The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

to notice. Apparently, her mother had noticed quite a lot, not only this year but the other years as well. Claire had misjudged her there. They had been polite but distant family members since the debacle with Sheriden.

      Her mother let the lace panel drop over the window and turned to face her. ‘Your father and I have let you be these last two years, after Sheriden. We did not understand, at the time, how much you didn’t want to marry. If you want a quiet life of books and solitude, you shall have it. We won’t force you to marry for the sake of marrying, but if that has changed, we should be informed, Claire.’

      Claire was silent, absorbing the words. It was the most personal conversation her mother had had with her since the refusal. ‘Claire?’ her mother prompted. ‘I am asking you point blank—is Jonathon Lashley courting you under the pretence of French lessons?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Claire replied softly, lifting her gaze to meet her mother’s. She could see her mother’s frustration in the knit of her brow. Her mother thought she was being purposely evasive. But this was the sad truth. She had so little experience with courtship games between men and women. ‘Sometimes I think perhaps he is.’ Last night had certainly seemed like it. It was the first time she’d ever said the words out loud. ‘But always, there are the lessons between us, a reminder that without them, he wouldn’t be with me.’ Would he?

      Her mother resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you wish he was? Do you want him?’

      She had to be careful here. Did she want him? It made him sound like an object to be purchased, a sweet to enjoy. ‘I hardly know him.’ Now she was truly evading.

      Her mother brushed the objection away. ‘We know his family. Viscount Oakdale is eminently respectable and we know his prospects, which are very good. He has money, his family has money and he’ll likely go abroad as a diplomat. Ultimately, Lashley will inherit the title, although not soon. His father married young and will live another twenty years. Lashley won’t see the title until he’s fifty if he’s lucky.’ Her genteel mother surprised her with a rather practical dissection of Jonathon’s prospects. When put that way, it was no wonder Jonathon was so eager for the Vienna post. He wasn’t about to while away his life waiting to inherit well into middle age. He wanted to do something useful.

      But the bigger surprise were her mother’s next words. ‘We are people of some consequence, Claire. We may be quiet and keep a retiring profile by choice, but your father has connections. If you want Lashley, we can get him for you.’

      ‘No!’ Claire’s response was vehement and instant. ‘I don’t want him that way, trussed up and delivered like a Christmas goose.’ It would make her no better than Cecilia, who had picked Jonathon out and begged her father for him. ‘Should anything evolve between us, I want it to be natural. I want him to choose me on my own merits, not my father’s persuasion.’

      Her mother’s eyes pointedly went to the note peeking out from under the jar. ‘He wants to meet with you again, secretly.’ She smiled. ‘You see, I don’t need you to open the envelope. I was young once, too. I remember quite well what young men in love are like.’ Her smile faded. ‘Go to him then, you will anyway, so I might as well know about it. But do not let him trifle with you. If you are caught, there will be no more talk of choosing. He’ll be yours then, personal merits being amenable or not.’ She stood and crossed the short distance to her and placed a kiss on her brow. ‘Be careful, Claire.’

      Claire sat at her vanity, reaching for the two notes, her mind reeling and full. Her mother knew. Had known. Her mother was endorsing a secret rendezvous. She was starting to understand where she got a thirst for adventure from. It existed in her mother, too, buried deep down, just like her, coming out in surprising ways that weren’t always obvious.

      She opened Jonathon’s note first, staring at the bold, straight script. He wanted to meet at an eating house in Soho for dinner, tonight. He wanted to see her again. For now that was enough. Never mind that the venue was a chance to practise French and on the surface had nothing to do with last night. She would see him again and that would be a start. The rest would sort itself out.

      Claire glanced at her clock. It was just now five. She had plenty of time. Her mother might endorse it, but her mother would still expect her to be discreet. She’d have to put on a show of going to Evie’s or May’s and make her way from there. Alone. Jonathon had written he was sorry he couldn’t come and escort her since a meeting would delay him. It was probably best her mother didn’t know that part or she might rethink her endorsement.

      Claire reached for the second note and opened it, her eyes dropping to the signature at the bottom. Lord and Lady Belvoir. She frowned and began to read. The message was simple enough. It was invitation more than it was a note. She was invited to a musical evening featuring Italian soprano Signora Katerina Pariso.

      It was an exclusive invitation to an exclusive event. She didn’t miss the fact that this invitation was for her, not for Lord and Lady Stanhope. That alone made it seem odd. Odder still was that she was invited at all. She had no doubt Cecilia was behind this in some way, although she wasn’t sure what inviting her proved. If she hadn’t been so certain Cecilia had spilled the champagne on purpose, she’d think it was an effort at apology. But Claire knew better.

      She put the invitation down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t egotistical enough to believe this overture signalled she’d arrived, that she’d made such an impression this Season that she was now welcome in these lofty echelons, that Cecilia wanted to recruit her friendship. If that was what the invitation was supposed to lead her to believe, then it failed miserably. But something was afoot.

      She’d never know if she didn’t go. There was no other option but to go. On the surface, there was no reason to refuse. This was a coveted event. Only the crème of the ton went. To refuse would be insulting. To refuse would afford her no answers and to refuse would make her appear cowardly. All she could do was show up, hold her head high and hope for the best. The event was a week away and it seemed a long way off compared to meeting Jonathon in two hours. She had just enough time to change, call for the carriage and get to May’s.

      For the evening, Claire chose a dress of powder-blue muslin trimmed in tiny cream lace. Evie had added a matching cream fichu to tuck into the lowered neckline. The gown was plain, but one of Claire’s favourites for its touch of femininity and it was perfect for this dinner out. An eating house wasn’t a silk-and-satin venue. Any evening gown she owned would look out of place. An eating house was attended by merchants, craftsmen, and clerks, not by a viscount’s heir. She chose a matching shawl of soft pastel colours and walking boots and was off, excitement streaking through her at the prospect of another adventure.

      She’d never been anywhere by herself before, if one didn’t count walking to Evie’s and even then her maid was usually with her. She took the carriage as far as Evie’s, then sent it back for her parents’ use that night. She took a hired hack from there and then got out to walk the remaining streets to the eating house, the address safely tucked into her reticule if she needed it.

      The first few streets were thrilling. She was surrounded by the sights and smells of the working class high and low mingling with the diverse population of emigrants in this part of London as the day ended, everyone getting off their shifts. The streets were full of people hurrying home to their dinners, people finishing their daily errands and all around her, there was the sound of different languages. Soho was known for its international flavour and it was evident here. She could pick out the French, the Italian, and a little German. How vibrant this was from the staid paces of Mayfair with its mansions and stolid English.

      But as she neared the eating house, it became apparent she was being followed. A group of lads—young men really, they were all at least twenty—had picked up behind her and now they were whistling and calling out lewd invitations. She ignored them, keeping her eyes forward, her step quick but not too quick. She was conscious of not showing any fear, nothing that would inspire them to escalate their efforts.

      Her strategy worked well until one of them grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt in sight of the eating house. She could see it just across