Authors: Charis Michaels
“Is Miss Breedlowe not married?” This from Emmett, ever in search of his next conquest.
“Well,” said Idelle, pushing away her plate of triple-cut food. “All I can say is that Eli has been mortified at the indecency of it.”
“I do not care what Eli thinks,” said Piety.
Idelle gasped. “What’s this? What way is this to regard the fair opinion of your, if I do say so myself,
indulgent
fiancé?”
“He is not my fiancé,” Piety said.
“Well, he will be in short order!” said Idelle. “After this stunt, I hope you realize that you’ll no longer be allowed the freedom of unattached idleness. I won’t stand for you putting off this wedding for one season longer! You must be made to listen to reason. If not by me, then by a husband with your best interest at heart!
“Your ladyship, please.” Idelle appealed to the marchioness. “Clearly my daughter respects you. You must help her to see that a twenty-five-year-old young lady cannot flee her home and country and carry on abroad without some consequence. A safe, respectable marriage is the natural course for an unattached girl of her age and means, especially one so given to the scandalous combination of peculiarity and strong will.”
“Mining my experience and wisdom, are you?” said the marchioness. “I’d say Miss Grey is of an appropriate age to marry. But whether she is forced to marry her own stepbrother seems a separate issue from whether she should marry at all.”
“But he is the only one to have her!” Idelle laughed bitterly. “Do you think respectable men from decent families would even consider her after she’s fled our shores without a backward glance and purchased ill-advised property in another country? Entirely on her own? Decent men find her alarming! And difficult. They always have. But now? After this? There isn’t a man in New York who would consider her troth. Yet Eli . . . ” She paused to point down the table.
Unable to resist, Piety stole a look at him. He sat back in his chair, humbly blotting his mouth with his napkin.
“Eli shall!” Idelle practically sang the words, as if his mere willingness were a precious gift. “So besotted is he, that he is willing to overlook her recklessness, her impetuousness, her departure from decency. And yet, she has the cheek to sit here and insult him? Forgive me this outburst, my lady, but it’s unconscionable. Simply unconscionable!”
“As I explained to you before I left New York, Mother, Eli and I do not suit,” Piety said so quietly that she was barely heard over her mother’s muffled sniffing.
“Piety,” Eli said, “do not say that.”
“I will say it,” she replied, her voice loud for the first time. “I do not like you, Eli. Furthermore, you do not like me! Is it not reckless for two people who do not enjoy each other’s company—and that is putting it very mildly—to marry each other?”
“Your affection will grow, darling,” said Idelle, nearly instantly recovered. “Marriage is not all roses and butterflies. A good match has so very little to do with romantic love, whatever that may be. Even you know this. The real happy ending is
security
.”
“I have my own security.”
“Oh, you mean the money? Good God, Piety, do not be crass. How dare you speak of such things at the table and in the presence of strangers.”
The marchioness laughed—a loud cackling that drew everyone’s attention. “Forgive me. I have heard that irony is lost on Americans, but we English do enjoy it so.”
“I will raise it,” said Piety, her voice growing louder still. Every head swiveled back to Piety. “You have stopped at no embarrassment in your discussion of me. Why should I not simply voice the real reason that you’ve come?”
“Fine,” Idelle said, folding her napkin and tossing it over her plate. “You wish to discuss this? Here and now? Fine. You believe, simply because you are in possession of this fortune, that it alone will keep you safe from gossip? From slander? From exile? You think your nursemaid-chaperone will keep you respectable, even though you live alone in a giant, unfit house, with no man to look after you?
“A whore!” she said, the real venom of her voice filling the room. “That’s what you’ll be. Received nowhere. Tradesmen, shopkeepers, dressmakers—they will only do business with you for so long, considering the reputation you’ll earn. You may have allies now, an old woman who befriends Negro maids and her former nurse, but it won’t be long until the stigma of your impropriety will taint their reputation as well. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t believe you,” said Piety. This wasn’t entirely true; she did worry about her reputation, her ability to survive as an unattached young woman, but she was determined to call her mother’s bluff.
“
Piety
,” Eli said, as if speaking to a child.
“Well I don’t!” It was a lie. “My experience in England has been nothing like you describe. I am received everywhere. People are lovely! The house needs a few repairs, but by no means is it unlivable. On the contrary, it will be a very fine house. Very fine, indeed!” She scooted back in her chair, and a footman leaped forward to remove it. She stood.
“Look,” said Eli, “if it’s so important to you, then you and I shall live here for a time. In London. In this house of yours.”
Piety looked at him, saw the calculation in his eyes, heard the succinct way he forced out the words. Her stomach constricted in fear, but she said, “
No
. You shall not live with me in London for a time. You will never live with me, Eli.
“Look,” she continued, gesturing up and down the table. “Shall I simply give you the money? If I sign over Papa’s fortune to the lot of you, would you leave me alone? Leave all of us entirely alone?”
“Would you do that?” asked Edward, who was shushed almost immediately by Idelle.
“It’s not about the money,” Idelle insisted. “I want to see you married. I want you under the control of someone responsible and trusted in our own circle,
immediately
. Before you embarrass yourself—before you embarrass all of us—beyond repair.”
“Papa left me the resources to live beyond your control.”
“Your father is dead, Piety.” Her tone was final. “He cannot indulge you any longer. Now you must live by society’s rules, and mine. Perhaps you think you’re paving the way to bohemian freedom with this stunt, but believe me, every defiance, every harebrained scheme that you pull, edges me a little closer to proving that you are entirely incompetent to be responsible for the fortune that has been bestowed upon you. I shall enjoy this holiday to England, truly I will, but there are only so many hurdles over which I am willing to leap before I put an end to it all!”
It was the closest she had come to actually threatening that Piety was not fit to manage her own affairs. It was Piety’s greatest fear laid bare, and it nearly silenced her, but the mention of her father had the opposite effect. She had to work to smother a shriek of rage in her throat. Idelle hadn’t regarded him in life, except to needle him with relentless complaints or excise more money, why regard him in death?
“If you’ll not have Eli,” Idelle said, gesturing at each stepson in turn, “then pick one of the others.”
“Madam!” Eli was instantly incensed. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the plates and nearly toppling the centerpiece. Jocelyn lunged for it, while Piety shut her eyes against the escalating ridiculousness of the scene. At the head of the table, Lady Frinfrock merely chuckled. No, not a chuckle, she truly, heartily laughed: a snicker that grew to a full-chested guffaw, eventually cresting in hoots and sputters. Shaking her head, she wiped tears of mirth from the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry,” Idelle said, scowling at her, “I did not realize our family’s pain was quite so diverting.”
The marchioness tried to respond but failed, holding out a hand while she struggled for composure. “Forgive me,” she finally said, still sputtering. “I cannot remember when I have been so entertained over luncheon. I regret that it is at the expense of my dear friend, Miss Grey, and how nobly she has borne it, but truly! You were doing so well, Mrs. Limpett. I was nearly convinced you actually cared about the girl’s well-being.”
“I
do
care. I care for her future.”
“But not my happiness,” said Piety.
“You have squandered your claim to happiness with foolish behavior.”
“What of the house?” Piety demanded. “What if the house makes me happy?”
“The house is a fantasy that has run its course, Piety.” Idelle raised her chin. “It’s over—a house of cards, is what it is.”
“You are mistaken,” Piety said, steel in her voice. “It is a house of brick and mortar, timber and tile. Marble and glass. It is a beautiful home, and I’d like to see you try to take it away from me.”
“Did you not hear me?” Eli growled and shoved out of his chair. “You may keep the house. We shall live there, together.”
“Oh, Eli, stop talking! Stop!” Piety was suddenly less afraid. “You have absolutely no say. No one here has any say but me.” She turned on her mother. “How much? How much of the estate would motivate you to leave here, to cease pretending you care about my future? How much?”
“This is not a solution,” Idelle said. “The only solution is for you to marry one of the Limpetts. And I demand that you stop this childish fit before you turn all of them from you for good.”
“If only turning them were possible!”
“Fine!” Idelle was shouting now. “Continue on! Continue on until there is no man left on God’s earth to have you. Is that what your father wanted? For you to be alone? Childless? Banished for your indecent life?”
Her proclamation sliced through the air, rattling the crystal beads of the chandelier and trembling the water in the goblets. Piety rolled her eyes and drew breath to refute it—same song, second verse—but then Godfrey stepped lightly into the room, clearing his throat. His very presence seemed to embody the distraction they all required, and they turned and watched him stoop and whisper something in the marchioness’s ear.
“You’re joking,” Lady Frinfrock said, setting down her goblet.
The butler shook his head and whispered again.
Lady Frinfrock shoved back from the table. Before a footman could scramble to pull out her chair, a sound from outside the door broke the awkward silence of the room.
It was a cough. Someone clearing his throat. Piety looked around. She knew that cough.
Falcondale
.
Before she could react, he poked his head around the door jamb. It was him. Rumpled, covered in dust from the road. He looked casual, and passive, and mouth-wateringly handsome.
“
Right. I
. . . ” he began, looking around the room.
Piety’s heart leaped at the sight of him—a surge of gratefulness and joy so sweet that she wanted to laugh. She blinked. She grabbed hold of the back of her chair. She did all the ridiculous, useless, inane things that ridiculous, useless girls do when they unexpectedly find themselves staring at the man that they absolutely did not expect to see. The very man that they regrettably, painfully, unfortunately were so very gratified to see.
“Many apologies for the interruption, my lady,” Falcondale said, still halfway out of the room. “No time to send word. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” He glanced quickly to Piety and then away.
“Your man bade me wait in the drawing room, but I smelled . . . Is that quail?” He raised his eyebrows at the heaping spread on the sideboard. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he said, “I rode through lunch.”
T
revor was not offered quail.
He was not introduced.
He was not bade warm welcome.
No servant offered to take his mud-caked coat or filthy hat.
In fact, the marchioness ordered him immediately from the dining room. Trevor consented, but only after he shared a long, gratifying look with Piety, who stood behind her chair, head high, cheeks bright with color. He trailed behind the marchioness’s great bear of a butler, exasperated and hungry, asking himself for the thousandth time why he’d come.
You knew there would be an inquisition,
he told himself, ducking into the same small, airless receiving room in which the butler had tried to contain him when he arrived.
You knew there would be suspicion. Deliberation. Ceremony.
You knew there would be a need for a complicated testimony.
You knew there would be
no lunch.
He looked around the small golden room and wondered if a tray of quail could be conveyed herein. How much trouble could it be?
Far too much, obviously, as the marchioness bustled into the room behind him. “What business could you possibly have in Berkshire, Falcondale?” she asked.
“I cannot say entirely,” he said, exhaling tiredly. It was the truth.
“You will not say?” The marchioness arched one brow. “Or you do not know?”
Both
, he thought, turning his back to her. He strode to the window. His sole plan, if he had one at all, had been to ride in on a gust of derring-do. Surprise and impress them all so very much, that they became too distracted to hold him to any sort of accountable dialogue about, well, about what business he had in Berkshire.
To him, it was perfectly obvious. Surely it was just as obvious to the old bat, but, of course, she wanted to make him say it. Why, in God’s name, could not the very act of turning up, unannounced, at the country estate of a neighbor he didn’t really even know, be enough? He had business enough back in London, travel on which to embark, and a house to sell. Berkshire was, in no way, part of his plan—of any plan. Coming here was easily the most demonstrative thing he’d ever done. Were words really necessary?
He sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
Lady Frinfrock studied him with assessing, half-lidded eyes. “Would it be useful for me to summon Miss Grey?” she asked.
“Ah . . . ” He hedged, wondering if that would make things better or worse.
Lust-crazed idiot,
he chided himself. As if seeing her, even for a moment, was not the entire reason for his ill-advised flight from town.