“What?” shrieked Horatia. The Earl showed her the bill.
She stared at it with dawning consternation. “Oh!” she said. “I—I remember now. You s-see, Marcus, they—they have heels studded with emeralds.”
“Then the matter becomes comprehensible,” said his lordship.
“Yes. I wore them at the Subscription-ball at Almack’s. They are called venez-y-voir, you know.”
“That would account, no doubt,” remarked Rule, “for the presence of the three young gentlemen whom I found—er—assisting at your toilet that evening.”
“B-but there is nothing in that, Rule!” objected Horatia, lifting her downcast head. “It is quite the thing for gentlemen to be admitted as soon as the under-dress is on. I know it is, b-because Lady Stokes d-does it. They advise one how to p-place one’s p-patches, and where to bestow one’s flowers, and what p-perfume to use.”
If the Earl of Rule found anything amusing in being instructed by his bride in the art of dalliance the only sign he gave of it was the very faintest quiver of the lips. “Ah!” he said. “And yet—” he looked down at her, half-smiling—“And yet I believe I might advise you in these matters to even better purpose.”
“B-but you’re my husband,” Horatia pointed out.
He turned back to the bills. “That is undoubtedly a handicap,” he admitted.
Horatia appeared to consider the subject closed. She peered over his arm. “Have you f-found anything else dreadful?” she inquired.