Anne Barbour by A Dangerous Charade

Author:A Dangerous Charade [Charade, A Dangerous]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

“And after that, the Prince Regent came riding by. He was stark naked and he threw golden guinea pieces to the assembled mob.”

Several seconds passed before Alison at last made a response to this remarkable speech by Meg, who faced her across the breakfast table.

“I knew you weren’t paying attention!” Meg frowned in indignation. “I might as well direct my conversation to the coffee urn.”

“I’m so sorry, Meg.” Alison’s cheeks grew pink. “I’m afraid I was wool-gathering.”

“I should certainly say so! You must have gathered enough today to fashion a carpet. Is there something troubling you, Alison?” asked Meg with sudden concern.

“Oh! Oh, no. That is—no. Do tell me what you were saying. I promise to pay strict attention.”

“I want to know what I should wear to the Kittridges’ musicale next week. I should like to look my best—all my particular friends will be there, after all.” She stopped abruptly, blushing adorably.

“I see.” Alison’s eyes twinkled. “Would one of those particular friends be Peter Davenish, by any chance?”

“Pooh.” Meg tossed her head. “Peter is an infant.”

Alison’s heart sank. “But such an engaging one,” she said, persevering. “And so good-looking, too. Have you noticed how many languishing glances he has been collecting lately? Why, when we were all out riding in the park the other day, I thought Nancy Farwell would fall out of her carriage when she greeted him.”

Meg’s delicate brows flew up. “Really?”

Alison thought she discerned a note of interest in the girl’s voice. At least, she hoped this was the case. She rose purposefully. “Let us go look at your wardrobe. You know, the white muslin—”

“They’re all white muslins,” muttered Meg rebelliously.

“... with the pale peach overdress,” Alison went on, unheeding, “is most becoming, and it’s very festive. With the addition of gold ribbons to trim it, with more gold ribbon threaded through your curls, it would be simply stunning.”

By this time, they had reached Meg’s bedchamber, and the young girl ran to her wardrobe. She pulled out the gown in question and laid it on the bed, a pensive expression crossing her face. “Do you know, I think you might be right?” She opened a drawer, and after some rummaging, emerged triumphantly with a spray of white blossoms, delicately tinged with peach. “Perhaps I could wear these in my hair as well and—oh, Alison, what would you think of my gold locket to complete the ensemble? The one March gave me for my birthday last year.”

“Perfect.” Alison moved to the girl and put out a hand to sweep her brown curls atop her head. Standing back to observe the effect, Alison nodded admiringly. “Yes, lovely. If you will give Finster her head, I am sure she will create something utterly charming. You will be the belle of the evening.”

Meg turned to look in the mirror, her eyes dreamy. “Mr. Crawford mentioned that he will be attending the musicale. Do you think he will like me in peach?”

Alison pulled her hand away abruptly. “Good Lord, Meg! Jack Crawford is older than I am, and has not a feather to fly with.

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