The news reached Seymour House before luncheon—carried first by footmen, then by gossiping maids, then by Baroness Seymour herself, who burst into the morning room like a gust of scandal-laden wind.
"Margaret Amelia Seymour!"
Margaret froze mid-reach for a tea cake. This was never a promising start.
Her mother stood framed in the doorway, silk skirts swishing with the kind of fury that only the ton—and failed marriage prospects—could inspire. Behind her marched Baron Seymour, looking resigned, and Lord James, wearing the expression of a man wishing for immediate exile to Scotland. Little Agatha sat cross-legged on the carpet, making two dolls argue over which bonnet was prettier.
"Mama?" Margaret set down the pastry.
Baroness Seymour held up the crumpled note as though it were a death sentence.
"Lady Sophia Fiennes," she declared, "has just received a formal social call from Lord Benedict Montgomery. A courting call."
Lord James groaned.
Baron Seymour cleared his throat.
