Page 23 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Lady Caroline offered a warm, approving smile. “Of course, my dear. But do come back to me when you are able. I should like to speak further about what you’ve accomplished here.”
Thalia stepped into the entrance hall where the two officials stood—still cloaked in the caution of men uncertain whether they’d walked into a socialgathering or a professional misstep. The magistrate’s deputy glanced around, eyes landing briefly on a pair of young violinists in quiet conversation nearby. The parish board clerk appeared equally uncomfortable beneath the soft glow of chandeliers and the easy laughter from the adjoining rooms.
“Gentlemen,” Thalia greeted them, composed and cordial, “welcome. I trust your journey was not too inconvenient.”
“Not at all, Lady Greaves,” the deputy replied, attempting formality as his gaze shifted to the paintings along the corridor. “We appreciate your... invitation.”
She gestured gracefully toward the open doors of the drawing room, where guests milled about in warm conversation, and a trio of musicians prepared for another short recital. “Please, come through. I believe you will find the atmosphere instructive.”
Jasper joined her silently as she led them through the assembled company, pausing at intervals to make introductions: to Miss Fairweather, whose catalogue of watercolours now bore two discreet commission markers; to Kit, flushed with the excitement of news from London; to the music master, presently engaged in a philosophical discussion with a gentleman who owned a private theatre in Bath.
The officials said little, but Thalia noted the gradual change in their posture. There was no trace of the scrutiny they had brought with them days earlier—only the disorientation of men finding something entirely other than what had been described to them.
Then, as if summoned by some orchestral cue, Lady Caroline drifted elegantly to their side.
“Ah,” she said, her voice warm and unmistakably intentional, “you must be the gentlemen from the magistrate’s office. I was told you would be in attendance. I do hope you’ve been properly introduced to Miss Ashworth—her performance this evening was, if you’ll pardon the expression, entirely without peer.”
The deputy offered a thin smile. “We are still becoming acquainted with the... full scope of the establishment.”
“Then I urge you to do so,” Lady Caroline replied, her smile unfaltering. “One so rarely encounters an environment in which artistic ambition is so carefully balanced with personal discipline. It is quite the accomplishment.”
Thalia said nothing, but the moment landed precisely as it was meant to. The clerk looked briefly at her, then away, as though reluctant to admit how swiftly his prejudices were unravelling.
“If you should require a more formal discussion at some later point,” Thalia said evenly, “I shall of course make myself available. But tonight, I hope, has offered you something closer to truth than mere documents or rumour could provide.”
“Indeed,” the deputy said, and there was no sarcasm in it.
The two men eventually drifted back toward the entrance hall, speaking to one another in hushed tones. Neither made a hasty departure, but neither returned to interrogate.
They had come prepared to scrutinise.
Now, they were simply watching.
And from the edge of the room, Jasper murmured, just for her:
“It would seem they have seen enough.”
Thalia’s reply was quiet but resolute. “Good. Let them remember it.”
Chapter Eleven
“I find myself compelled to express certain reservations about the nature of arrangements at Seacliff Retreat, Lady Greaves,” Lady Gossamer announced, her voice cool and deliberate. “While last night’s artistic displays were undeniably impressive, I must confess a deep unease about the broader implications of encouraging young women to pursue careers that, in the end, may prove incompatible with their domestic duties and natural feminine obligations.”
Her words fell with the precision of a needle, each syllable carefully aimed. Her pale eyes fixed upon Thalia with the unmistakable gleam of someone who had rehearsed this exact confrontation many times in private before bringing it into the light.
Lady Thalia Greaves returned the look with a calm that had served her through more treacherous battles. She had learned long ago that society’s disapproval often arrived not in storms, but in silken tones wrapped around poisonous ideas.
How utterly predictable,she thought with weary composure,that success should draw out those who had nothing to offer but disdain.She had hoped their triumph might have bought them at least a brief reprieve. But evidently, the spectacle had simply drawn the hounds closer.
“I confess myself curious, Lady Gossamer,” she replied, her tone deceptively mild, “what specific aspect of our arrangements you find so troubling—cultural accomplishment? Artistic mentorship? Or perhaps the presence of women who have managed to succeed without first being safely married off?”
“Ah,” Lady Gossamer said, smiling with satisfaction, “but therein lies the danger. You speak as though independence were a virtue rather than a temporary indulgence. Some of us,” she continued, her voice taking on a note of wounded rectitude, “must consider the lasting consequences of setting such precedents. One hears things, Lady Greaves—regrettable murmurs from otherwise sensible households. It seems that, following your salon, certain young ladies have begun speaking of painting and poetry, rather than proper households and suitable matches. Naturally, their mothers are... concerned.”
Thalia felt the chill behind the smile. It was not morality that concerned Lady Gossamer, but the threat posed by women unafraid to live beyond the structures society prescribed.
Before she could respond, the sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor announced another arrival. A beat later, Lord Jasper entered, his expression unusually grim, his usual air of urbanity dimmed by some fresh concern.
“Lady Greaves,” Jasper said, dipping his head with formal gravity, “forgive the interruption—but I fear we have received news that demands immediate attention. My aunt Iris—the Dowager Lady Thornfield—is en route to Brighton.”
