the local worthies. I know you."
"I am not scandalous!" Isabella objected. "Ernest was scandalous. I am quite. . ."
"Quite?"
"Quite respectable."
"Doing it too brown, Bella," Pen said with relish. "It is true that you are not disreputable in the sense that Ernest was, but being a princess has conferred certain privileges on you that make you dismissive of society's rules."
"I insist that you give an example," Isabella said indignantly.
"Very well." Pen seemed calmly assured of the truth of her assertion. "You put your elbows on the dinner table. You address the servants directly as though they were real people. You have been known to attend a sparring match at the Fives Court. You have ridden one of those newfangled hobbyhorse wheeled contraptions, which no lady could consider genteel—"
Isabella waved a dismissive hand. "Such matters are scarcely outrageous!"
"You told the Duchess of Saint Just that she treated her niece worse than a scullery maid—"
"Well, so she did. She forced the child to starch the linen until her fingers blistered!"
"And you told Prince Bazalget that he was an old lecher to consider marrying a seventeen-year-old girl."
Isabella opened her eyes very wide. "I have strong feelings on such a subject."
"Understandably," Pen said. "But you do admit the accuracy of what I am saying?"
Isabella deflated a little. "I suppose so. Manners do not make this princess, do they?"
Pen leaned across and gave her a spontaneous hug. "You are splendid, Bella. But you will never be respectable."
A certain raucous noise from the entrance hall at that moment suggested that the remaining member of the Standish family had arrived and that Isabella was not the only one to be less than respectable. Belton threw the library door open.
"Lord Standish," he announced with dreadful calm, as though the evening could only degenerate further.
Like his sisters, Freddie Standish was very pleasing to the eye. Fair and slim, he was a general favorite with the matrons as long as he made no attempts to seek fortune by marrying one of their daughters. He shared the modest house in Pimlico with Pen and worked—nominally, at least—for a banker who liked the prestige of having a titled gentleman to deal with the social side of his business. Despite the ignominy of his situation, Freddie always seemed good-humored and blessedly unflustered. Isabella loved him for it, though Pen maintained with dry affection that Freddie only had one mood because he was too stupid to have developed a range of them.
"Good evening, Freddie," Isabella said, tilting her face up for his kiss of greeting. "I was telling Pen that I have managed to stave off bankruptcy for a few months, until the house is sold."
"Congratulations," Freddie said, sitting down on the sofa and ungallantly obliging his sister to move up to give him more space. He looked about him. "Never liked the place myself. Far too vulgar."
"Yes, it is," Isabella said with a sigh. "I shall be retiring to Salterton instead."
Freddie looked horrified. "Salterton? In Hampshire?"
"Dorset," Pen snapped. "I told her it was a foolish idea."
"Quite right," Freddie said. He helped himself to one of the buttered scones on the dainty china tea plate. "Dorset is unspeakably dull. Why not try Kent instead, Bella?"
Isabella heard Pen give an exaggerated sigh. Not for the first time she wondered how the bookish and sharp-witted Penelope and the intellectually slow Freddie ever managed to share a house in anything approaching harmony.
"You will not wish to visit me, then," she said.
"No danger of that," Freddie said cheerfully. "I would rather work for a living than retire to Dorset."
"You are already supposed to work for a living," Pen pointed out.
"Only notionally," Freddie said with a cheerful grin. "Unfortunately I do not have that option," Isabella said briskly. "As a governess or a maid I would earn insufficient money in my entire life to cover Ernest's debts. And the only other
"I am not scandalous!" Isabella objected. "Ernest was scandalous. I am quite. . ."
"Quite?"
"Quite respectable."
"Doing it too brown, Bella," Pen said with relish. "It is true that you are not disreputable in the sense that Ernest was, but being a princess has conferred certain privileges on you that make you dismissive of society's rules."
"I insist that you give an example," Isabella said indignantly.
"Very well." Pen seemed calmly assured of the truth of her assertion. "You put your elbows on the dinner table. You address the servants directly as though they were real people. You have been known to attend a sparring match at the Fives Court. You have ridden one of those newfangled hobbyhorse wheeled contraptions, which no lady could consider genteel—"
Isabella waved a dismissive hand. "Such matters are scarcely outrageous!"
"You told the Duchess of Saint Just that she treated her niece worse than a scullery maid—"
"Well, so she did. She forced the child to starch the linen until her fingers blistered!"
"And you told Prince Bazalget that he was an old lecher to consider marrying a seventeen-year-old girl."
Isabella opened her eyes very wide. "I have strong feelings on such a subject."
"Understandably," Pen said. "But you do admit the accuracy of what I am saying?"
Isabella deflated a little. "I suppose so. Manners do not make this princess, do they?"
Pen leaned across and gave her a spontaneous hug. "You are splendid, Bella. But you will never be respectable."
A certain raucous noise from the entrance hall at that moment suggested that the remaining member of the Standish family had arrived and that Isabella was not the only one to be less than respectable. Belton threw the library door open.
"Lord Standish," he announced with dreadful calm, as though the evening could only degenerate further.
Like his sisters, Freddie Standish was very pleasing to the eye. Fair and slim, he was a general favorite with the matrons as long as he made no attempts to seek fortune by marrying one of their daughters. He shared the modest house in Pimlico with Pen and worked—nominally, at least—for a banker who liked the prestige of having a titled gentleman to deal with the social side of his business. Despite the ignominy of his situation, Freddie always seemed good-humored and blessedly unflustered. Isabella loved him for it, though Pen maintained with dry affection that Freddie only had one mood because he was too stupid to have developed a range of them.
"Good evening, Freddie," Isabella said, tilting her face up for his kiss of greeting. "I was telling Pen that I have managed to stave off bankruptcy for a few months, until the house is sold."
"Congratulations," Freddie said, sitting down on the sofa and ungallantly obliging his sister to move up to give him more space. He looked about him. "Never liked the place myself. Far too vulgar."
"Yes, it is," Isabella said with a sigh. "I shall be retiring to Salterton instead."
Freddie looked horrified. "Salterton? In Hampshire?"
"Dorset," Pen snapped. "I told her it was a foolish idea."
"Quite right," Freddie said. He helped himself to one of the buttered scones on the dainty china tea plate. "Dorset is unspeakably dull. Why not try Kent instead, Bella?"
Isabella heard Pen give an exaggerated sigh. Not for the first time she wondered how the bookish and sharp-witted Penelope and the intellectually slow Freddie ever managed to share a house in anything approaching harmony.
"You will not wish to visit me, then," she said.
"No danger of that," Freddie said cheerfully. "I would rather work for a living than retire to Dorset."
"You are already supposed to work for a living," Pen pointed out.
"Only notionally," Freddie said with a cheerful grin. "Unfortunately I do not have that option," Isabella said briskly. "As a governess or a maid I would earn insufficient money in my entire life to cover Ernest's debts. And the only other
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