“No. Hugh Prentice.”
Sarah’s entire body went rigid with rage. “How dare he show his face?” she hissed. “Surely he knew we would be in attendance.”
But Honoria was shaking her head. “He has just as much right to be here—”
“No, he does not,” Sarah cut in. Trust Honoria to be kind and forgiving when neither was deserved. “What Lord Hugh Prentice needs,” Sarah ground out, “is a public flogging.”
“Sarah!”
“There is a time and a place for Christian charity, and Lord Hugh Prentice intersects with neither.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed dangerously as she spied the gentleman she thought was Lord Hugh. They had never been formally introduced; the duel had occurred before Sarah had entered society, and of course no one had dared to make them known to each other after that. But still, she knew what he looked like.
She had made it her business to know what he looked like.
She could only see the gentleman from the back, but the hair was the correct color—light brown. Or maybe dark blond, depending on how charitable one was feeling. She could not see if he held a cane. Had his walking improved? The last time she had spied him, several months earlier, his limp had been quite pronounced.
“He is friends with Mr. Dunwoody,” Honoria said, her voice still small and fragile. “He will have wanted to congratulate his friend.”
“I don’t care if he wanted to give the happy couple their own private Indian island,” Sarah spat. “You are also friends with Mr. Dunwoody. You have known him for years. Surely Lord Hugh is aware of this.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t make excuses for him. I don’t care what Lord Hugh thinks of Daniel—”
“Well, I do. I care what everyone thinks of Daniel.”
“That’s not the point,” Sarah railed. “You are innocent of any wrongdoing, and you have been wronged beyond all measure. If Lord Hugh has a decent bone in his body, he would stay away from any gathering at which there is even a chance that you might be present.”
“You’re right.” Honoria closed her eyes for a moment, looking unbearably weary. “But right now I don’t care. I just want to leave. I want to go home.”
Sarah continued to stare at the man in question, or rather at his back. “He should know better,” she said, mostly to herself. And then she felt herself step forward. “I’m going to—”
“Don’t you dare,” Honoria warned, yanking Sarah back with a swift tug at her arm. “If you cause a scene . . .”
“I would never cause a scene.” But of course they both knew she would. For Hugh Prentice, or rather, because of Hugh Prentice, Sarah would create a scene that would be the stuff of legend.
Two years ago, Hugh Prentice had ripped her family to shreds. Daniel’s absence was still a gaping hole at family gatherings. One couldn’t even mention his name in front of his mother; Aunt Virginia would simply pretend she hadn’t heard, and then (according to Honoria), she’d lock herself in her room and cry.
The rest of the family had not gone untouched, either. The scandal following the duel had been so great that both Honoria and Sarah had been forced to forgo what would have been their first season in London. It had not escaped Sarah’s notice (nor Honoria’s, once Sarah had pointed it out, repeated it, raged about it, then flopped on her bed with despair), that 1821 had been an uncommonly productive season as judged by the matchmaking mothers of London. Fourteen eligible gentlemen had become engaged to be married that season. Fourteen! And that wasn’t even counting the ones who were too old, too strange, or too fond of their drink.
Who knows what might have happened if Sarah and Honoria had been out and about in town during that matrimonially spectacular season. Call her shallow, but as far as Sarah was concerned, Hugh Prentice was directly responsible for their rapidly approaching spinsterhood.
Sarah had never met the man, but she hated him.
“I’m sorry,” Honoria said abruptly. Her voice caught, and she sounded as if she was fighting a sob. “I must leave. Now. And we must find my mother. If she sees him . . .”
Aunt Virginia. Sarah’s heart plummeted. She would be a wreck. Honoria’s mother had never recovered from her only son’s disgrace. To come face-to-face with the man who’d caused it all . . .
Sarah grabbed her cousin’s hand. “Come with me,” she urged. “I’ll help you find her.”
Honoria nodded limply, letting Sarah lead the way. They snaked through the crowds, trying to balance speed with discretion. Sarah did not want her cousin to be forced to speak with Hugh Prentice, but she would die before she allowed anyone to think that they were running from his presence.
Which meant that she was going to have to stay. Perhaps even speak with him. Sarah would have to save face on behalf of the entire family.
“There she is,” Honoria said as they approached the grand ballroom doors. Lady Winstead was standing in a small clutch of matrons, chatting amiably with Mrs. Dunwoody, their hostess.
“She must not have seen him,” Sarah whispered. She wouldn’t have been smiling otherwise.
“What shall I feign?” Honoria asked.
“Fatigue,” Sarah said immediately. No one would doubt it. Honoria had turned ashen the moment she’d spied Hugh Prentice, setting the grayish smudges under her eyes into stark relief.
Honoria gave a quick nod and dashed off, politely pulling her mother aside before whispering a few words in her ear. Sarah watched as the two of them made their excuses, then slipped out the door to the waiting line of carriages.