18
By the time the other Widows returned from their picnic, Iris had reclaimed a semblance of her composure. Something that had taken her an inordinately lengthy amount of time to attain. She was not surprised, however. It was not every day that one was made love to in such a soul-shattering manner.
Though hadn’t that been the least of the life-altering experiences she’d had in the last hours?
During that magical interlude, she had come to the realization that she was quickly, completely, and irrevocably falling in love with Oliver.
How could she not? A man who worked hard for his family, who loved them dearly, who treated her with respect no matter how she interacted with the world, and who had made with his own hands an article to protect her and give her comfort.
She ran her fingers over the cuff at her wrist and smiled slightly.
Truly, anyone with half a brain would have fallen in love with him in a heartbeat.
It was a good thing he had not been able to stay long, that he’d been on his way home to sleep after his duties at Durand Manor.
Iris had needed calm and quiet to put her thoughts in order.
As it was, she was barely in control of herself when the Widows arrived, bursting into the house like individual brightly hued tornadoes.
“Goodness,” Euphemia said, dropping into a chair in the small downstairs sitting room—Iris had not been able to remain in the drawing room, for all her mind could think of little else but what had occurred on the couch with Oliver.
“Though we had not intended such a lovely day to overlap with work, it truly turned out to be a productive afternoon, didn’t it? ”
“What has happened?” Iris asked, sitting up straighter, forgetting for a moment thoughts of her own blissfully spent afternoon as she took in the electric energy of the other women. An energy that was becoming more and more apparent with each second that passed.
Which brought Iris back down to earth, firmly and totally, as she was reminded why they were in Sussex in the first place.
“We have finally received word that Lord Durand has returned from London,” Sylvia proclaimed with a wide smile from her position by the door. “And not a moment too soon if we are to secure our invitations to his exhibition and ball.”
“Oh,” Iris breathed, her stomach flipping until she thought she might be ill.
In befriending Verity and falling in love with Oliver, she had completely forgotten their reason for being here in the first place.
How could she have put aside this fight to protect her mother’s legacy?
How could she have forgotten that woman, who had worked so very hard, and whose memory was now about to be destroyed by one greedy and cruel man?
“I shall go at once to Durand Manor,” Sylvia continued, striding to the mantel, peering at herself in the looking glass there and adjusting her pelisse. “We have but a sennight, after all. Laney, you will accompany me?”
“Of course, my love,” Laney replied.
In the next moment the two women were out the door, leaving Iris with nothing to do but think.
How could she have been so unfilial to the mother who had given her everything by lying with the very man who was protecting Lord Durand’s theft?
And how could she possibly tell Oliver that her presence here was indeed what he’d suspected, and could very well endanger not only his position but his family’s security?
Unfortunately, Sylvia’s trip to Durand Manor was not at all what she, or indeed any of them, had hoped for.
“The asinine blowhard,” she growled as she stormed back into the sitting room a mere hour after her initial departure.
An hour that had seemed an eternity to Iris, for all she had been stuck wading through the thick, choking guilt that filled her.
Ripping from her head her hat, a massive, busy concoction of feathers and silk flowers, Sylvia tossed it into the large wingback chair in the corner before stomping over to the circle of seats where Iris and Euphemia waited, throwing herself down on the settee.
“Were you not able to secure invitations to the exhibition?” Euphemia asked with wide eyes.
Laney, who had been silently trailing after Sylvia, shook her head. “Not even one,” she said, heaving a weary sigh as she dropped onto the settee beside Sylvia and began a slow rubbing of the other woman’s back, an attempt at comfort.
Something that seemed an impossibility, considering how Sylvia fairly vibrated in her outrage, a colorful string of curses pouring from her mouth that would have done any Seven Dials bawd proud.
There were times, Iris thought, eyeing the viscountess with concern, that she forgot her origins were something quite different from her current aristocratic position.
“He claimed,” Sylvia said, voice sharp with acid, “that Durand Manor would already be packed to the rafters with guests, that he could not possibly issue any more invitations. I, however, don’t believe that for one bit.
There was something different about him today, a hardness to his smile that was not present before.
Something else is afoot, mark my words.”
“What else could it be?” Iris asked, frowning.
“It is quite possible,” Euphemia said, leaning forward to prepare beverages for the two newly arrived women from the tea tray, “that while Lord Durand was more than happy to have all of us there for a short afternoon visit, showering him with praise and stroking his ego, it is quite another thing to have nontitled personages polluting his high-class event.”
“I would not put it past him,” Sylvia spat, taking the teacup Euphemia offered and downing the whole lot in a scalding swallow, hissing with pleasure—or malice; Iris could not quite determine which.
“It’s possible, yes,” Laney mused, continuing her slow rubbing of Sylvia’s back. “Though I’m fairly certain he would have willingly admitted to such if that were the case. But you are right, my love, that there was something off about him today.”
Something off? After nearly a week in London? Iris’s stomach dropped, a horrible idea taking shape. “You don’t suppose,” she asked through suddenly numb lips, “that he discovered my identity while he was in town?”
A suggestion that sucked the very air from the room. They all looked her way, faces myriad degrees of shocked and horrified.
Sylvia was the first to rally. “No, that couldn’t possibly be it,” she said, taking a biscuit from the tray and biting into it. But there was a shadow of worry in her eyes when she looked Iris’s way.
Laney, too, glanced at Iris in concern before adding, “No matter the reason, we shall have to find another way to infiltrate Durand Manor.”
“A task that has proven ridiculously difficult,” Euphemia mused, frowning. “It is just one house, after all.”
“It is always the plans that seem the most straightforward that throw out the most difficult stumbling blocks, is it not?” Laney said.
Iris, unable to sit still a moment longer, burst to her feet.
“There has to be a way to gain access to his house,” she muttered as she paced the carpet.
Her fingers moved to her wrist, nails scraping—only to come up against the canvas cuff.
Tears stung her eyes. Oliver had been suspicious of her from the start.
And she had done everything in her power to reduce those suspicions.
Had she intended to befriend his sister, to meet his mother, to become emotionally involved with him?
No, she had never meant for any of that to happen.
But they had. Which would no doubt make it so much worse when he learned the truth.
For a moment she grieved over what she had inadvertently allowed to happen by falling in love with him, and all she was about to lose because of it.
Not that he had ever declared himself to her.
No, there had been no promises made, no confessions given, not a single mention of a future together.
Yet she had sensed, in every word and every caress, that he felt something more for her than a mere easy tumble.
And wasn’t this cuff physical proof of that?
Which made this all so much worse. It meant heartbreak on both their parts when the truth of her betrayal was eventually—and inevitably—revealed.
But there was more than her betrayal of him that had to be addressed, wasn’t there?
Her betrayal of the Widows would soon come out as well.
Hadn’t she hidden her relationship with Oliver and his family from them?
Hadn’t she snuck about behind their backs, keeping her blossoming friendships—and romance—to herself?
An unforgivable thing, really, considering she had dragged them all into this plan to recover her mother’s papers.
Though mayhap they might not see it as a sin.
Perhaps they might see it as an opportunity to utilize her new closeness with them all to get past Oliver’s guard.
But even as she considered it, everything in her flinched at the very idea.
No matter the benefit it might provide, she could not agree to such a plan.
No, not even for her mother’s legacy could she use that family’s affection for her in such a way.
Proving once more that she was the weak link in the chain.
And so there were two confessions to be made.
First, to Oliver, to prevent him from finding out through other means that she planned—and had been planning all along—to avenge herself against his employer.
She owed him that much, at least. And second, to the Widows, that she had once more—and knowingly this time—endangered everything they had been working toward.
But now was not the time. Later, when they had figured out how to recover from this latest setback—and when she was not in danger of crying her heart out.