Chapter Nine
Cordelia found the duke seated behind her father’s desk.
It was almost time for dinner and Portia had instructed her to find him when he was alone.
She’d also forced Cordelia into a dress that was far too lovely for an informal meal with a new guest, but her reasoning was that they’d better put their best foot forward if the plan was going to work.
“Am I interrupting, Your Grace?” Cordelia asked, doing her best to sound pliant, feminine. As if they weren’t trying to fleece him.
“Oh, good evening. No, not at all, come in,” he said, standing up from his chair.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Wright,” he corrected her, offering her a smile.
“Mr. Wright,” she tried again, walking up to his desk.
He smiled broadly at her. “I’m surprised to see you. I would have thought you’d want to have a rest before dinner. It’s been a long day, to say the least.”
“Yes, well… I have been hoping to see you. The truth is… I wanted to apologize for the other day. I spoke out of turn. You are the first person I’ve met who is…”
“Working class?” Mr. Wright finished for her, mercifully. He had stood and was leaning on the corner of the desk now, listening intently.
“Yes,” she replied. “And it’s clear that I do have some things to learn.”
“As do I,” Mr. Wright said. He hummed to himself. “Perhaps we both got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should institute a peace for the next few weeks, while everything else is sorted out?”
“Nothing would make me happier,” Cordelia said, and that part was not an act. This had already been such a tumultuous year and she was craving stability. Even if that meant going along with this charade.
“Truce,” he said, holding out his hand.
Cordelia hesitated for a moment. But then she heard Portia’s voice in her head, chiding her for incivility, and shook Mr. Wright’s hand. Heat immediately rushed to her cheeks at the feel of his warm, callused palm against hers. She cleared her throat.
“Could I offer an idea? To help speed the sale of Hollyhead?” she said, hoping the high pitch in her voice wouldn’t betray her.
Mr. Wright balked. “That’s a turn of feeling.”
Cordelia’s heart hammered in her chest. “Yes,” she began, gathering her words.
“I think that moving on… providing a sense of stability… especially for Hermione and Bea is very important. The most important thing. Hollyhead will always be their home, but I intend to make the transition as… as painless as possible.”
“We share in that, Lady Cordelia,” Justin said.
Cordelia sighed, smiling. “Well then, I was thinking we could host a ball. Invite everyone from the surrounding area and some family acquaintances from London. We could discreetly present the sale and allow it to circle the ton.”
Justin nodded his head, looking impressed. “I like that. Though, I have to tell you Lady Cordelia, I have never hosted a ball.”
“But you’ve attended them?”
“Yes, as Peverill’s friend.”
“Well,” Cordelia said, “I was hoping you would be open to hosting it at the beginning of June. The London season is just starting to kick off. It would allow us ample time to get ready. And perhaps you could make some inquiries for eligible young men to join.”
“Oh,” Mr. Wright replied, nodding his head. “For Portia, you mean? I was under the impression that you were already engaged.”
Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Who told you that?”
“Lady Billings. I ran into her not long ago when I was out for a morning walk. She made it very clear that she was anticipating an offer of marriage would be made.”
“That sneaky…” Cordelia muttered, feeling her blood boil, but stopped short when Mr. Wright raised his eyebrows.
“Lady Billings is a fixture of Hertfordshire society, who has been our next-door neighbor for years. She… can become fixated on wanting things done a certain way. She’s been hoping for a match between our families for some time. ”
“I see. Do you share that same view?”
“Well, seeing as Rhys—the Earl of Halton has been indisposed in France this past year with an Italian ballet dancer, I’d say his view is the one that has diverged.”
Justin shook his head. “Well… if that is the case, shall I make inquiries on your behalf?”
Cordelia knew her face was most likely a deep shade of scarlet.
She’d always hated these discussions, even with her father, who was also of the mind of Lady Billings.
He would push her to encourage Rhys, saying that it was almost time for him to settle down and he would need a respectable wife.
It was difficult not to feel humiliated by Rhys’s very public dalliances.
Could anyone blame her for donning a mask of indifference?
“If you like, Your Grace. Perhaps you should write to Rhys on my behalf?” Cordelia said. “Portia is highly opposed to the idea of marriage. If one of us is to be wed and settled in the next year, it is more likely to be me.”
Cordelia looked at the carpet, hearing the crackling of the fire and the shuffling of papers. “If you’re sure… then yes, I can send a letter.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia said.
“Is Portia opposed to marriage because of her condition?” Mr. Wright asked, in that straightforward way of his.
Though she found his pointed questions somewhat improper, she was becoming more used to his style of conversation.
It almost felt like she was speaking with Portia; he addressed her as though she were an equal.
“Portia is headstrong and values her independence. I don’t think you’d be surprised to know she received several offers of marriage last year. Her deafness is not widely known. People think her eccentric.”
“My mother… my adoptive mother is also hard of hearing. She’s gotten adept at reading lips. Hardly anyone outside the family knows,” Mr. Wright replied. “Portia’s voice is a result of her lack of hearing? I know a fellow from the Royal College of Surgeons who could come and examine her.”
“Oh, she would hate that,” Cordelia said. “Our father never wanted anyone to know about… her deficiency. She’s become too proud to accept help.”
“Whatever she prefers,” Mr. Wright said.
Cordelia nodded her head. “I should also say that I am highly proficient in planning gatherings at Hollyhead. I can begin preparations right away.”
“Yes, that would be excellent,” Mr. Wright said, returning to his desk chair. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Lady Cordelia?”
Cordelia shook her head and curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Wright.”
Before she could turn to leave, Mr. Wright said, “Lady Cordelia, could I ask a favor of you?”
Cordelia’s head snapped up. He’d steepled his hands on the desk, blue eyes clouded. “I am very new to the role of hosting parties and conversing with tenant farmers and overseeing dowries. Would you mind being of service to me?”
“How?” she asked. “I’m just a duke’s daughter, I know nothing of the actual role itself.”
“Oh, I beg to disagree, Lady Cordelia. Perhaps we could meet daily? Starting tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Cordelia parroted back. Portia had plans for them tomorrow; she’d practically blocked off the entire afternoon for them to search the grounds.
“Yes. I have correspondence to write in the morning. I was hoping we could spend some time together in the afternoon. Mrs. Norris will be chaperoning, of course.” Mr. Wright went back to organizing his papers, reaching for a pen he’d discarded at the corner of the desk.
“Of course,” Cordelia said, gathering her wits about her. “Which particular subject is Your Grace interested in learning?”
“I was thinking we could start with dancing?”
“Dancing?”
Mr. Wright’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, dancing. You’ve said yourself you have far more experience with balls than I do. I want to make sure I am versed in all the particulars. Including dancing.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Wright smiled. “Good, I will see you at half past one. Thank you, Lady Cordelia.”
*
“And then what did she say after that?” Peverill asked, rifling through the late duke’s cigar box, searching for something that would suit his taste.
“She said,” Justin began, lighting his pipe, “absolutely nothing. The chit looked surprised as anything. Fluttered right out the room like a pheasant.”
“Good,” Peverill said. “Does she think we suspect her?”
“You know,” Justin replied, taking a deep draw of woodsy smoke, “I have no idea what goes through the heads of high-born females. How have you managed them for so long? How have you not torn out every single one of the hairs on your head?”
Peverill shrugged, plucking a cigar out of the box and lighting it.
The smell was sickly sweet, and he smiled to himself, as though he were keeping a secret.
“Honestly, Wright, you have to regard these creatures like people from a foreign country. Their customs are different. The language is complicated. The rituals more complex. You’ve not yet got your sea legs. ”
The men had taken a brief lull from the company of the ladies in the duke’s old smoking room. It had been another long dinner with stilted conversation, everyone eyeing one another suspiciously. The youngest, Bea, the only one of the sisters Justin could tolerate, had been made to eat beforehand.
“Good lord, do I want sea legs? You know I can’t stand them.”
“Who exactly?”
“Them. These types of people. Never could,” he said, taking a mouthful of brandy and letting it wash down his throat.
“Because of what they did your parents?” Peverill asked, blowing a smoke ring. “How long are you going to keep that up for?”
Justin shrugged. “Can anything good come of thinking you’re above other people? That because you’re born with an extra name you deserve so much more?”
Peverill laughed. “I didn’t know you were such a Jacobin, Wright! If you don’t keep your voice down, the ladies might send you straight to the courts for treason.”
“Don’t think they wouldn’t if they had the chance. You’re right; they are plotting something.”
Peverill raised an eyebrow. “And you have proof of this?”
“Not yet, but believe you me, I’ll find it.”
Peverill laughed heartily at that, shaking his head. “Well, can you blame them? You’re the fox that upset the henhouse.”
“Are you able to stay here until the ball at least?” Justin asked, hoping he disguised the edge of desperation he’d been trying to tamp down all evening. “I’ve asked Cordelia to give me lessons every day leading up to the date.”
“What sort of lessons?” his friend asked. “The sort of lessons that rip her reputation to tatters? Anything else would be a waste of time.”
As if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind a hundred times today. Instead, he punched down the spark of desire that came to life in his belly and shook his head vehemently.
“This way I can monitor her, make sure she won’t try to do something rash. And separate her from Portia for at least some time. You don’t mind keeping an eye on that one, do you?”
“As long as she keeps her mouth shut.”
Justin sighed, “Good.” He hesitated before continuing. “What do you know of Rhys Billings?”
“The Earl of Halton?”
When Justin nodded his head, Peverill said, “I know that his family estate is in the area. Likes to drink and gamble, but certainly not the worst I’ve seen. He has kept a mistress for the last year as well.”
“Cordelia asked me to write to him, to invite him to the ball.”
“Well, that’s a surprise,” Peverill helped himself to another glass of brandy. “Wouldn’t have thought the two of them to be close.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Besides the fact that he’s infatuated with his mistress? Forgive me, but your Cordelia is as starched up as they come. Rhys is the type of man to go for something with a little more… passion. Perhaps a lady who’d be fine to bend the rules of propriety.”
“Then why is Lady Billings so set on them being together?”
Peverill shrugged. “Again, we are in a foreign country, lad. Perhaps she thinks a woman like Cordelia would help him settle down. But from what I’ve seen from him and from her, granted, very little on both counts, I’d say it would be a disaster.”
“Should I still write to him?” Justin asked, his heart ticking slightly faster.
“Indeed, you should. It might even help your chances. She’ll take one look at him, returned home all rumpled and debauched, and run straight into your upstanding arms.”
Justin drained the last of the brandy and set it down loudly on a nearby table. “‘Good night, Peverill,” he said.
“Good night, Your Grace,” Peverill said, holding his glass in the air in a mock toast. “May your sleep be deep and your lady pliable.”