Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Capitol Hill,
Dearest Moosh,
Please say you’re attending Mrs. Edgewood’s garden party.
I ran into her sister while shopping at Carlisle’s for that blue straw toque trimmed with velvet ribbon we saw in the advertisement, and she assured me that both Miss Townsend and Mr. Sutton will be attending.
I do so hope something scandalous happens!
All the garden parties thus far this summer have been so dull, wouldn’t you say?
But Mrs. Edgewood is rather fond of party games… oh, I can hardly wait until Saturday!
As ever your dear friend,
Minzy.
July 31, 1909
28 days until Cactus Dahlia Day
“Miss Townsend, did you hear me?”
Cecelia started, her spoon clattering against the cut-crystal dessert bowl. A dollop of apricot tart threw itself over the outer rim, but she caught it before it could stain the linen-and-lace tablecloth.
“I’m afraid not.” She blotted her fingertip on the embroidered napkin in her lap, then offered the three women seated with her a cheerful smile. “Serves me right for being distracted by the croquet game.”
Mrs. Nancy Edgewood’s smile was as frozen and insincere as that of a porcelain doll.
Cecelia stifled a sigh. Things hadn’t changed much over the years.
If anything, Nancy had become even more tyrannical, directing Cecelia where to sit, what to eat, and which activities to play.
The only reason Cecelia hadn’t yet invented a toothache and fled the scene was that she’d mercilessly jockeyed Drew into attendance.
And he seemed to be having the time of his life.
Her gaze—such an insubordinate, stubborn thing—once more drifted across the lawn, latching onto Drew with a gluttonous curiosity.
He looked good. Annoyingly so. Who knew a blue cheviot coat and crisp white duck trousers straight out of the display window at Carlisle’s Department Store could have such an impact on her lower extremities?
Apparently, a well-tailored summer suit also inflated a man's natural showmanship into a menace. Drew had transformed Mrs. Edgewood’s simple game of mallet-hits-ball-through-hoop into an exercise in complexity.
Extra wickets had appeared, hazards had been introduced, and the guests—including Mr. Edgewood—were now clustered around the lawn, arguing over rules hastily scrawled across Nancy’s pretty menus.
“He’s ruining my plans.”
Cecelia glanced at Nancy under the brim of her wide-brimmed straw hat. Her hostess’s porcelain doll smile was now a pinched glower. Concerning, that.
“I’m certain Mr. Sutton doesn’t mean to upset you,” she said at once. Why she felt the need to defend him, she didn’t know. But she did it, nonetheless.
“I should hope not,” Nancy said through thin lips.
“He’s rather uncouth,” Miss Gertrude Blount added, fussing with her embroidered cuff.
Cecelia eyed the younger woman. She and Nancy might have been twins, despite the years between them—identically pristine in white, identically puckered with disapproval.
If one sister had been raised to wrinkle her nose at the world, the other had clearly taken careful notes.
Pity for Gertrude. Cecelia had no qualms about challenging her.
“More uncouth than the guests eager to follow his commands?” she asked sweetly. “Isn’t that your fiancé tottering after him like a puppy?”
Miss Blount flushed an alarming shade of splotchy red.
Miss Harcourt, a sweet thing who had barely spoken two words the whole afternoon, looked fluttery and uncomfortable and liable to faint.
And Nancy…well, that was odd. Nancy ignored the tension entirely, her gaze fixed on the croquet game behind them.
Fixed on one unsuspecting boxer.
“I believe it’s time for a new game,” she announced, her tone once more serene. “Follow me, ladies.”
The three women rose in a rustle of sheer batiste and Valenciennes lace. Cecelia lingered just long enough to grimace. What had happened to the typical—and vastly preferred—dull garden party arrangements of drink tea, make insipid conversation, escape unscathed?
She really should have known better.
She’d been cast in enough of the Nancy’s little entertainments over the years to recognize the warning signs. The smile, the eager audience, the insistence that it was all in good fun. Drew was about to discover that Nancy’s idea of a game was rarely entertaining for the person being played.
The least she could do was provide a friendly face in the crowd—one slightly concerned, mostly impartial, and definitely-not-invested friendly face
She crossed the lawn at a slower pace, carefully sidestepping a mess of wobbly wickets and vibrantly painted balls.
God forbid she slip and injure her newly healed ankle, although sidelining herself before witnesses was vastly preferable to doing so in a churchyard after everyone had gone home.
Glaring at a hazard that far too resembled a headstone, she picked her way forward, following the sound of Nancy’s effusive voice.
At last safe from imminent maiming, she sought out her hostess.
Instead, she found Drew.
He stood only a few paces away, near the final wicket.
Bookended by Nancy’s chattering husband and Miss Blount’s fawning fiancé, he looked every inch the sought-after guest. Against his robust frame, the other gentlemen appeared positively scrawny.
Their pale complexions only emphasized the healthy bronze of his skin.
Even his crooked nose was somehow the superior specimen.
She realized, belatedly, that all three men were nodding at Nancy.
Oh no.
She was too late.
Drew’s gaze met hers, and the easy swagger he’d worn all afternoon vanished. His nostrils flared as though he'd caught an unexpected scent. His eyes darkened, fixing on her with an intensity that made the chatter and laughter around them fade.
Her heartbeat kicked. Her knees went to jelly. Every nerve seemed to wake at once, leaving her absurdly aware of how little space remained between them—and of how easily it could be crossed.
“Miss Townsend?” Nancy cooed.
She nearly stumbled.
Good Lord. She’d been ogling him again.
Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she tore her eyes away so abruptly that bright spots danced across her vision. By the time they faded, she had reached the group. Miss Blount wore a knowing smirk. Cecelia ignored her.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, grateful her voice didn’t emerge as a squeak.
“I asked if you would be willing to compete with Mr. Sutton.”
“At…croquet?” she asked weakly.
“No.” Nancy looked at her like she were a dunce. “I’m referring to the new game everyone has already agreed to play.”
For Pete’s sake. She'd fallen behind the others by scarcely two minutes. How had Nancy managed to organize an entirely new humiliation in so little time?
“I understand if you’re not up to it,” Drew said, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “We can wait for the Cactus Dahlia Contest.”
She glared at him. Seemed like he wanted to face whatever nastiness Nancy had in store for him.
She’d rather nap in a briar patch than play one of Nancy’s inventions but declining now would only convince everyone it was because of Drew.
By suppertime, the gossip would have spread like unpotted peppermint.
She’d be declared either too proud—or too cowardly, depending on who spilled the tale—to compete with him outside the garden.
“Waiting,” she said through gritted teeth, “would be intolerable.”
“Wonderful!” Nancy exclaimed.
Minutes later, Cecelia found herself seated across from Drew with a pasted smile on her face. The tea table between them was cleared save for two slates and two sticks of chalk. Nancy clapped her hands, and the guests clustered around the table quieted.
“My sister and I spent all week devising this game,” Nancy said, wagging a finger in a wide circle. “So you’d all better be good sports!”
“Of course,” Miss Harcourt said, bobbing her head up and down so hard her hat ribbon slipped loose.
“This,” Nancy continued, “is a game not of wits but of familiarity. It was inspired, of course, by the most famous rivals in town. I am of the opinion—”
“As am I,” Miss Blount added.
“—that even the most bitter enemies often have more in common than they may think. Who knows? Perhaps there’s something more—”
“Like love?” A woman Cecelia didn’t recognize asked, her gaze darting between Drew and herself. Cecelia resisted the urge to throw the chalk at her.
“Who is to say?” Nancy said airily, waving a hand. “But I suspect we shall discover before the day is done who among us holds a tendre for someone else.”
“But how do we play?” A thin, mustachioed man demanded. “How can I prove I do have—”
“Mr. Corley, please,” Nancy trilled. “Do not reveal yourself before we begin!” The laughter grew.
“Each participant will answer a list of questions about themselves in writing. Once the slates are collected, their partner must answer those same questions aloud. Every answer that matches earns a point.”
“How will you know the answers are correct?” Mr. Corley blurted.
Irritation flashed across Nancy’s face before she could hide it. “We spoke with friends, colleagues, and neighbors.”
“We’re well prepared,” Miss Blount assured everyone.
Cecelia’s toes began to tap under the table. So that was the game. A respectable excuse to pry into everyone's private affairs, then reward the best-informed gossip with points. She couldn’t imagine whom the sisters would have talked to in her life, let alone Drew’s. It all felt rather…invasive.
“Playing for points is rather boring,” Mr. Edgewood mused, missing entirely his wife’s swift glare. “A boxer as famous as Mr. Sutton plays for stakes, not points.”
Time to intervene. “There’s no need—”
“Stakes, eh?” Drew interrupted, his head swiveling toward the host. “You’ve caught my attention.”
“Oh.” Mr. Edgewood blinked. “Hmm. I don’t really…”