Silken Secrets by Joan Smith Page A

thought, must account for Joseph’s having added himself to the other end of the sofa. There he sat, guarding the heiress, as wary as a dog at his meal. Mr. Robertson sat between them. He rose when she entered. Joseph and Mr. Vulch rose, too.
    As soon as the greetings were over, Bess invited Mary Anne to sit on the chair closest to her. In a carrying voice she said, “I’ve been waiting this age for you! I’m so happy you could come. Doesn’t she look lovely, Mr. Robertson? I see what has been detaining you, Mary Anne—your toilette.” Her head turned from one to the other at these playful sallies.
    “I meant to wear a new shawl I got for my birthday,” Mary Anne said.
    “You wanted to put me in the shade, sly wretch! Never mind, I’m sure your old shawl is enough to eclipse me entirely.’’ She gave Joseph a glance from the corner of her eye but heard no denial of this statement. “I knew you would make a special effort when I told you who would be here,” she said with a meaningful nod of her head in Mr. Robertson’s direction. Behind her fingers, but in a perfectly carrying voice, she added, “You see, I have saved you a chair beside him.” The speech was accompanied by a knowing smirk and a quick dart of her eyes toward Mr. Robertson.
    Next she turned her full attention to him and said in the same stage whisper, “Didn’t I tell you she would be here, James? But you mustn’t take the compliment wholly to yourself. Joseph is also an attraction. I expect to see you both with daggers drawn over Miss Judson before the night is out.”
    Mary Anne noted with interest that Mr. Robertson’s name was James, and Bess, the bold creature, was making free of it already.
    Mr. Robertson hardly knew how to reply to this artless performance. He bowed and smiled, and said he feared they were in for rain.
    “I fear so,” Miss Judson agreed, “and we came in the gig, too.”
    “Speaking of rigs,” Joseph said, pitching his words across Bess to Robertson, “that is a mighty fine curricle you’re driving, Mr. Robertson. Sixteen miles an hour, I fancy?”
    “Fifteen at least, on a good open stretch of road,” Mr. Robertson replied.
    “Ho, with that pair of grays, I fancy seventeen or eighteen isn’t above them. They have got Alvanley’s beat.”
    “Actually they are Alvanley’s old team. He sold them to me last winter,” Mr. Robertson said.
    “By Jove!” Joseph smiled. “I expect you’re a member of the F.H.C. With that team, you could pass anything on the road.”
    “No, the Four-in-Hand Club decrees that the pace must not exceed a trot. Passing another coach on the road is prohibited. The driving is very carefully regulated.”
    “I should think so!” Joseph said. “I have seen you fellows assemble at Hanover Square for your dart to Salt Hill. They say your dinners at the Windmill are a regular brawl.”
    “Only port wine is served,” Mr. Robertson said. “We do have to drive back as well, you know.”
    “Exactly!” Joseph nodded.
    “So you are a notable whip, James, and a model of sobriety. I trust a certain someone is taking notes of all this,” Bess said, directing her words toward Miss Judson.
    When Joseph leaned forward to resume the conversation, Bess took him by the arm and restrained him. “We must be discreet, Joseph,” she said playfully. “Privacy—that is what they will want. I’m sure they wish us both at Jericho.”
    Certainly Mary Anne wished one of them there. Bess was impossible, but Joseph’s behavior was equally strange. It seemed he was buttering Mr. Robertson up very lavishly. Why was he at such pains to ingratiate a drapery merchant? She cast a puzzled frown at Mr. Robertson.
    “You didn’t bring a pen!” he accused playfully. “Never mind, I’ll have a judge write up my character and post it down to you. I trust you are also a fan of the F.H.C.?”
    “I haven’t the least notion what you’re talking about,” she said, blinking.
    “That doesn’t stop