Morgan shrugged. “While that may be true, it’s still only a Wednesday night, and tomorrow it will be Thursday, and this will be over with and you’ll wait a full week before you attend again.”
“True. It’s the first time that will be difficult, I’m sure.”
“You’re not sure what to expect. That’s understandable.”
“I’ve heard the lemonade is terrible,” Joan muttered.
Morgan chuckled. “Yes, that’s well known. But thankfully there’s ratafia as well.”
“I dislike ratafia.”
“You’re going to have to make do with the watered-down lemonade then, I’m afraid.”
Joan was about to make a comment when the carriage stopped. She gaped at her brother. Had he been distracting her with the mundane conversation about lemonade to help her? Bless him. Sisterly affection welled up within her, and it was much needed. She had been at odds with her brother for the past few days. There was this nagging feeling that he was keeping something from her. Not necessarily lying; no, he knew he couldn’t get away with lying to her, for she’d see through it. But withholding information, which wasn’t exactly lying. She’s been quite a pest, but there was never a decisive answer from him concerning her questions.
Questions that all revolved around Rowles.
“Allow me.” Morgan stepped from the carriage and offered her his hand. She relied on his strength for balance as she stepped down to face the white stone building. Footmen dressed in smart livery verified the vouchers of each person before they were allowed inside. The strict dress code was enforced without discrimination; Joan double-checked her brother’s appearance. Satisfied, she waited for their turn.
Morgan handed the footmen their vouchers, and with a nod, they were allowed entrance. The air was warm, stuffy almost, as they walked through the hall toward the ballroom where a reel was being played. From the hall, Joan could see the dancers lining up.
“Did you know that the Duke of Wellington was once rejected from Almack’s?” Morgan whispered.
“No.” Joan turned to him, shocked.
“Indeed, he hadn’t followed the dress code.”
“What happened? What did he do?” Joan asked, her eyes wide. Dear Lord, she couldn’t imagine a footman deigning to reject the entrance of the Duke of Wellington.
“Well, he understood and obeyed. When he returned on a different day, he was dressed properly.”
“I’d be terrified to be the porter who rejected his entrance.”
“I think the porter was more worried about the displeasure of the Almack’s patronesses than that of the duke,” Morgan answered.
Joan nodded sagely, agreeing with her brother’s astute assessment.
“Ah, and here we go. Head high,” Morgan whispered as they walked into the ballroom. The Almack’s patronesses were holding court at the middle of the far wall, their elaborate dresses all of the highest fashion as they scanned the room, their gazes like a force to be reckoned with.
Lady Jersey met Joan’s eyes, and Joan immediately lowered them and nodded her head, even from the distance of across the room. When she dared look up, Lady Jersey gave a curt nod, then Joan turned her attention back to her brother.
She released her breath and followed him along the side of the dance floor.
“Would you like some lemonade?” he asked, mirth in his tone.
Joan gave a soft laugh, making sure to follow every inch of protocol in such a hallowed hall. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll return directly.” He bowed and headed toward the refreshment table. Joan studied the dancers and then scanned the room for familiar faces. Was Miss Bronson in attendance? Or was she not able to secure vouchers?
“Here you go,” Morgan said upon his return and offered her a glass.
“Thank you.” She took a small sip and held back a wince at the tart flavor. “Assessments were correct,” she whispered, earning a conspiratorial grin from her brother.
“Lord Penderdale.” Someone spoke from behind Joan. She turned and noted the smart bow of one of Almack’s footmen.
“Yes?”
“Lady Jersey has requested a word with you and your sister.”