Today’s guest had presumed on old acquaintance to ask for an interview. The Duchess of Haverford was surprised and intrigued. They had barely known one another when Her Grace was a girl, just out in Society. Marabella Clouston had been the cousin and companion of one of her friends, but was already garnering the reputation that soon saw her exiled. Or, rather, run off to the Continent with one of her lovers.

Since her reappearance in England six years ago as the stalwart moralist Mrs Whitehead, she and the duchess had not met. Mrs Whitehead, a teacher of manners to the offspring of newly rich merchants, did not mix in the same circles as the Duchess of Haverford.

So what did she want today? Perhaps she had heard that Her Grace, who believed in second chances, had squelched the resurrections of the old rumours. Mrs Whitehead should be allowed to earn an honest living without being contaminated by decades’ old stories of a foolish youth.

The lady was announced. Time had not been kind to Marabella, who looked old enough to be the duchess’s mother if not older. The black garments, relieved here and there by touches of white, gave the impression of deep mourning, though if Mr Whitehead had died, if there ever was a Mr Whitehead, it had surely been at least six years ago.

Mrs Whitehead curtseyed, a low reverence belied by the sneer she did not quite hide as she looked around Eleanor’s comfortable sitting room.

“Please be seated, Mrs Whitehead. May I offer you tea?”

They spoke about Mrs Whitehead’s preferences for her beverage while the lady took the indicated seat and settled her skirts around her. The duchess moved the conversation smoothly on to the weather, and the activities currently curtailed by the persistent rain. Mrs Whitehead complained about the inconvenience of her dwelling, too far from Hyde Park to walk without risk of being splattered along the way by coaches, carriages and carts “driven far too fast for the conditions, and without considering those who are obliged to walk.”

Eleanor passed Mrs Whitehead a cup of tea (strong with a slice of lemon) and began to make another for her companion, who sat quietly in the background. “Indeed,” she replied, vaguely.

Mrs Whitehead made an abrupt turn in the conversation. “You will be wondering why I asked to see you, Your Grace. After all, it has been a long time since we were girls together.”

Hardly that. Marabella must have been in her late twenties when Eleanor was seventeen. Eleanor inclined her head. “I assumed you had reason, Mrs Whitehead.”

Mrs Whitehead put her cup and saucer down and leant forward, her eyes glittering. “Nothing less important than the moral wellbeing of Society, Your Grace, which is under such threat you cannot imagine.”

Her Grace was far too well trained to cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and her straight back allowed for no more stiffening in preparation for yet another diatribe from someone who wanted her to rein in her husband, or her sons, or the current fashion for low necklines, or some other outrage. What Mrs Whitehead said next, she did not expect.

“I understand you to be in some sort a sponsor of a group of dreadful women. Authors, they call themselves, as if any lady would publish a work of literature. Not that it can be called literature. Gossip and scandal, I call it. They say it is fiction. Hah! We all know they must be drawing from life, and what lives they must have led! Why, they write about… But I get ahead of my theme.”

She drew a breath before continuing her diatribe, and the duchess took the opportunity to say, “I take it you speak of the Bluestocking Belles?”

“I do. You cannot possibly be pleased with the book they published about your house party, and the way they portrayed your sons. And the next book strongly promoted the idea of second chances in love, love itself being a pernicious doctrine that undermines the very fabric of society. But this next one! Your Grace, I have come to know it goes even further beyond good taste and morality. Even the cover! Your Grace, you must help me to prevent the publication of the cover!”

Eleanor was born and raised to be a lady of high estate, and had been a duchess for more than thirty years. She froze the silly woman with a raised eyebrow and a pointed look.

“You are much mistaken, Mrs Whitehead, if you think I will join you in such an enterprise. I am sure the Belles will produce another volume of stories that celebrate the healing power of love, and I look forward to reading it. Please allow me to express my deepest regrets that you have not known such love in your own life, for if you had, you would not be so disdainful of the concept.”

Mrs Whitehead surged to her feet. “Then I will take no more of your time. You were a silly fribbet as a girl, even if you did manage to trap a duke, and you are clearly an even sillier woman now you are old. Good day, Your Grace.”

Eleanor watched the woman leave, then turned to her companion. “Fenella, we have an invitation to the Bluestocking Belle’s cover release party, do we not? Send an acceptance, please, and be sure to order the new book as soon as orders are being accepted.

Watch The Teatime Tattler for more about Mrs Whitehead’s campaign closer to the date of the cover reveal party.

And come to the party! It’s on Facebook in September. Check out the details.