Aubrey went downstairs to linger on the front stoop just as Olivia arrived in a smart little phaeton that she drove herself. They headed up Kell Boulevard to the posh end of Shops; Olivia needed to fetch a hat from Madame Merviole; then she and Aubrey would visit Plimsoll’s bookshop (Aubrey’s request), followed by Suvaginney Perfumers. They would end their excursion at Geesee’s Sweets.
“How is your family?” Olivia said as they swept to a stop in front of Madame Merviole. The groom leapt smoothly down from the phaeton's high back seat and went to stand at the horse’s head.
Aubrey pondered her response. Olivia wasn’t precisely a gossip, wasn’t precisely not. She wasn’t malicious; she just couldn’t keep a secret. Anything Aubrey said would be repeated, in some form, at the next public venue.
“Lord Ives is taking Mother for a ride along the Boulevard.”
Mother would like people knowing about Lord Ives’s attentions and Olivia said, “How nice for her” in a tone that indicated that Olivia knew precisely what that ride meant in the hierarchy of suitable attachments. Lord Ives was slightly further up the social scale than Sir Promfret but not as far up as, say, Sir James.
Speaking of which—
“Did I meet policemen when I was bespelled?” Aubrey said.
“Police? I don’t think so. Sir James brought you to Braesmouth, didn’t he? He says you were under Academy protection the entire time, and he should know.” Olivia cocked her head. “Is someone saying you spent time with police?"
Her tone was speculative but also delighted. Olivia occupied exactly that position in high society for which a little bit of scandal was not automatically a block to social success--it could even help. Likely, that explained her continuing association with Aubrey, which was lucky for Aubrey. But the high society doyennes would never overlook such low behavior as associating with police.
"I don't know," Aubrey said.
"Have you heard anything, Bill?"
Olivia’s groom glanced over his shoulder, eyes flickering across Olivia’s face and form before resting on Aubrey. He finished looping the lead rope around a post and leaned against it.
“Karl, my friend at the Belemont Gentlemen’s Club--" he jerked his head towards that august building across the street from the hat shop "--he says one of the footman there saw her—uh, Miss St. Clair—going into a police station. Said he heard she attacked some slum rat.”
“I did?”
“Yes, Miss.” Bill’s voice was heavily significant but not unfriendly, and Olivia smoothed the lapels of his jacket before raising her brows at Aubrey.
“Well?”
Aubrey sighed, sounding like Richard. Olivia seemed convinced that Aubrey knew all kinds of exciting details about her lost months and only wouldn’t share them out of misguided prudishness.
“If I ever remember, I’ll tell you,” Aubrey said as she had several times before.
Not that Aubrey would--she hadn't told Olivia about her fangs and claws--but Olivia beamed contentment and swept into the shop.
Aubrey followed, noting the stands of bonnets, the starched assistants at the long counter, and a few customers. Those ladies greeted Olivia with almost as much obsequiousness as did the assistants—“Miss Clyndale, how well you look! How is your mother?”—then fell to whispering when they spotted Aubrey.
“The St. Clair girl—”
“Supposedly bespelled—”
“Sir James’s patronage—”
