Chapter 7
The Hale townhouse was precisely as the Duchess of Ashworth had expected.
The drawing room was tidy but threadbare, with curtains that had been turned to hide the sun-faded side and a carpet worn smooth in the path between the door and the fireplace.
A vase of flowers sat on the mantelpiece, but it did little to brighten the mood. It would be a dingy room on the best of days, but with the rain pouring down outside, the gray skies made the drab room even more depressing.
She walked over to the flowers. They were wildflowers, and she could guess who’d put them there. Estella, of course.
Moving to the windows, Philippa peeked out at the rainy sky.
Lord Blackwood and Miss Hale would be caught in this downpour, which was either an inconvenience…
or an opportunity. Philippa chose to look at it as an opportunity.
She was curious to know what Blackwood would do when his carefully controlled outing didn’t go as planned.
She suspected he'd handle it rather well. The man had many flaws—chiefly his staggering inability to recognize that he was desperately in love—but negligence was not one of them.
"Your Grace." The Viscount Langley hurried into the drawing room. He was slight and gray-haired, and this close she could see his eyes were watery and red-rimmed.
He did not look like a healthy man, and his demeanor was oddly distracted.
"Your Grace," he said again. This time he bowed. "What an unexpected pleasure."
"Lord Langley." She took the chair he indicated and ignored the ominous creak it gave beneath her. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course. Though I confess I'm not entirely certain…" He trailed off.
Philippa waited. She'd learned decades ago that silence was often a far more effective tool than speech.
He blinked. Refocused. "Forgive me. You were saying?"
She hadn't been saying anything, but she let it pass. "I've come to discuss your daughter, Estella."
"Estella. Ah yes, of course." He looked around as if perhaps Estella was hiding behind the curtains. "Yes, she's…I believe she's out this afternoon. A walk, I think."
Philippa's fingers tightened around her gloves in her lap.
This man had two daughters. Two living daughters who needed him. And he was unable to remember where the elder one had gone?
She thought, briefly and uncharitably, of all the things she would say if compassion weren't required. But compassion was required, because this man had suffered much grief.
She doubted he was intentionally cruel, even if the effect on his children was much the same.
"I've taken an interest in Estella's Season," Philippa said. "I intend to sponsor her. She’ll have the full weight of the Ashworth name behind her."
The viscount blinked. For a moment, something stirred behind the fog.
Surprise, perhaps? Maybe a hint of parental concern?
"That's very generous, Your Grace. But that’s not necessary.
Er…" He looked around him and seemed to rethink his argument.
In the end, his confusion won out. "I'm not certain why you would do such a thing. "
"Andrew," she said simply.
The viscount's jaw went slack. She understood his surprise. After the fire, no one would so much as whisper her sister’s name within her earshot. Almost as though dying was a scandalous faux pas.
She waited for the viscount to recover his composure.
When he never did, a pang of remorse had her hurrying on.
"Your son was a remarkable young man, by all accounts.
" She chose her words with care. "I believe his sister is equally remarkable, and I should like to see her well settled. For his memory."
It was not the whole truth. It was not even the most important truth. But it was one this man could understand. And indeed, he nodded slowly. "Estella is…yes. She's done very well." His hand made a vague gesture to the house at large. "She's very capable."
"She is," Philippa agreed.
"Well." He cleared his throat. "If you think it would help her prospects, I can hardly object."
No. He couldn't, could he?
The drawing room door stood slightly ajar, and a creak of the floorboard from the hall had Philippa looking over. No servant entered, but there was another sound. Someone was there.
Philippa narrowed her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of a small shoe. Definitely not large enough to belong to a servant.
She continued speaking to the viscount about the particulars of Estella's schedule, all the while tracking the movements from behind the door. The shoe shifted, then there was a rustle of fabric. Philippa could guess who it was. She knew all there was to know about Andrew’s family, and this must be Charlotte Hale.
Eight years old, and apparently conducting her own surveillance operation.
Philippa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
The viscount noticed nothing. He nodded along to Philippa's plans, so agreeable there was little to discuss by the time she ended. When she rose to leave, he rose too, seemingly relieved that the encounter was over.
In the hallway, Philippa paused and adjusted her gloves. "You might as well come out, child. I know you’re there."
A beat of silence. Then Charlotte Hale appeared from around a corner, chin raised, blue eyes blazing with suspicion.
She was small for her age, with the same fair coloring as her sister and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her dress was clean but well worn.
"Why are you taking Estella away?" Charlotte asked.
"Taking her away?" Philippa regarded her. Goodness, she loved children. If only more adults were so direct, the world would be a far less confusing place. "I'm helping your sister."
"She doesn't need help."
"Everyone needs help at some time or another. Your sister shouldn't have to handle this Season all alone."
Charlotte's lips pursed at Philippa’s quick retort. She seemed to be turning it over.
"She won't leave me," Charlotte said. Her tone was defiant, but only a fool would miss the fear behind it.
"No," Philippa agreed. "She won't. And I would never ask her to."
Charlotte studied her, and Philippa stayed still and let her. Finally, once the child had gotten a good long look, she added, "I’m not asking her to move in with me forever or forbid her from seeing her family. I promise you, I only mean to help."
"And will it help?" Charlotte asked at last. "Truly?"
"Yes."
Charlotte’s brows drew together. "Will she have to marry someone awful?"
"Not if I can help it."
Charlotte frowned. "She would for me, but I don’t want her to." The girl huffed. "She never listens when I tell her that."
Philippa nodded, fighting hard to tamp down any amusement. The girl was deadly serious, and she’d respond in kind. "I’m listening, Charlotte. And you have my word. I will do everything in my power to help your sister find a good match. Someone kind and decent who will treat her well."
Charlotte considered this. "She needs new gloves. She never buys them for herself because she thinks they're an extravagance."
Philippa swallowed hard as she adjusted her gloves. "Thank you, Charlotte. That's very useful information."
Charlotte nodded. As she turned to go, Philippa called after her. "Oh, and Charlotte…"
Charlotte turned back, her eyes wide and inquisitive.
"Should you wish to see your sister, you are always welcome in my home."
Charlotte’s broad grin was so sudden, it caught Philippa unawares.
Charlotte disappeared down the hall, but Philippa needed a moment. Charlotte didn’t look much at all like her sister had as a child, but there was something in the grin and the open curiosity that had Philippa standing still in the townhome’s foyer for much too long.
She stood there thinking of another younger sister, fierce and small and full of opinions that nobody had wanted to hear. Lydia.
Philippa drew in a deep, steadying breath.
Her younger sister had been like Charlotte once. Bright and stubborn and so certain she could handle anything the world sent her way. And Philippa had believed her.
“I'm fine, Pippa. He's not so bad. You worry too much.”
She closed her eyes, just for a moment.
She'd learned too late what "not so bad" meant behind closed doors. By the time Philippa understood, the fire had come and gone, and the world believed Lydia had died along with it.
The truth was so much more complicated.
A servant came to see her out, and Philippa pulled herself together. She could not go back and save Lydia at eighteen, or undo the marriage she'd failed to prevent…
But she could make certain that Estella Hale did not suffer the same fate.