Miss Trevaine’s appearance in Hyde Park that afternoon in Claibourne’s curricle made the ton twitch with curiosity. “There’s that girl Claibourne escorted to the shops. Sophrina Rivington saw them at Bertin’s. Said she bought out the place.” “They say it’s a match; she’d better be rich.” “But who is she?” Or, “Merrill’s been driving around all day with that chit. Never known him to be so obvious before. Milbrooke told me they were laughing together at Gunther’s. Handsome girl, but who is she?” Speculation continued whenever two riders stopped for conversation, and in nearly every carriage. In one satin-lined brougham, however, a little girl, dressed as a precious miniature of her mother, was heard to ask: “Mama, why may that lady have her dog in the carriage and I cannot take Tippy?” London also had a long memory. When Claibourne’s curricle pulled up next to Amabel Parkhurst’s, enough people recalled she was expecting her niece; others could identify Lady Parkhurst’s black-clad companion as Claibourne’s great-aunt, so they made the same deduction.
