Free The Bride Hunt by Jane Feather Page B

Barclay to the scheme, then we’re home and dry. Not even the kindest interpretation could call selling shares in a trans-Sahara railway less than fraudulent.”
    “Oh, clever, Prue,” Constance said quietly. “Not just a pretty face, are you?”
    Prudence’s smile was smug. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.”
    “We’ve been too busy trying to deal with the aftermath,” Constance pointed out. “The train wreck called family finances.”
    “The only problem is that Father’s going to look an absolute fool,” Chastity said. “If we have to expose his—What would you call it? Arrant stupidity? Lunacy?—in court, he’ll be a laughingstock. We know it was an aberration when he was out of his mind with grief, but who else is going to take that into account?”
    “Maybe we can manage to leave him out of it,” Prudence suggested. “If we can marshal evidence to expose the scheme, we don’t have to say who fell victim to it.”
    “Unless the barrister insists,” Chastity said.
    “You’ll have to bring it up when you meet him,” Constance said. “Chas and I were saying before you arrived that it has to be you. You know more about the finances than we do. And there’s no way that this Sir Gideon will fail to take you seriously. People always take you seriously, even when you’re not being serious.”
    “Yes,” agreed Chastity. “Everything about you exudes gravitas and rationality, Prue.”
    “That sounds very boring,” Prudence grumbled. “Like some kind of Miss Prim. I’m sure it’s only because of the glasses.” She pushed the spectacles farther up her nose with a gesture of faint disgust.
    “It’s not just that,” Constance said. “It’s your character. Mother always said you could grasp a situation instantly and see all its ramifications long before the rest of us. There’s no way this Sir Gideon is going to dismiss you as a Society fribble, an ignoramus with nothing in her head but fashion and gossip.”
    “I doubt he’d dismiss you on such counts either,” Prudence stated.
    “But he might dismiss
me
on those grounds,” Chastity observed without rancor. “He might well decide I’m some flighty flirt of very little brain.”
    “Chas!” her sisters exclaimed. “Don’t be absurd.”
    “It’s true,” Chastity said. “That’s often the first impression I make. Oh, I grant you, it doesn’t last. But first impressions in this instance are going to be all we’ve got. I agree with Con. It’s up to you, Prue.”
    “So, I’m it,” Prudence said, and finally ate her marron glacé. A waitress appeared immediately with the trolley and Prudence examined the contents. “One of those, I believe.” She indicated a strawberry tart.
    “I’ll have a piece of that chocolate sponge,” Chastity said. “What about you, Con?”
    Constance shook her head. “I’m happy with my toast. Although,” she added on impulse, “perhaps I’ll have a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam.”
    “There’s Dottie Northrop,” Chastity said suddenly. “On the dance floor with old Sir Gerald.”
    “That old roué. She won’t find a match there.” Constance turned in her chair to look at the dance floor. Dottie Northrop was a woman in her early forties, but dressed as if she were at least ten years younger in a tea gown of cream muslin liberally adorned with lacy frills. The neckline was daringly low for the afternoon and her face, beneath a pale pink straw hat, was a mask, thick with powder and rouge. “If she smiles, her face will crack open.” It was a statement of fact made quite without malice.
    “If we’re going to find her a respectable husband we’re going to have to transform her,” Prudence said. “But how do we do that tactfully?”
    “Tact is Chas’s speciality,” Constance said. “Together with giving advice to the lovelorn.”
    “You know, the ideal man would be someone like Lord Alfred Roberts,” Prudence said thoughtfully. “I know he’s