“You’re not supposed to know about such things,” Annabelle whispered.

Jeremy let out an amused snort. “I’m fourteen, Annabelle, not four.” His head leaned closer to hers. “So…why did you marry Mr. Hunt? Mama says it’s because he compromised you, but knowing you, there’s more to the story than that. One thing is certain—you wouldn’t let yourself be compromised unless you wanted to be.” The glint of humor left his eyes, and he asked more soberly, “Was it because of his money? I’ve seen the household accounts—obviously we hadn’t two shillings to rub together.”

“It wasn’t entirely the money.” Annabelle had never been anything but completely frank with her brother, but it was difficult to admit the truth, even to herself. “I fell ill at Stony Cross, and Mr. Hunt was unexpectedly kind to me. And then when I began to soften toward him, I discovered that he and I have a sort of…well, affinity…”

“Intellectual or physical?” Jeremy’s smile returned as he read the answer in her eyes. “Both? That’s good. Tell me, are you in—”

“What are you two whispering about?” Philippa asked with a laugh, gesturing for them to come away from the window.

“I was begging my sister not to browbeat her new husband,” Jeremy replied, and Annabelle rolled her eyes.

“Thank you,” Simon told him gravely. “As you can imagine, it takes a great deal of fortitude to stand up to such a wife, but so far I’ve managed—” He stopped with a grin as he saw Annabelle’s threatening glance. “I can see that your brother and I would do well to share our manly confidences outside, while you tell your mother all about Paris. Jeremy—would you care for a ride in my phaeton?”

Her brother needed no further urging. “Let me find my hat and coat—”

“Don’t bother with a hat,” Simon advised laconically. “You wouldn’t be able to keep it on your head for more than a minute.”

“Mr. Hunt,” Annabelle called after them, “if you maim or kill my brother, you won’t get any supper.”

Simon called out something indistinct over his shoulder, and the pair of them disappeared into the entrance hall.

“Phaetons are too light and swift, and they overturn so easily,” Philippa said with a frown of worry. “I do hope that Mr. Hunt is an accomplished driver.”

“Exceedingly,” Annabelle said with a reassuring smile. “He drove us from the hotel at such a controlled pace that I would have thought we were riding in a heavy old family barouche. I promise you, Jeremy couldn’t be in safer hands.”

For the next hour, the two women sat in the parlor and shared a pot of tea as they discussed everything that had happened during the last fortnight. As Annabelle had expected, Philippa did not ask any questions about the more intimate aspects of the honeymoon, forbearing to intrude on the couple’s privacy. However, she was keenly interested in Annabelle’s account of the many foreigners they had met, and the parties they had attended. The crowd of wealthy industrialists was unfamiliar to Philippa, and she listened intently as Annabelle endeavored to describe them to her.

“One sees more and more of such people coming to England,” Philippa remarked, “to match their wealth with titles.”

“Like the Bowmans,” Annabelle said.

“Yes. It seems that with each season, we are being infiltrated with increasing numbers of Americans—and heaven knows, it’s already hard enough to catch a peer. We certainly don’t need an excess of competition. I will be pleased when all this entrepreneurial fervor has finally settled, and things go back to the way they were.”

Annabelle smiled ruefully as she wondered how to explain to her mother that from all she had seen and heard, the process of industrial expansion was only just beginning…and that things would never go back to the way they were. Annabelle had just begun to gain a small understanding of the transformation that the railroads and propeller-driven ships and mechanized factories would effect in England and the rest of the world. Those were the subjects that Simon and his acquaintances had discussed at dinner instead of upper-class pursuits like hunting and country parties.

“Tell me, are you getting on well with Mr. Hunt?” Philippa asked. “It would certainly seem so.”

“Oh, yes. Though I will say that Mr. Hunt is not like any man that you or I have ever known before. The gentlemen that we’re accustomed to…his mind works differently than theirs. He…he is a progressive…”

“Oh, dear heavens,” Philippa said in vague distaste. “Do you mean politically?”

“No…” Annabelle paused and made a comical face as she reflected that she didn’t even know what party her husband subscribed to. “Actually, having heard some of his views, I wouldn’t doubt that he is a Whig, or even a liberal—”

“Dear me. Perhaps in time you can persuade him to go in the other direction.”

That made Annabelle laugh. “I doubt that. But it doesn’t really matter, because…Mama, I am actually beginning to believe that someday the opinions of these entrepreneurs and mercantilists will carry more weight than those of the peerage. Their financial influence alone—”

“Annabelle,” Philippa interrupted gently, “I think it is a wonderful thing that you wish to be supportive of your husband. But a man in trade will never be as influential as a peer. Not in England, certainly.”