Blossom Time by Joan Smith Page B

friends they would meet you this evening. They are looking forward to it so. And Papa! He wants to hear all about the Camena.”
    He recalled, then, that her papa was a wealthy man. He might very well invest in the magazine, when his son-in-law’s sister was gaining fame through it. These rich cits liked to rub elbows with the ton. A largish party would yield many subscriptions to Camena. And of course, it was always flattering to be told people were eager to meet him.
    “I have a great many calls I must make in London,” he said, but he said it in the tone of a man who might be dissuaded from the path of duty.
    “Just one night,” Annabelle said, adopting a moue that always worked with Dick.
    “Well, perhaps one night. Truth to tell, I am fagged. I shall put up at a hotel and—”
    “You must stay with us, Lord Sylvester,” Annabelle said at once.
    Sylvester cocked an assessing eye at Rosalind.
    “You are perfectly welcome to stay here,” she said, rather dutifully.
    Sylvester swiftly conned his options. But under Rosalind’s own roof, and with her brother here as well, nothing could come of their affair.
    Annabelle’s greater enthusiasm carried the day. “You will be closer to London if you stay overnight in town,” she said. “And we have a dozen empty rooms. Mama is so eager to become better acquainted with you.”
    With this and other blandishments, and no very strenuous objection from Rosalind, it was settled. Sylvester followed Annabelle’s spanking new landau into Croydon, to a magnificent mansion whose fine old Tudor lines were rapidly being blurred by the throwing out of bow windows and the replacement of leaded glass by large, clear panes that gave a sharper view of the High Street.
    Rosalind’s only worry was that Lord Sylvester would find the Fortescues overweeningly encroaching, and that the Fortescues would find Sylvester toplofty. Even these concerns dwindled as she made her toilette for the party. The evening was cool enough for her to wear her autumn evening gown of russet silk with the open skirt in front showing a gold taffeta underskirt. With the upstairs maid’s contrivance (she had never bothered to hire a dresser), she achieved a coiffure worthy of the gown. It was a nest of curls copied from The Ladies’ Magazine.
    When she met Dick in the saloon, he said, “Where is Miss Rafferty?”
    “Miss Rafferty is not invited, Dick,” Rosalind replied.
    “Ah, she is only coming to the rout party after dinner, then. I shall send the carriage back for her.”
    “She is not coming at all.”
    Dick’s brow darkened. “Why not? Sylvia is always invited to Annabelle’s large parties. I have met her at them a dozen times.”
    “Now that she is working for you, I expect Annabelle wishes to keep the relationship on a more businesslike footing.”
    “Dash it, her working for us is all the more reason to invite her. She is a lady after all, her papa was a major. Why, she can speak French.”
    “Well, it is too late now. You can speak to Annabelle, and another time—”
    “I shall have a word with Sylvia before we leave. I daresay she is blue-deviled at missing out on the party. I think it very petty of Annabelle to take this attitude. As if it weren’t bad enough, her having this lavish do for Sylvester, whom she scarcely knows, but to go leaving Sylvia out on purpose!”
    As he finished, Sukey came pelting down the front stairs, with Miss Rafferty rushing behind her. Miss Rafferty displayed not the least trace of being blue-deviled. She wore her usual smile.
    “Miss Sukey pestered me into letting her see you both all dressed for the party. I hope I have not done wrong to let her come down to say good-night.”
    “I always come to see how Roz looks,” Sukey told her. “Oh, you’re wearing that again,” she said, shaking her curls at Rosalind’s autumn gown. “What did you do to your hair? It looks funny.”
    “You look very nice, Miss Lovelace,” Miss Rafferty said. Then she