“She got into dreadful trouble a fortnight ago for trying to see her father,” Daisy replied with a sigh. “His condition has worsened, and he’s bedridden now. But Evie was caught sneaking out of the house, and now she’s being kept in seclusion by Aunt Florence and the rest of the family.”

“For how long?”

“Indefinitely,” came the discouraging reply.

“Oh, those odious people,” Annabelle muttered. “I wish we could go and rescue Evie.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” Daisy mused, instantly taken with the idea. “We should kidnap her. We’ll bring a ladder and set it beneath her window, and—”

“Aunt Florence would set the dogs on us,” Lillian said darkly. “They have two huge mastiffs that wander the grounds at night.”

“We’ll toss them some drugged meat,” Daisy countered. “And then while they’re sleeping—”

“Oh, plague take your harebrained plans,” Lillian exclaimed. “I want to hear about Annabelle’s honeymoon.”

Two pair of dark brown eyes regarded Annabelle with unmaidenly interest. “Well?” Lillian asked. “What was it like? Was it as painful as they say?”

“Out with it, Annabelle,” Daisy urged. “Remember, we promised to tell each other everything!”

Annabelle grinned, rather enjoying the position of being knowledgeable about something that was still so much a mystery to them. “Well, at certain moments it was rather uncomfortable,” she admitted. “But Simon was very kind, and…attentive…and although I have no prior experience for comparison, I can’t imagine that any man could be a more wonderful lover.”

“What do you mean?” Lillian asked.

A warm shade of pink stained Annabelle’s cheeks. Hesitating, she searched for the words to explain something that suddenly seemed impossible to describe. One might detail the mechanics of it, but that would hardly convey the tenderness of such a private experience. “The intimacy of it is far beyond what you could ever imagine…at first you want to die of embarrassment, but then there are moments when it feels so wonderful that you forget to be self-conscious, and the only thing that matters is being close to him.”

There was a short silence as the sisters contemplated her words.

“How long does it take?” Daisy ventured.

Annabelle’s blush deepened. “Sometimes only a few minutes…sometimes a few hours.”

“A few hours?” both of them repeated at once, looking amazed.

Lillian wrinkled her nose in distaste. “My God, that sounds horrid.”

Annabelle laughed at her expression. “It’s not at all horrid. It’s lovely, actually.”

Lillian shook her head. “I’m going to figure out a way to make my husband get it over with quickly. There are far better things to do than spend hours in bed doing that.”

Annabelle grinned. “Speaking of the mysterious gentleman who will someday be your husband…we should begin planning the strategy for our next campaign. The season won’t begin until January, which leaves us several months to prepare.”

“Daisy and I need an aristocratic sponsor,” Lillian said with a sigh. “Not to mention some etiquette lessons. And unfortunately, Annabelle, since you’ve married a commoner, you’ve got no real social influence, and we’re no farther along than when we started.” Hastily she added, “No offense meant, dear.”

“None taken,” Annabelle replied mildly. “How-ever, Simon does have some friends in the peerage— Lord Westcliff in particular.”

“Oh, no,” Lillian said firmly. “I want nothing to do with him.”

“Why not?”

Lillian raised her brows as if surprised by the need to explain. “Because he’s the most insufferable man I’ve ever encountered?”

“But Westcliff is very highly placed,” Annabelle wheedled. “And he is Simon’s best friend. I have no great liking for him myself, but he could be a useful ally. They say that Westcliff’s title is the oldest one in England. Blood doesn’t get any bluer than his.”

“And well he knows it,” Lillian said sourly. “Despite all his populist talk, one can see that he’s inwardly thrilled to be a peer with lots of minions he can order about.”

“I wonder why Westcliff hasn’t married yet,” Daisy mused. “Despite his flaws, one has to admit that he is a whale-sized catch.”

“I’ll be thrilled when someone harpoons him,” Lillian muttered, making the other two laugh.

Although London was largely emptied of “good society” during the warmest of the summer months, town life was by no means completely stagnant. Until Parliament adjourned on the twelfth of August, coinciding with the opening of grouse season, the occasional presence of titled gentlemen was still required during afternoon sessions. While the men attended Parliament or went to their clubs, their wives went shopping, paid calls on their friends, and wrote letters. In the evenings, they attended dinners, soirees, and balls that usually lasted until two or three o’clock in the morning. Such was the schedule of an aristocrat, or even those in what were considered aristocratic professions, such as clergymen, naval officers, or physicians.

To Annabelle’s chagrin, it quickly became evident that her husband, despite his wealth and undeniable success, was not in a remotely aristocratic profession. Therefore, they were sometimes excluded from the elegant upper-class events she longed to be part of. Only when a peer was financially obligated to Simon in some way, or if he was a close friend of Lord Westcliff, did he invite the Hunts to his home. Annabelle received very few calls from the young aristocratic matrons who had formerly been her friends, and although she was never turned away when she visited, she was hardly encouraged to return. The boundaries of class and social position were impossible to traverse. Even a viscount’s wife who had become impoverished from her husband’s gambling habits and spendthrift ways, and therefore was living in a shabby home with only two servants to attend her, seemed determined to maintain her superiority over Annabelle. After all, her husband, despite his shortcomings, was a peer, and Simon Hunt was distastefully mercantile.