Chapter Seven The Potted Plant Revelation
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was reconsidering every life choice he had ever made.
This included, but was not limited to: joining the military, attending Lady Sefton's ball, and the catastrophic decision at age seven to believe his brother Robert when he claimed to be holding "absolutely nothing" behind his back.
That incident had concluded with a lizard in Richard's breeches, three hours of screaming, and a lifetime ban from the Pemberley Conservatory.
The lizard, in retrospect, had been more pleasant company than the current assembly.
He stood beside a potted palm in the corner of Lady Sefton's ballroom, surrounded by a small mountain of abandoned almond tarts.
The tarts sat on a silver platter, untouched save for a single bite mark where some brave soul had attempted consumption and immediately reconsidered their will to live.
Lady Sefton, it transpired, had not personally sampled her refreshments.
If she had, she would have discovered that her cook possessed a rare talent: the ability to make almonds taste precisely like mouse droppings.
Richard knew this because he had eaten one out of sheer desperation.
Never again.
The ballroom swirled with silks and superfine, a kaleidoscope of wealth and tedium.
Debutantes in white muslin giggled behind fans.
Matrons in turbans glared at anyone younger than forty.
The orchestra sawed away at a country dance with the mechanical precision of men who had stopped caring about music sometime during the reign of Queen Anne.
Richard glared at a lion head carved into the nearest column. The lion glared back, smug and marble.
He was sulking. He was lurking. He was actively contemplating whether a tactical retreat through the terrace doors would be noted by his mother, who sat across the room, a general surveying her troops.
The Countess of Matlock missed nothing. She would see.
She would know. And she would make him pay for it with a lecture.
No escape, then.
He shifted his weight, his hip feeling strangely naked without the familiar weight of his sabre, which was currently being guarded by a footman in the hall.
The dress uniform of his Regiment was designed to inspire awe and terror in equal measure: scarlet coat with gold braid across the chest, white breeches that required the legs of a Greek statue, and boots polished to a shine that could blind the French at fifty paces.
The gorget at his throat gleamed. The epaulettes on his shoulders declared his rank with unsubtle authority.
He was, in short, prepared for war. Which was appropriate, because his life had become a battlefield. The trouble had started three days earlier, outside his father's study.
Richard had been stomping down the corridor of Matlock House with all the grace of a carthorse, his mind consumed by visions of a certain red-haired menace.
He had been so thoroughly distracted by the memory of her green eyes flashing with fury that he failed to observe the Earl of Matlock standing in the doorway of his study.
If Richard had known his father was there, he would have employed more stealth. He was trained in reconnaissance. He could move through enemy territory without disturbing a blade of grass. But no. He had stomped like a bull in a pottery shop, and now he was paying for it.
The Earl had not spoken. He had simply looked his second son directly in the eye and made a sound.
Tick-tock.
It started quietly. A soft, rhythmic clicking of tongue against teeth.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Richard froze mid-stomp.
His father's face remained impassive. He continued saying it.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Richard attempted retreat. He pivoted on his heel, prepared to march back the way he had come with as much dignity as a man could muster whilst fleeing from onomatopoeia.
The ticking followed him.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Louder now. Echoing down the corridor like the countdown to an execution.
Richard walked faster. His father's voice gained volume, pursuing him like a vengeful ghost.
Tick-tock. TICK-TOCK.
He did not run. Fitzwilliams did not run. But he walked with considerable haste until he reached the safety of his bedchamber and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The message was loud and clear. Easter was approaching fast. The deadline of his doom was pending.
He needed a plan.
Richard pressed his forehead against the cool marble of Lady Sefton's column, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole.
He had spent the past two days calculating his options. He had drawn diagrams. He had made lists. He had consumed an entire bottle of his brother's best brandy whilst staring at the ceiling and cursing the universe.
The facts were these:
One: He required a dowry to prevent financial ruin and paternal disappointment, not to mention avoid dying of the fever somewhere hot.
Two: Dowries did not grow on trees, nor could they be ordered from catalogues.
Three: The current crop of heiresses with dowries in London consisted of: (a) Lady Araminta Glossop, who possessed a laugh like a dying goose and the intellect of a turnip, (b) Miss Honoria Fitzroy, who had the face of a horse and the conversation of a vicar's wife, and (c) the Weatherby twins, who were seventeen, identical, and made him feel like a predator lurking outside a schoolroom.
Four: Caroline Bingley had a dowry, no horse face, and a tongue sharp enough to fillet a man at twenty paces.
The logical conclusion was inescapable. If he was to marry a dowry, it would have to be hers.
The problem, the significant, unavoidable, catastrophic problem, was that he was not entirely certain he could live in the same house as Caroline Bingley without one of them committing murder—or worse, without all of London reading in the papers: Woman Dangled from Window by Ankles; Husband Cited.
It would have to be her house, obviously. His only possession of value was his stallion, Black Thunder, and he doubted Miss Bingley wished to take up residence atop a horse. She would complain about the lack of gilt. She would probably commission a saddle encrusted with diamonds.
No. Before he committed to a lifetime of her company, he needed to test the waters. He needed to observe her in her natural habitat. He needed to see her under duress, stripped of her defences, navigating the treacherous shoals of the Season.
And so, in a moment of what he could only describe as tactical insanity, he had devised THE plan.
He would offer not to court or propose to her, but to help her find a husband. He would simply observe. Catalogue her flaws and virtues. Determine whether a life sentence in her company was preferable to debtor's prison.
It was a brilliant plan. It was a terrible plan. It was the only plan he had.
When she accepted, he nearly choked on his own cravat.
She was sharp as a knife. She should have seen through the ruse immediately.
She should have demanded more explanations, guarantees, written contracts in triplicate.
But instead, she had glared at him with those damned green eyes and had the audacity to call him insufferable.
Insufferable! As if she were some paragon of charm and civility, instead of a woman who dressed like a warning beacon and wielded her wealth like a cudgel. However, she had agreed.
And now here he was, standing beside a potted palm in this ballroom, waiting for Caroline Bingley and her useless puppy of a brother to arrive.
Of course, Lady Sefton's ball was not the sort of event to which the Bingleys received invitations.
Trade money, no matter how large, did not automatically grant access to the inner circles of the ton.
The Countess of Sefton was a dragon in diamonds who guarded her guest list with the ferocity of Cerberus protecting the gates of Hades.
But Richard had asked his mother.
The conversation had been brief.
"Mother, I require a favour."
The Countess had looked up from her correspondence, one elegant eyebrow rising to a height that could have scraped the ceiling. "Do you?"
"I would like to procure an invitation to Lady Sefton's ball for Miss Caroline Bingley."
The eyebrow climbed higher. It was a miracle of muscular control.
"I see."
"Can it be arranged?"
His mother had stared at him for a full thirty seconds. He could feel her dissecting his motives, cataloguing his weaknesses, and filing them away for future use.
Finally, she rang for a footman. "Very well. I will send a note to Lady Sefton. I will inform her that Miss Caroline Bingley is to be added to tomorrow's guest list. The Earl and I will be most displeased if she is overlooked. Will that do, son?"
"Yes, Mother, thank you."
His mother nodded and returned to her correspondence, and the matter was settled. Richard had escaped before she could ask questions, and now the trap was set. The invitation delivered. The stage prepared.
He checked his pocket watch. Half past ten. She should arrive soon, assuming Bingley had not lost the invitation or accidentally set it on fire.
He scanned the ballroom, mapping exits, threats, and potential obstacles. Old habit. A soldier never stopped assessing the terrain.
The crowd parted near the entrance.
Richard straightened.
And his mouth dropped two inches.
She was not orange.
Richard's brain registered this fact with sluggish comprehension, like someone struck over the head with a marble lion head.
She was burgundy.
Burgundy velvet, to be precise. The gown was cut in the height of fashion, high-waisted, with long sleeves that hugged her arms before flaring slightly at the wrists.
The neckline was modest by ballroom standards, revealing only the elegant curve of her throat and collarbones.
No garish trim. No excessive embellishment.
Just the rich, deep wine red of the fabric and a narrow band of cream silk ribbon beneath the bodice.