Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was raining heavily by dinnertime. Primrose wrapped a warm cashmere shawl around her shoulders—it had grown quite chilly—and marched briskly down to the drawing room. Lord Algernon was the only person there, standing by the fireplace.
“Good evening, Lady Primrose,” he said. “Quite a cold snap this is, isn’t it? Come and stand here by the fire.”
Primrose smiled at him, and did as he bid.
“I understand you had an unpleasant experience this afternoon. Are you quite well?”
“I am, thank you.”
“Such a dreadful thing. Frederick will never forgive himself! And poor Isobel is quite beside herself. She won’t be joining us for dinner. I understand she’s prostrate with shock.”
“Oh,” Primrose said, thinking of Lady Cheevers’s shrill cry of warning: Look out!
“You’re made
