Sally moved over on the bench, barely even looking up from her needlework. Mary settled in between the two of them, scooting this way and that until an inch of bench could be seen between her pink skirts and Olivia’s green.

“I want to know everything,” Mary said to Olivia, her voice low and thrilled.

Olivia briefly considered feigning ignorance but really, what was the point? They both knew exactly what Mary was talking about. “There’s not much to say,” she said, crinkling her newspaper in an attempt to remind Mary that she had come to the park to read. “He recognized me as his neighbor and asked me to dance. It was all very civilized.”

“Did he say anything about his fiancée?”

“Of course not.”

“What about Julian Prentice?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he would tell a complete stranger, and a lady at that, about his giving another gentleman a blackened eye?”

“No,” Mary said glumly. “It was really too much to hope for. I vow, I cannot get the details from anyone.”

Olivia did her best to appear bored by the entire affair.

“Very well,” Mary continued, undaunted by her companion’s lack of response. “Tell me about the dance.”

“Mary.” It was a bit of a groan, a bit of a snap. Certainly rude, but Olivia desperately did not want to tell Mary anything.

“You must,” Mary insisted.

“Surely there is something else in London of interest besides my one, very short, very dull dance with Sir Harry Valentine.”

“Not really,” Mary answered. She shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “Philomena’s mother dragged her off to Brighton, and Anne is ill. She probably has the same head cold you had.”

Probably not, Olivia thought.

“No one has seen Sir Harry since the musicale,” Mary added. “He has not attended anything.”

This did not surprise Olivia. He was most likely at his desk, furiously scribbling away. Possibly wearing that ridiculous hat.

Not that she would know. She had not looked out the window in days. She hadn’t even looked at the window. Well, not more than six or eight times, anyway.

Each day.

“What did you talk about, then?” Mary asked. “I know you spoke to him. I saw your lips moving.”

Olivia turned on her, eyes flaring with irritation. “You were watching my lips?”

“Oh, please. It’s not as if you’ve never done the same thing.”

Not only true, but irrefutable, since she’d done it with Mary. But a response-no, a retort-was definitely in order, so Olivia gave a little snort and said, “I’ve never done it to you.”

“But you would,” Mary said with certainty.

Also true, but not something Olivia intended to admit.

“What did you talk about?” Mary asked again.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia lied, crinkling her newspaper again-more loudly this time. She’d got through the society pages-she always started at the back of the paper-but she wanted to read the parliamentary report. She always read the parliamentary report. Every day. Even her father didn’t read it every day, and he was a member of the House of Lords.

“You looked angry,” Mary persisted.

I am now, she wanted to grumble.

“Were you?”

Olivia grit her teeth. “I’m sure you were mistaken.”

“I don’t think so,” Mary said, in that excruciating singsong voice she employed when she thought she was in the know.

Olivia looked over at Sally, who was pulling her needle through the fabric, pretending she wasn’t listening. Then she looked back at Mary, giving her an urgent sort of look, as if to say-Not in front of the servants.

It was not a permanent solution to the Mary problem, but it would put her off for a little while, at least.

She crinkled her newspaper again, then looked down at her hands in dismay. She’d got it before the butler had had a chance to iron the paper, and now the ink was coming off on her skin.

“That’s disgusting,” Mary said.

Olivia could think of no response, except, “Where is your maid?”

“Oh, over there,” Mary replied, waving her hand in the general vicinity of behind them. And then Olivia realized she’d made a terrible miscalculation, because Mary immediately turned to Sally and said, “You know my Genevieve, don’t you? Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Sally did know Mary’s Genevieve, and she also knew that Genevieve’s English skills were limited at best, but as Olivia couldn’t very well jump in and insist that Sally not speak to Genevieve, Sally was forced to set down her embroidery and head off to find her.

“There,” Mary announced proudly. “That was neatly done. Now tell me, what was he like? Was he handsome?”

“You’ve seen him.”

“No, was he handsome up close? Those eyes.” Mary shivered.

“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “They were brown, not bluish gray.”

“That can’t be. I’m quite certain-”

“You got it wrong.”

“No. I never get things like that wrong.”

“Mary, I was this close to his face,” Olivia said, motioning to the distance between them on the bench. “I assure you, his eyes are brown.”

Mary looked horrified. Finally, she shook her head and said, “It must be the way he looks at a person. So piercing. I just assumed his eyes were blue.” She blinked. “Or gray.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and looked straight ahead, hoping that would be the end of it, but Mary was not to be deterred. “You still didn’t tell me about him,” she pointed out.