“Oh, and you c-carry a fan! Lady Amelia, only see! Mr Drelincourt has a fan m-much prettier than mine!”
Mr Drelincourt shut the fan with a snap. “Walked out, has he? Upon my word, you are monstrously used, cousin, and you a bride!” He peered through the glass in the head of his cane at the boxes opposite, and uttered a titter. “What fair charmer can have lured him—Good God, the Massey! Oh, I beg pardon, cousin—I should not have spoken! A jest—the merest jest, I assure you! I had not the least intention—la, do but observe the creature in the puce satin over there!”
Viscount Winwood, who had caught something of this interchange, started up out of his chair with a black scowl on his face, but was restrained by Lady Amelia, who grasped the skirts of his coat without ceremony and gave them an admonitory tug. She got up ponderously, and surged forward. “So it’s you, is it, Crosby? You may give me your arm back to my box, if it’s strong enough to support me.”
“With the greatest pleasure on earth, ma’am!” Mr Drelincourt bowed, and tittupped out with her.
Mr Dashwood, observing the bride’s expression of puzzled inquiry, coughed, exchanged a rueful glance with the Viscount, and took his leave.
Horatia, her brows knit, turned to her brother, “What did he m-mean, P-Pel?” she asked.
“Mean? Who?” said the Viscount.
“Why, C-Crosby! Didn’t you hear him?”
“That little worm! Lord, nothing! What should he mean?”
Horatia looked across at the box opposite. “He said he should not have spoken. And you said—only the other d-day—about Lady M-Massey—”