Free Mrs. McVinnie's London Season by Carla Kelly

Smeath’s door and took another deep breath. The
ear-splitting urgency of “To quarters” trilled outside Larinda’s
door, which opened slowly. Larinda blinked several times, drew
herself up, and stamped her foot.
    Eyes straight ahead,
Pringle ignored her. With another flourish and much clicking of
heels and marching worthy of the guards in front of the Admiralty
House, he took himself to the head of the stairs. He bowed. “My
ladies, Edward, Mrs. McVinnie,” he said, “you are wanted
belowdecks.”
    Everyone stared at
him.
    “ In
the blue saloon.”
    No one moved.
    By now Aunt Agatha had
managed to swing her nightcap up until it covered one ear. “Have
you taken total and complete leave of your senses?”
    Pringle regarded her
impassively. “I am following my orders, my lady,” he said, and
raised the whistle to his mouth again.
    “ No!
No,” insisted Lady Smeath. “I will go. Come, Larinda, give me your
arm or I shall faint.” She stormed past Pringle, who stood at rigid
attention, pipe to his mouth. “And you will wish you had never been
born,” she hissed over her shoulder. “And neither will that
wretched brother of mine.”
    Pringle made no
comment, but lowered his pipe, eyes forward. When the two women had
descended the stairs, he looked at Edward and Jeannie, who stood
close together, shoulders touching.
    “ I
think we had better do as he says,” Edward suggested.
    Still carrying Clare,
Jeannie followed Edward down the stairs and into the blue saloon.
Her heart pounded as she contemplated a bolt up the stairs again.
She could have her bags in hand and be out the door before anyone
had time to react. She would sacrifice the traveling dress that
still lay spread across the bed. She had never liked it above half,
anyway. She could snatch up her cloak on the way out and hail a
hackney herself.
    But Pringle stood by
the doorway at the front of the stairs now. She abandoned her
escape plans and meekly followed Edward into the saloon, noting as
she did so that all the servants were gathering in the hallway,
some at least pretending to have some business there and others
just gaping, eyes wide, mouths open.
    Lady Smeath smoldered
on the sofa, Larinda beside her, speechless with rage. Edward
perched on the edge of an armchair, looking absurdly small. Jeannie
sat down, Clare on her lap.
    Lady Smeath noticed her
presence for the first time. “You!” she rose to her feet, swaying
slightly and gripping her niece’s shoulder. “I had thought you long
gone. Can you imagine the trouble you have caused me with the most
sought-after modiste in London? If I am the laughingstock of
London—and mark my words, Madame Coutant will talk—I have only to
lay it at your door.”
    Jeannie regarded her in
silence a moment until the woman sat down again. “Madam, you cannot
wish me gone from this house any more than I wish myself
elsewhere.”
    Lady Smeath opened and
closed her mouth several times, and then subsided into a cold fury
that was almost palpable. The silence was stupendous. Pringle
continued to stand at rigid attention. In another moment he raised
the pipe to his lips again.
    It was a different tune
this time. Jeannie directed an inquiring look at Edward, who only
shrugged. When Pringle finished, he snapped a salute and held it,
eyes ahead.
    Captain Summers stood
in the doorway, dressed in the uniform Jeannie remembered from last
night, complete with medals, his star, and red ribbon. His coat was
without a wrinkle anywhere, his white pants and stockings were of a
whiteness that ordinary mortals could only dream of. The gleam of
the gold buckles on his shoes was matched and amplified by the gold
and lace of his entire uniform. From the epaulettes that weighted
his shoulders to the sword at his side, Captain Sir William Summers
was a marvel to behold.
    His cocked hat sat upon
his head and he seemed to fill the doorway. Jeannie wrinkled her
nose and sniffed at the odor of tar about him. Then she noticed