Free Cynthia Bailey Pratt by Queen of Hearts Page B

a second time with Mr. Newland. She said he might be fast.”
    “John! Fast?” Mrs. Rivington laughed, rocking back and forth. “My dear, he’s a perfect slow-coach. Not even the army could enliven John. He studies the Classics, Greek and Latin, and other dead things. He intends to be a barrister and he is quite the most serious fellow I’ve ever met. His mother and I went to school together, of course different years, and she was sober-minded even as a girl.”
    Berenice said, “Oh, I quite liked Mr. Newland. I was sorry we only danced the once.” After a moment’s thought, Berenice looked crestfallen.
    Mrs. Rivington at once interpreted the young girl’s look. “That John! He is so clever! He wanted to talk about you but wangled it so that it was I who brought you up in conversation. No wonder he asked me who the prettiest girl in Bath was. He’d already met you and merely wanted his opinion confirmed. My dear, I’ll settle with your grandmamma. Go and find Mr. Newland, Miss ... er ... Miss.”
    Keeping her pride in check, Danita dipped a demure curtsy and set off down the walk toward the hotel. Little by little her speed increased until she was striding in a most unfeminine fashion. Though she knew Mrs. Rivington and her ilk were silly, brainless women with nothing to occupy their minds, assuming they had any, the studied indifference with which they treated her never failed to gall. Their eyes, fixed upon making advantageous matches for themselves or for others, saw nothing worthwhile in a poor relation.
    Danita stopped in the middle of the walk. She had not before thought of herself in those terms. “Poor relation” was a description of a broken woman without the backbone to make her own way, relying instead on the charity of another, unfortunate enough to acknowledge the ties of blood.
    Tears stung Danita’s eyes, and she was suddenly afraid that she would disgrace herself by expressing an emotion in public. A narrow lane sheltered from the sun by broad-leaved trees invited her to sniffle and mutter her complaints in decent privacy. Though her tears clung to her lashes, she did not so far forget herself as to sob aloud. Placing her cool fingers over her hot eyes, she shook her head forlornly.
    At the very moment she was beginning to feel foolish for indulging herself in this way, a gentleman’s voice, the Irish tang only noticeable when listened for, said, “I beg your pardon ... are you quite well?”
    She nodded her bonneted head, hiding her face in her handkerchief. If only he would go away, she thought. I owe him too much already to go deeper into debt over added kindnesses.
    “I can’t help you?” In answer, Danita shook her head emphatically. “Well,” he said, “I hope the trouble, whatever it is, won’t make you lose your sleep again. Miss Wingrove.”
    “How did you know it was me?” she asked, her head jerking upright in surprise. She was sure her eyes must be red. She could not know that the tears had increased the brilliance of her pupils and spiked her dark lashes like the petals of exotic flowers.
    “I just knew,” Sir Carleton said, his black brows coming together in a puzzled frown. Then he smiled. “Perhaps it was your perfume.”
    Danita wasn’t about to tell him she used none, though she couldn’t help feeling flattered at his pretending to remember her scent. “It must have been.”
    “That being settled, won’t you tell me your troubles? As you know, I am a passable listener.”
    “You are more than that. I never thanked you—”
    He held up a hand. “Thanks between you and I are unneeded. Miss Wingrove. You’d have done the same for me, if I’d been poor and troubled. You read my note?”
    “I did. Let me at least thank you for that. Sir Carleton. Mrs. Clively has been good to me, but I don’t know if she would understand the circumstances in which we met.”
    “From all that I have heard of your great-aunt, I am sure she would not only misunderstand, but