He leaned back in his chair, rather pleased with himself. To deter fortune hunters and other unsavory rogues, he would let it be known that Patience’s family had fallen on hard times, so the lady was without a dowry. If the falsehood did not discourage his friends, then he would approach them privately.
“This is wonderful!” Meredith applauded his inventiveness. “A flawless plan, Brother. What is your opinion, Miss Winlow?” She slapped her hand over her mouth at her slip and giggled. “No, ‘Miss Winlow’ will not do. As my dearest friend, you will almost be family to us. From this day forward I shall call you Patience, and I will be Meredith to you.”
Patience bit her lip, plainly worried about her fictional past. “Lady Meredith—”
“Ah.” His sister waved a chiding finger at her. “If I must suffer the scrutiny of the ton with dignity, then you will do so at my side, friend.”
She exhaled, her expression reflecting her impatience. “Meredith … Lord Ramscar … I am honored that you are willing to lie on my behalf. However, it is unnecessary, I assure you. I would not want either of you to suffer any humiliation if your trickery was uncovered.”
“Oh, let Meredith have her fun, Patience,” Ram said in a teasing drawl. His intentional use of her Christian name earned him a charming pout. “Our ruse harms no one. Can you deny the notion of making arses out of the very people who view themselves as your betters does not appeal to the actress in you?”
He had complete faith in Patience that she could hoodwink the ton into believing she was a noblewoman. Her refined manners, voice, and graceful movements perfectly mimicked those of any lady he had encountered at a ball. Meredith would do well to emulate her companion.
Patience braced her elbow on the polished surface of the pianoforte and rubbed her temple. She knew when she had been outmaneuvered. The question was whether or not she would surrender gracefully.
“Very well.” She gave him a gimlet stare and muttered the words “amateur players” under her breath. “To keep things simple, I recommend that I remain Patience Winlow.”
Society is now one polish’d horde,
Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
— GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, LORD BYRON
DON JUAN, CANTO XIII, STANZA 95
CHAPTER NINE
London, April 1810
“I cannot do it. I beg of you, do not make me,” Meredith pleaded, gripping her hands together so fiercely that it had to be painful.
All in all, the two-day journey to London had not been as dreadful as Lord Ramscar had once predicted. Once when they were alone he had suggested pouring laudanum down his sister’s throat, but Patience had curtly dismissed such an outrageous suggestion. She could not glance at a bottle of the opium
tincture without thinking of Julian Phoenix and the vile plans he had for her the day he had died. Patience would rather endure hours of Meredith’s hysterics than violate their budding friendship.
In the end, it was Meredith who had surprised them all, including herself. The first few miles of their departure had been tearful; however, once she had calmed, the young woman had begun to appreciate her new surroundings. Everything was a new experience for her, and it was easy to be caught up in her excitement. Patience had noted the flash of relief on Ramscar’s face whenever he heard his sister’s soft, hesitant laughter. The earl was aware he was gambling with Meredith’s sanity by removing her from her precious Swancott. Fortunately, his instincts had been correct.
That was, until they had reached the Knowden town house. The earl had told her that this was not the town house Meredith recalled from eleven years ago.
He leaned back in his chair, rather pleased with himself. To deter fortune hunters and other unsavory rogues, he would let it be known that Patience’s family had fallen on hard times, so the lady was without a dowry. If the falsehood did not discourage his friends, then he would approach them privately.
“This is wonderful!” Meredith applauded his inventiveness. “A flawless plan, Brother. What is your opinion, Miss Winlow?” She slapped her hand over her mouth at her slip and giggled. “No, ‘Miss Winlow’ will not do. As my dearest friend, you will almost be family to us. From this day forward I shall call you Patience, and I will be Meredith to you.”
Patience bit her lip, plainly worried about her fictional past. “Lady Meredith—”
“Ah.” His sister waved a chiding finger at her. “If I must suffer the scrutiny of the ton with dignity, then you will do so at my side, friend.”
She exhaled, her expression reflecting her impatience. “Meredith … Lord Ramscar … I am honored that you are willing to lie on my behalf. However, it is unnecessary, I assure you. I would not want either of you to suffer any humiliation if your trickery was uncovered.”
“Oh, let Meredith have her fun, Patience,” Ram said in a teasing drawl. His intentional use of her Christian name earned him a charming pout. “Our ruse harms no one. Can you deny the notion of making arses out of the very people who view themselves as your betters does not appeal to the actress in you?”
He had complete faith in Patience that she could hoodwink the ton into believing she was a noblewoman. Her refined manners, voice, and graceful movements perfectly mimicked those of any lady he had encountered at a ball. Meredith would do well to emulate her companion.
Patience braced her elbow on the polished surface of the pianoforte and rubbed her temple. She knew when she had been outmaneuvered. The question was whether or not she would surrender gracefully.
“Very well.” She gave him a gimlet stare and muttered the words “amateur players” under her breath. “To keep things simple, I recommend that I remain Patience Winlow.”
Society is now one polish’d horde,
Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
— GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, LORD BYRON
DON JUAN, CANTO XIII, STANZA 95
CHAPTER NINE
London, April 1810
“I cannot do it. I beg of you, do not make me,” Meredith pleaded, gripping her hands together so fiercely that it had to be painful.
All in all, the two-day journey to London had not been as dreadful as Lord Ramscar had once predicted. Once when they were alone he had suggested pouring laudanum down his sister’s throat, but Patience had curtly dismissed such an outrageous suggestion. She could not glance at a bottle of the opium
tincture without thinking of Julian Phoenix and the vile plans he had for her the day he had died. Patience would rather endure hours of Meredith’s hysterics than violate their budding friendship.
In the end, it was Meredith who had surprised them all, including herself. The first few miles of their departure had been tearful; however, once she had calmed, the young woman had begun to appreciate her new surroundings. Everything was a new experience for her, and it was easy to be caught up in her excitement. Patience had noted the flash of relief on Ramscar’s face whenever he heard his sister’s soft, hesitant laughter. The earl was aware he was gambling with Meredith’s sanity by removing her from her precious Swancott. Fortunately, his instincts had been correct.
That was, until they had reached the Knowden town house. The earl had told her that this was not the town house Meredith recalled from eleven years ago.
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