Chapter Twenty-One
Anna paced the crimson parlor at Henley House like a general whose battle plan had just been set on fire.
“Start from the beginning,” she commanded. “And do not leave out the part where my mother-in-law fainted under the impression your sister was increasing.”
Henley dropped into an armchair as though his legs had given up. “Edwin materialized from thin air, found Hawthorne kissing Peregrine, assumed the apocalypse had arrived early, Mama swooned, and Hawthorne walked out looking like a man who intends to burn the rulebook and write a new one in blood.”
“That,” Pere said, “is an understatement so vast it requires its own neighborhood.” Peregrine sat ramrod straight on the settee, arms folded so tightly the seams of her gloves threatened rebellion.
“Edwin also forbade Gabriel from ever coming within fifty yards of me again. On pain of dismemberment, horsewhipping, and possible transportation to a godforsaken location.”
“Edwin,” Anna said loyally, “could not dismember a roast chicken without written instructions.”
“True,” Peregrine muttered, “but he is still the eldest son, and apparently that grants him divine rights.”
Henley rubbed his temples. “I accepted Hawthorne’s offer, provisionally, before Edwin turned the parlor into a bad farce. That should stand.”
“Provisionally,” Peregrine echoed. “How terribly romantic.”
Anna flopped beside her. “Did you accept before the cavalry arrived?”
“Yes,” Henley said. “And it will carry weight, unless Edwin decides to make a complete cake of himself in White’s and announce that his sister is a fallen woman.”
Peregrine closed her eyes. “I am eloping. Gretna Green. Tonight. I shall leave a polite note and take the set of grays, excellent horses, very fast.”
“You are not eloping,” Henley snapped. “At least not yet.”
Peregrine’s eyes flew open. “You said yet.”
“I said not yet.” He exhaled. “Look, Hawthorne is not the sort of man who walks away from what he wants. He is plotting. I could practically see the calculations behind his eyes.”
“Good,” Peregrine said fiercely. “But why am I never invited to the plotting?”
“Because, little sister, you began this season with a plot so audacious I nearly had an apoplexy,” Henley said, a reluctant smile breaking through.
“You aimed an arrow straight at the most notorious rake in London and hit the only part of him that still believed in redemption. Against every law of probability, it worked. He is obsessed with you in the way civilized men are not supposed to admit.”
Peregrine felt the words settle warm and heavy in her chest. “He will need to be. Surviving this family requires obsession and a strong constitution.”
Anna leaned closer, voice softening. “Tell me truly, Pere. His past, those stories, the opera dancers, the merry widows … none of it keeps you awake?” Her tone was soft, not asking a question as much as prodding Pere to consider her own heart’s attitudes regarding the subject.
Peregrine stared into the fire. It was a valid question.
One she’d considered even before she’d concocted her plan at the beginning of the season.
It was a risk, she decided, she was willing to take.
But it was odd how the actions of Gabriel, though she knew them to be his, seemed so far removed from the caliber of man he could be when he chose.
And he chose to be that man with her. Didn’t that matter? It did, it mattered greatly.
“I remember at the first ball of the season, the one where Henley was nearly crackling with tension from my newly revealed plan, Hawthorne danced with me. He turned every weapon in his arsenal on me. The slow smile, the murmured gallantries, the way he let his thumb brush my waist when he thought no one noticed. I was dizzy with it. Then, the fire was gone from his eyes as easily as blowing out a candle. That was the moment I understood. All of it was performance. Brilliant, devastating performance. With everyone else, he is acting. At first, he was acting with me, wanting to prove a point. But now … with me … he forgets the script.”
Anna squeezed her hand.
“I have seen him try to be charming when he is furious,” Peregrine continued, voice barely above a whisper. “I have seen him try to be cold when his hands shook because I was hurt. The mask slips only with me. And what is underneath is honorable and terrified and mine.”
Silence wrapped the room like velvet.
Eventually, Anna spoke. “If the men cannot be reasonable, I have an alternative plan. Midnight. My dark green traveling cloak. Two of the fastest horses in the stable. And a special license. Surely Hawthorne has already considered the option, if not already procured it.”
Peregrine choked on a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “You are a menace.”
“I am pregnant, not deceased.” Anna’s smile faded. “Hawthorne is coming back, and he will fight. We don’t need the contingency plan, I’m certain.”
Henley rose, his boots clipping on the hard floor as he tugged on his shirt sleeves, his expression resolute. “Speaking of fighting, I must go and prevent Edwin from challenging anyone to pistols at dawn.”
“No unnecessary bloodshed,” Anna called after him.
“No promises,” he tossed over his shoulder and disappeared.
The door had scarcely closed before Anna turned conspiratorial eyes on Peregrine. “Tell me you are not picturing Gabriel riding through the night to carry you off.”
“I am trying very hard not to,” Peregrine admitted. “It is shockingly vivid.”
“Of that I have no question.” Anna grinned.
“Let’s have some tea sent up to you room and make a few dress selections.
As much as the chaos prevailed in the parlor, the rest of the world ran smoothly and the carriage with your clothing and belongings arrived not long ago.
It will be a good distraction while we wait for Henley to talk some sense into your other brother. ”
“Heaven knows I need a distraction,” Pere grumbled, but stood, and offered a hand to Anna, grinning. “You know, sometime soon I’ll have to assist you in rising from the couch.”
“You’re saying I’m going to be fat. Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
“Round.”
“Even better,” Anna replied dryly. “At least all this excitement is happening before my confinement.”
“I’m not sure excitement is the right sentiment.”
“Theatrics, drama, intrigue,” Anna amended as they left the parlor and started toward the stairs leading to the upstairs residences.
“I’d argue, but at the moment, my life does feel like a gothic novel. Hopefully, it has a better ending.”
“It will,” Anna assured her.
Nearly two hours later, Pere sat back down in the same parlor, and refreshed Anna’s teacup.
“I think I’ll go with the green dress for the next ball, just in case.” Pere grinned over her teacup at Anna.
The sound of footsteps preceded Henley’s entrance into the parlor. Henley stepped in, his countenance graver than before, then his expression softened into a question. “Are you still here, waiting?”
“No, we are just taking tea after we did a few other things, but that is unimportant. What happened?” Anna replied, just as Peregrine sprung to her feet.
“Well?” she asked.
“Edwin has agreed, grudgingly, to grant Hawthorne one audience tomorrow morning. One chance to plead his case.”
Peregrine’s heart executed a reckless waltz. “And Lord Hawthorne?”
“I met him in the street on my way here, ironically. He accepted before I finished the sentence.” Henley hesitated, choosing his words like a man walking through a field of broken glass. “There is another complication.”
Anna lifted a brow. “Naturally.”
“Edwin is now obsessed with Mama’s … attachment to Lord Carver. He demanded answers. Hawthorne knows far more than any of us realized. I was able to communicate some of the information to him earlier when he’d calmed down.”
Peregrine felt the floor tilt. “What are you talking about?”
“That,” Henley said quietly, “is for Hawthorne to tell.”
Anna and Peregrine exchanged a long, wordless look.
“When?”
“After the meeting between Edwin, Hawthorne, and me, tomorrow.”
“I see. I suppose I cannot ask for more at the moment.” Pere nodded once. “Thank you.”
Henley spread his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know how it went sideways so quickly, but this is the first step in the right direction.”
“I suppose now, I simply wait. Good Lord. I hate waiting.” Pere sighed.
“No, my dear,” Anna added gently. “You’re anticipating, and that is far different.”