“Of course they do, sweetheart.” Devon gave her a comforting squeeze before drawing back to look down at her. “Do you know the motto on the Ravenel coat of arms?”

“Loyalté nous lie.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“‘Never make us angry?’” Pandora guessed, and was rewarded by his deep laugh. “Actually, I do know,” she said. “It means ‘loyalty binds us.’”

“That’s right,” Devon said. “Whatever happens, we Ravenels will remain loyal to each other. We’ll never sacrifice one for the sake of the rest.”

Chapter 5

Sitting on the floor of the upstairs parlor of Ravenel House, Pandora brushed the pair of black cocker spaniels who had been with the family for ten years. Josephine sat obediently while Pandora drew the soft bristles over her floppy ears. Napoleon lounged nearby with his chin resting on the floor between his paws.

“Are you ready?” Cassandra asked, coming to the threshold. “We can’t be late for the train. Oh, don’t do that, you’ll be covered in dog hair! You have to look presentable for the duke and duchess. And Lord St. Vincent, of course.”

“Why bother?” Pandora rose to her feet. “I already know what they’re going to think of me.” But she stood still as Cassandra moved industriously around her, walloping at her skirts and sending black hairs floating into the air.

“They’re going to like you—” Thwack. “—if only—” Thwack. Thwack. “—you’ll be nice to them.”

Pandora’s traveling dress was made of leaf-green batiste wool with a waistcoat jacket, and a flaring white lace Medici collar that stood up at the back of the neck and tapered down to a point at the top of her basque. It was a smart and stylish ensemble, accessorized with a little feathered emerald velvet hat that matched her sash. Cassandra wore similar garments of pale blue, with a sapphire hat.

“I’ll be as nice as nice can be,” Pandora said. “But don’t you remember what happened at Eversby Priory, when a goose built her nest in the swans’ territory? She thought she was enough like them that they wouldn’t mind her. Only her neck was too short, and her legs were too long, and she didn’t have the right sort of feathers, so the swans kept attacking and chasing the poor thing until finally she was driven off.”

“You’re not a goose.”

Pandora’s mouth twisted. “I’m an awfully deficient swan, then.”

Cassandra sighed and drew her close. “You mustn’t marry Lord St. Vincent for my sake,” she said for the hundredth time.

Slowly Pandora laid her head on her twin’s shoulder. “I could never live with myself if you had to suffer the consequences of a mistake I made.”

“I won’t suffer.”

“If I become a pariah, no gentleman of rank would ever offer for you.”

“I would be happy regardless,” Cassandra said stoutly.

“No, you wouldn’t. You want to marry someday, and have a home and children of your own.” Pandora sighed. “I wish you could be Lord St. Vincent’s wife. You would be perfect for each other.”

“Lord St. Vincent didn’t give me a second glance. All he did was stare at you.”

“In sheer horror.”

“I think the horror was all on your side,” Cassandra said. “He was merely trying to take in the situation.” Her light fingers came to smooth Pandora’s hair. “They say he’s the catch of a century. Last year, Lady Berwick encouraged him to take an interest in Dolly, but he would have none of it.”

Cassandra’s hand came just a little close to her ear. Flinching reflexively, Pandora drew back. Certain parts of her ear, inside and out, were painfully sensitive. “How do you know that? Dolly never mentioned it to me.”

“It was just some ballroom gossip. And Dolly doesn’t talk about it because it was a great disappointment.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested since we’d never even seen Lord St. Vincent, and you said you didn’t want to hear anything about eligible bachelors—”

“I do now! Tell me everything you know about him.”

After glancing at the empty doorway, Cassandra lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor that he keeps a mistress.”

Pandora gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Someone told you that in a ballroom? During a formal dance?”

“Not openly, it was whispered. What do you think people gossip about during dances?”

“Things like weather.”

“It’s not gossip when it’s about weather, it’s only gossip when it’s something you know you shouldn’t be listening to.”

Pandora was indignant at the thought that she’d missed so much interesting information during those hideously dull occasions. “Who is his mistress?”

“No one mentioned her name.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Pandora commented sourly, “I’ll bet he has the pox.”

Cassandra looked bewildered. “What?”

“Heaps of it,” Pandora added grimly. “He’s a rake, after all. Just like the song.”

Cassandra groaned and shook her head, knowing exactly which song Pandora was referring to. They had once overheard one of the stablemen singing a few lines of a ballad called “The Unfortunate Rake,” for the amusement of his companions. The bawdy lyrics had told the story of a rake’s demise of an unnamed illness after having slept with a woman of ill repute.