Chapter Nineteen
It was nearly noon when Peregrine concluded that Lord Hawthorne’s definition of soon belonged to an entirely different dictionary than her own.
With a huff she rarely permitted herself, she swept into the library, seized her needlework, and punished the fabric for a full half hour before ringing for tea.
Anna glided in behind the maid. “I was on the verge of ordering tea myself. You will not mind sharing, I hope?” She plucked a biscuit from the tray with impish grace.
“Perish the thought,” Peregrine replied, pouring with exaggerated care and exhaling in a manner that would have sent her mother reaching for the smelling salts.
Anna’s brow arched. “Such theatrics. To what do we owe the performance?”
“I am impatient,” Peregrine announced to her teacup, watching the steam curl like a lover’s promise.
“You? Never say!”
“Your kindness quite overwhelms me.”
Anna grinned, unrepentant. “And precisely what are you impatient for today?”
“I am not always impatient,” Peregrine protested. A beat. “Only usually.”
“My mistake.” Anna flourished a dramatic hand.
Peregrine nibbled a biscuit, choosing her next words like ammunition. “Tell me—how long did it take Henley to offer for you?”
Anna’s eyes softened. “You will recall he was not the one courting me in public at first.”
“Exactly—”
“Yet his intentions were never in doubt. The delay, dear Peregrine, was entirely mine.”
“Drat.” Peregrine sighed. “It would be infinitely easier if I were not the impatient one.”
Anna hid a smile behind her cup. “Fear not. Hawthorne matches your haste stitch for stitch.”
Peregrine’s heart performed an unseemly somersault. “How can you possibly know?”
“Because,” Anna said with triumphant relish, “he sent a note to your brother at the scandalously early hour of nine. They have been locked in conference ever since.”
Peregrine froze, teacup halfway to her lips. “I saw no sign of him.”
“He did not come here. Henley went to him—two hours ago.”
A smile broke across Peregrine’s face before she could school it. “You might have told me!”
“You never asked. I assumed you already knew.” Anna tilted her head. “Though you appear vastly more serene now.”
“Vastly.” Peregrine took another biscuit and savored it like victory. “Now I may simply be impatient for Henley’s return.”
“Unless,” Anna said innocently, “you chose to fetch additional gowns from your mother’s. One never knows when an announcement may require the perfect ensemble.”
Peregrine’s pulse quickened. “Brilliant. Needlepoint is a poor rival to anticipation. I shall finish my tea and depart at once. I may even discover when Edwin intends to descend upon us like a plague of locusts.”
Anna laughed. “I doubt even Edwin would arrive in such a way, he will likely be wishing to avoid detection by the ton, at least for a while.”
“If it served his purpose…” Peregrine let the words hang, drained her cup, and rose. “Send the carriage when Henley returns, will you? I intend to transport an indecent quantity of gowns.”
“Naturally. Give Lady Devon my regards.”
Peregrine paused in the doorway. “Do you think your news truly reached her? When you spoke of the coming heir, she scarcely reacted.”
Anna’s smile dimmed. “It is no matter.”
“It is to me.” Peregrine’s voice softened. “I shall investigate—on every front.”
She departed before Anna could protest. Halfway up the stairs, clarity struck.
If Hawthorne was even now negotiating with her brother, her days as Henley’s guest were numbered.
Why shuttle gowns back and forth like a peddler?
Far better to bring everything at once and spare herself further visits to a house that no longer felt like home.
Decision made, she changed into a walking dress, summoned a maid, and set off for Mayfair.
The air was warm, scented with rain-washed lilac. As she approached her mother’s house, the front door swung open before her foot touched the top step.
“Good afternoon, Lady Peregrine,” the butler intoned. “I spied your arrival from the window.”
“Is my mother at home?”
“Indeed. Shall I announce you?”
“Please. I’ll wait in the gold parlor.”
She felt oddly like a visitor. The walls were unchanged, the light unchanged—yet everything felt foreign. She dismissed the maid to begin packing upstairs and settled onto the settee.
Minutes later, Lady Devon swept in, one curl escaping its pin. She patted it into submission and offered a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I was not expecting you.” She rang for fresh tea.
“I came to collect the rest of my things,” Peregrine said carefully, “and thought to visit while I was here.”
“Of course. Though I confess I thought little remained.” One elegant brow rose. “Most of your wardrobe appears to have migrated to Henley’s.”
“Some still lingers.” Peregrine studied her mother’s face—once so familiar, now strangely opaque. She plunged in. “Anna is well. Her confinement approaches.”
“You ought not speak of such things,” Lady Devon reproved.
“I thought you would wish to know.”
“I have no fears on that score. Though I must consult my solicitor—the title descends through my line, and these matters grow devilish complicated.” She waved a dismissive hand.
Silence stretched, thick as dust.
Peregrine tried a different tack. “Any word from Edwin?”
Her mother’s expression shuttered. She shrugged—an uncharacteristic, almost vulgar motion that set Peregrine’s nerves jangling.
Tea arrived. Peregrine poured, steadying her voice. “Last you wrote, he intended to return soon. Has the date been fixed?”
“He is vague,” Lady Devon said into her cup. “We shall know when he arrives.”
Vague. A family trait, apparently.
Peregrine steeled herself. “We attended Drury Lane last week. A capital performance. Were you there, Mama?”
Her mother’s gaze flicked up. “I was. Though I found it indifferent.”
“I thought I saw you.”
“Did you?” A brittle pause. “I attended with friends.”
“I saw only one.”
Lady Devon rose abruptly. “Do collect whatever you need, my dear. If I do not see you again before you leave, enjoy your afternoon.” She sailed from the room without waiting for reply.
Peregrine stared after her, pulse drumming. Why the haste? Why the evasion—about Edwin, about the theater, about everything?
She finished her tea in three quick sips and fled upstairs.
An hour later, trunks stood ready, filled with gowns, books, and small treasured pieces—a silver-backed brush her father had given her at twelve, its mother-of-pearl warm under her fingers. She left the maids to their work and went in search of the carriage. Certainly, it would be there by now.
Descending the stairs, she passed a seldom-used parlor. The door stood ajar. A familiar figure turned—and froze. Joy flared through her like sunlight.
Peregrine stepped inside, smile blooming. “Gabriel.” His name was voiced before she could stop it. “This is unexpected, what are you doing here?” She passed through the door and studied him, greedy for the sight of him.
“Waiting on your brother, apparently,” Hawthorne said, eyes alight. “Though I ought to have guessed I might find you here. Technically, this remains your home.”
“Technically.” She moved closer, voice dropping to conspiracy.
“Though at the moment I am raiding my own wardrobe before it forgets who it belongs to.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
“You are wound tighter than a watch spring. Has something happened?” She laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. “Talk to me.”
He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair.
“Nothing escapes you, does it?” he said against her curls. “You read my heart like the worst sort of gothic novel.”
She giggled. “A very badly written one, I hope.”
“The worst,” he repeated, and kissed her tenderly.
Once. Twice. His mouth found hers—soft, then deeper, a promise and a claim. She felt the thunder of his pulse beneath her palms, rose on tiptoe to meet him—
The door crashed open.
And that was when all hell broke loose.