“You’re not a goose.”

Pandora’s mouth twisted. “I’m an awfully deficient swan, then.”

Cassandra sighed and drew her close. “You mustn’t marry Lord St. Vincent for my sake,” she said for the hundredth time.

Slowly Pandora laid her head on her twin’s shoulder. “I could never live with myself if you had to suffer the consequences of a mistake I made.”

“I won’t suffer.”

“If I become a pariah, no gentleman of rank would ever offer for you.”

“I would be happy regardless,” Cassandra said stoutly.

“No, you wouldn’t. You want to marry someday, and have a home and children of your own.” Pandora sighed. “I wish you could be Lord St. Vincent’s wife. You would be perfect for each other.”

“Lord St. Vincent didn’t give me a second glance. All he did was stare at you.”

“In sheer horror.”

“I think the horror was all on your side,” Cassandra said. “He was merely trying to take in the situation.” Her light fingers came to smooth Pandora’s hair. “They say he’s the catch of a century. Last year, Lady Berwick encouraged him to take an interest in Dolly, but he would have none of it.”

Cassandra’s hand came just a little close to her ear. Flinching reflexively, Pandora drew back. Certain parts of her ear, inside and out, were painfully sensitive. “How do you know that? Dolly never mentioned it to me.”

“It was just some ballroom gossip. And Dolly doesn’t talk about it because it was a great disappointment.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested since we’d never even seen Lord St. Vincent, and you said you didn’t want to hear anything about eligible bachelors—”

“I do now! Tell me everything you know about him.”

After glancing at the empty doorway, Cassandra lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor that he keeps a mistress.”

Pandora gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Someone told you that in a ballroom? During a formal dance?”

“Not openly, it was whispered. What do you think people gossip about during dances?”

“Things like weather.”

“It’s not gossip when it’s about weather, it’s only gossip when it’s something you know you shouldn’t be listening to.”

Pandora was indignant at the thought that she’d missed so much interesting information during those hideously dull occasions. “Who is his mistress?”

“No one mentioned her name.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Pandora commented sourly, “I’ll bet he has the pox.”

Cassandra looked bewildered. “What?”

“Heaps of it,” Pandora added grimly. “He’s a rake, after all. Just like the song.”

Cassandra groaned and shook her head, knowing exactly which song Pandora was referring to. They had once overheard one of the stablemen singing a few lines of a ballad called “The Unfortunate Rake,” for the amusement of his companions. The bawdy lyrics had told the story of a rake’s demise of an unnamed illness after having slept with a woman of ill repute.

Later Pandora and Cassandra had badgered West to explain the mysterious malady, until he had reluctantly told them about the pox. Not smallpox or chicken pox, but a particular strain that infected promiscuous men and women. Eventually it drove one mad and made one’s nose fall off. Some called it French pox, some called it English pox. West had told them never to repeat any of it, or Kathleen would have his head.

“I’m sure Lord St. Vincent doesn’t have the pox,” Cassandra said. “From what I saw the other night, he has a perfectly handsome nose.”

“He’ll catch the pox someday,” Pandora persisted darkly, “if he hasn’t already. And then he’ll give it to me.”

“You’re being dramatic. And not all rakes have the pox.”

“I’m going to ask him if he does.”

“Pandora, you wouldn’t! The poor man would be horrified.”

“So would I, if I ended up losing my nose.”

As the Ravenels rode in the private first-class compartment on the London, Brighton, and South Coast line, Pandora’s nerves became more strained with each passing mile. If only the train were headed in another direction, anywhere other than toward Heron’s Point.

She couldn’t decide whether she was more worried about how she would behave with the Challons, or how they would behave toward her. There was no doubt that Lord St. Vincent resented her for the situation she’d put him in, even though it had been an accident on her part.

God, she was so tired of causing trouble and then having to feel guilty about it. From now on, she would behave like a respectable, proper lady. People would marvel at her restraint and dignity. They might even become a bit concerned—“Is Pandora quite well? She’s always so subdued.” Lady Berwick would glow with pride, and advise other girls to emulate Pandora’s remarkable reserve. She would become known for it.

Sitting by the window, Pandora watched the passing scenery and occasionally glanced at Kathleen, who sat in an opposite seat with little William on her lap. Although they had brought a nursery maid to help with the infant, Kathleen preferred to keep him with her as much as possible. The dark-haired baby played intently with a string of spools, investigating the various sizes and textures, and fitting them against his mouth to gnaw industriously. Entertained by his son’s antics, Devon lounged beside them with his arm resting along the back of the bench.