Chapter Eleven
The morning after the ball at the Mayleses’, Arden woke up to the midmorning sun pouring through his window, though exhaustion made his bones feel heavy as he dragged himself out of bed.
He’d been up half the night, his conversation with Mavis keeping sleep just out of reach.
He’d gone too far when he blamed her for his father’s death, and the instant of shock and hurt that showed on her face before she pulled herself back together lingered in his mind’s eye.
He tried to tell himself it was another layer of deception from her, but he didn’t quite believe it.
What he’d said wasn’t the truth. Arden’s father’s heart attack might have been triggered, in part, by stress, and that stress might have been triggered, in part, by their financial woes, but his death was no more Mavis’s fault than it was Arden’s.
Therein lay the trouble—Arden did blame himself for his father’s death in a dozen different ways, and that was precisely why it felt like such a relief to share the blame with someone else, for just a moment.
When he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he winced. The dark circles under his eyes were echoed by the shadow of stubble along his jawline. He would shave later—first, he needed a strong pot of coffee to clear the haze of his mind.
Arden made his way to the breakfast room to find his aunt already awake and dressed, with her silver hair arranged in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. She was sitting by the open window, newspaper folded in front of her beside a buttered croissant and a half-empty cup of coffee.
“You certainly slept in,” she chided before taking a small bite of her croissant.
Arden glanced at the clock standing in the corner—it was only half past nine. Perhaps he’d slept a little later than he usually did, but plenty of Lusters didn’t rise from bed until noon during the season.
“It was a late night,” Arden said with a shrug as he sat down across from her, reaching for the coffeepot, relieved to find it half full and hot to the touch.
His aunt scoffed. “When I was your age, I never left a ball shy of midnight, but you and I were home well before then—and not at my insistence.”
Arden smothered a grimace. He had been the one to suggest they leave the ball after his conversation with Mavis. He managed a sheepish smile. “My sleep has been fitful, from the travel, I expect.”
“You’ve been in Garlin more than a week now, Arden—that excuse is wearing thin.” Despite the frank look she gave him, she didn’t press him further, and Arden was grateful. He took a deep sip of coffee, ignoring how it burned his tongue.
“Next time, I promise you can dance your heart out until the sun rises,” he told her.
“What an unfortunate choice of words, all things considered.” She clicked her tongue and pressed one hand over her heart—her failing heart. Arden recognized his error.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Phi,” he said before realizing she was fighting a laugh.
She waved his apology away. “Oh, don’t be. Dancing one’s heart out sounds like a marvelous way to go.”
Guilt seeped into Arden’s chest, though he knew better than to show it. Arden busied himself with his coffee, but when his aunt finished her croissant, she leaned forward, lips pursed. When she spoke, her voice was low.
“I’m afraid we must discuss how you embarrassed me last night.”
Arden’s stomach dropped. He thought back to his dance with Mavis—she’d warned him that people were watching, that his anger was drawing attention. If gossip spread about him and Mavis, his chances of courting Oriana dwindled even lower than they already stood.
“Your clothing.” His aunt heaved a heavy sigh. “I confess, it’s my own fault—I didn’t notice how dire things were. Your day wear is decent enough, but the suit you wore last night looked like it had been pulled from my late husband’s closet, and he died a decade ago.”
Relieved as Arden was that his aunt wasn’t talking about Mavis, he still bristled. “I bought it two years ago—hardly as bad as all that.”
“I beg to differ.” His aunt snorted. “You’ll go to the tailor today to see what can be done.
Three evening suits should do, but you ought to get some new bits and bobs for more casual affairs as well.
Oh, and you’ll need something to wear to the regatta—I doubt you can get anything custom made in two days, but Gilford should have something available that will do in a pinch. ”
Arden shifted in his seat, looking down at the table. “I appreciate your candidness, Aunt Phi, but—”
“Oh, Gilford will send the bill to me, of course. A necessary investment, the way I see it.”
If she hoped to ease his discomfort, she failed miserably.
“I can’t allow that.” Arden’s voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll make do with the clothes I have.”
His aunt frowned, surveying him for a moment with shrewd eyes.
“I’m beginning to understand why you’ve made such a mess of things, Arden.
I shouldn’t be surprised—your grandfather was a stubborn man too.
Once, when we were children, we were swimming in the pond in Hayes Park—you know the one—and I had my back turned when his foot got stuck in some rocks, and even as he was flailing, he didn’t shout out to get my attention.
He managed to free himself before I realized what was happening, but .
. . well, he’d have rather died then and there than ask for help. ”
Arden took another scalding sip of his coffee.
His grandfather died when he was still a boy, but the story fit with his memory of the man, and Arden knew his aunt was right—he was every bit as stubborn.
He’d asked for Mavis’s help, but that wasn’t the same thing as having his great-aunt foot a shopping spree on his behalf.
When Arden didn’t reply, his aunt sighed. “If it makes you feel better, think of it this way—it will be your money soon enough if you play your cards right, and a new wardrobe is a card you desperately need in your hand. It’s an investment.”
An investment was exactly how Arden thought of enlisting Mavis’s help.
“Very well, then.” Arden held up his hands in surrender. “But what, exactly, does one wear to a regatta?”
Mavis slept poorly after her engagement ball, unable to put Arden’s accusation far from her mind.
She knew, logically, that she hadn’t caused the elder Mr. Ryskamp’s death—she was many things, but murderer wasn’t ranked among them—and she struggled to see how she could have even unintentionally caused the death of a man who hadn’t so much as breathed the same air as her for four and a half years before he passed.
Still, it bothered her that Arden believed it of her.
It shouldn’t. Mavis had never paid much mind to what other people thought of her, and she had been called all manner of awful things in her life. She knew who she was, and that was all that had ever mattered.
But if Arden’s opinion didn’t matter, why did she keep replaying his words again and again in her mind? Why did she want, even now, to storm across Garlin to find him and defend herself?
Bleary eyed and in desperate need of coffee, Mavis trudged out of her room in the hotel suite, making her way to the living area with her lilac silk dressing gown pulled tight around her, and her copper curls wild and tangled around her shoulders.
She’d been too tired after the ball to brush and plait her hair as she normally did, though already she was regretting that bout of laziness, dreading the imminent war she would soon need to wage against the rat’s nest armed only with a hairbrush.
“There she is.” Leif’s voice was far too chipper for Mavis’s liking. He looked up from where he and Rafe were hunched over the dining table, papers spread out over the cherrywood surface and a fountain pen ready in Rafe’s hand.
Rafe followed his brother’s gaze and nodded a greeting.
“You look like hell, Magpie, but your timing is impeccable. The final betrothal contract just arrived, along with the rest of the jewelry from his proposal.” He gestured toward a collection of small red velvet boxes piled on top of the credenza.
The last thing Mavis wanted to do was discuss contract terms before having coffee, so she said nothing as she crossed the room to the cart that Gretchen must have brought up, pouring herself a cup of coffee and adding a splash of milk. She took a bracing sip before turning to face Rafe and Leif.
“You do look like hell,” Leif agreed, and Mavis knew he wasn’t only talking about her hair.
She rolled her eyes. “Say what you want to about the Lusters, but both of you could learn a thing or two about manners from them. They would never say such rude things to a lady.”
“You aren’t a lady,” Rafe pointed out, though his voice was light and Mavis wasn’t insulted. She was sure she did look like hell. How could she not when she certainly felt like it?
“I had too much champagne, I suppose,” Mavis said airily before taking another sip of coffee. “Anything notable in the final contract? Or is it more or less the same as the others?”
“It’s fairly unremarkable—twenty thousand solas to be paid by whichever party wishes to dissolve the contract, plus the understanding that the ring will be yours to keep if he ends things.”
Mavis’s gaze dropped to her finger and the ring glistening there.
Though keeping the ring had been a part of their con since the beginning, she still found the custom bemusing.
As Leif explained all those years ago, it was meant as a sort of consolation prize for the bride’s lost virtue.
It was almost funny—for all the Lusters’ gentle manners and courtly customs, when all was said and done, the value they placed on their daughters’ worth had a price.
“He did ask for the infidelity clause to be removed, but then, most of them do,” Rafe added, drawing her back to the matter at hand.
“Of course.” That was hardly surprising. “I’ve heard he keeps a mistress in a cottage across town—it isn’t much of a secret.”