“Ah Lord Pinkerton?” an emboldened mature lady around my mother’s age accosted me as I lounged amiably enough with my cronies at the Misses Fotheringay’s ball at Southam Courtenay, “Have you met my daughter Molly?”
I looked past the matron and there through the fug of intoxication I believed I beheld an angel, a great vision in gleaming virginal white, and at second glance an improbably plump one, “No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” I agreed uncertainly for the sweet Mull-berry wine had had its effect on me. xxx “You insult me sir,” the Earl railed. “Oh, indeed,” Lord Garth agreed, “The sides of the box bed would impinge most painfully.”
“With Mummy on top then,” Hannah declared. “Did I?” I queried, “How?”
“Oh what a question!” she snorted.
