Coming up with a plan to communicate Charlotte’s displeasure to her distant fiancé required tea and cake.
Once the maid had finished setting out the cups and left the room, Charlotte fixed worried eyes on Anya and asked. “What do we do?”
Anya retreated into a sip of tea to delay her reply. What did she know of men, and engagements?
Piety pulled a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. “We need to get his attention.”
Charlotte looked even more distressed. “But he’s not even in the same country. In fact, I’m not even sure what country he’s in from one month to the next.”
That sounded rather adventurous. Anya wondered if there was any room in diplomatic missions for women. Probably not. And certainly not unmarried ones. For the first time, a husband sounded useful.
“Do you wear the jewellery and things he sends you?” Anya put down the teacup and retrieved her own notebook, it was easier to think with a pencil in hand.
Charlotte scowled. “No. I refuse to give him the satisfaction,” she slumped against the back of the sofa she was perched on. “Not that he’d hear about it anyway. What I wore to some party-or-other is hardly going to make it into official dispatches.”
She had a point.
“What do you think would happen if you packed up all the gifts he’s sent you, and returned them to him?”
Piety gasped. “You’d send them to Paris? Or Vienna, or wherever he is?”
“No. Just to his town house here. Let his servants tell him of the delivery.”
Charlotte straightened. “That would be easy enough, and I wouldn’t need Papa to arrange the delivery. Let’s do it right now.”
As Anya and Piety followed Charlotte’s determined strides out of the drawing room, Piety whispered. “What if this doesn’t get his attention? Then what?”
Anya had no idea. “I’ll think of something.” She had to.
The DNA of Stories 