Chapter Three
Poppy had always considered herself an accomplished liar.
Not in the wicked sense. She did not cheat at cards, forge signatures, invent dead aunts, or claim headaches to avoid tedious social calls unless the social call was truly unbearable.
But she could smile through catastrophe with the best of them.
She could laugh while calculating how many candles might be trimmed shorter before anyone noticed.
She could thank a creditor for his patience while knowing his patience had been exhausted three letters ago.
She had built an entire life out of not alarming people.
Which was why, after Mr. Ashby said he had not discovered them to be secretly rich, Poppy escorted Mama from the study, clapped at Mr. Loxley’s insane ode to the sofa, soothed Lady Stone out of weeping into the sofa tassels, found the Frenchwoman’s pearl earbob inside Freddie’s bed, and sent the wine merchant’s man away with a partial payment and the sort of smile that implied more money existed somewhere.
Only after all that did she step into the small passage beside the pantry, press one hand flat to the wall, and allow herself one silent, undignified moment of panic.
Mr. Ashby had not found any more money. There would be no miracle then.
She had known it. She was not a fool. She had added the numbers too many times to be surprised by their stubborn refusal to transform into something prettier.
But some stubborn, hopeful part of her had imagined the new solicitor might sit behind Papa’s desk, turn over a page, frown in that grave, handsome manner of his, and announce that his father (or her father, for that matter) had overlooked some obscure fund after all.
Some annuity. Some investment. Some dear, dusty legal bit of salvation.
Instead, young Mr. Ashby had looked at her with those clear blue eyes and told the truth.
No.
One small word. Very tidy. Very final. Very awful.
Poppy drew in a breath, lifted her chin, and stepped back into the hall. Her morning gown was already creased from kneeling in front of Freddie. The blue ribbon at her waist was slipping a little to one side, but it would have to do. Just like nearly everything in the Montfort household.
She had no time for panic. Panic did not pay bills. Panic did not prevent Mama from promising seven strangers bedchambers they did not possess. Panic did not convince tradesmen to wait, nor keep puppies from eating things that had never been meant for puppies.
Marriage.
The thought moved through her like a cold draught.
Once, before Papa died and Mama became less a mother than a brilliant storm moving through the house, Poppy had dreamed of marriage in the usual foolish way young girls did.
She would attend a ball. A handsome gentleman would ask her to dance.
His gaze would find hers and remain there, making the crowded ballroom feel suddenly, impossibly intimate.
There would be longing glances, stolen words, perhaps a moonlit terrace.
They would fall madly, passionately in love, and everyone would say how fortunate they were.
That had been before Poppy understood the difference between dreams and ledgers.
She was not merely a wallflower now. She was perilously close to becoming a confirmed spinster.
She had no dowry, no fortune, and no father to make the problem easier to discuss.
The gentlemen of the ton did not look at the Montfort household and think, There is a family into which I should like to marry.
They saw Mama, the debts, the laughter, the rumors, the endless parade of guests, and they thought what everyone thought.
Poor Poppy Montfort.
Or worse.
Good heavens, did you hear what Lady Viva did this time?
But marriage was truly Poppy’s only recourse. Only how she would go about securing a match, she had little idea. Nothing she’d done to date had worked. And heaven knew she’d tried.
Putting the thought aside for the moment, Poppy gathered a pile of correspondence from the silver salver near the front door and carried it toward the salon.
Mama’s letters had been accumulating for days.
Lady Viva believed correspondence should be answered only when one felt “spiritually inclined toward such things,” which, in practice, meant never.
The salver contained two invitations, several bills, a note from a milliner that began in friendly tones and ended in veiled threat, a folded letter smelling strongly of snuff, and an alarming sketch of Mr. Loxley reclining upon a cloud while Death waited beside him.
Poppy placed the sketch face down. She refused to encourage him.
In the front salon, Mama had moved from the chair to the sofa and now reclined with her head tipped back, one slipper dangling from her foot, and a coffee cup in hand.
At least, Poppy hoped it was coffee. Mr. Fenwick sat nearby, looking more bewildered than ever, while Lady Stone had fallen asleep beneath the peacock-feather fan that had somehow been located.
“Poppy, darling,” Mama said without opening her eyes, “if that is another bill, burn it. If it is an invitation, accept it. If it is from Lady Cranberry, tell her I have gone abroad.”
“You have not gone abroad,” Poppy pointed out.
“I may. One must keep Society on tenterhooks, sweetie.”
Poppy sorted the letters on the table. “One must also answer one’s correspondence before people begin sending messengers to the door.”
“How oppressive of them,” Lady Viva said.
“You cannot call every obligation oppressive,” Poppy retorted.
“I can, darling. Watch me.”
Despite herself, Poppy nearly smiled. That was Mama’s gift and curse.
She made exasperation feel like a form of entertainment.
Even now, with the ledgers lying like so many coffins in the study and Mr. Ashby’s unsparing truth still ringing in Poppy’s ears, Lady Viva managed to make life appear to be nothing but silk, laughter, and another glass of champagne just out of reach.
Mr. Ashby, however, had not looked entertained.
He had looked proper.
No, more than proper. Reserved. Controlled. The sort of man who seemed to keep his thoughts ordered in neat rows and expected the world to do the same.
Which made it all the more mortifying that Mama had called him darling within three minutes of his arrival.
And worse, Mr. Ashby had noticed everything.
Not only the champagne and the odd guests and Freddie’s egg-smeared mouth.
He had noticed her.
Which was far more disarming.
“Sweetie?” Mama said.
Poppy opened her eyes. “Yes?”
“You are standing there with that letter in your hand looking personally insulted by its contents.”
Poppy looked down.
The snuff-scented letter had slipped open in her fingers. She had not meant to read it. Truly, she had not. It was addressed to Lady Viva Montfort in a stiff, slanted hand Poppy did not recognize.
The first line made her stomach tighten.
My dear Lady Montague,
Having now taken the liberty of inspecting Brambleberry Court, I must confess myself eager to set the place to rights after what appears to have been a prolonged period of neglect—
Poppy’s gaze stopped there. She blinked.
Neglect?
She read the words again, half certain she had mistaken them.
She had not.
“Mama,” she said carefully, “who is this from?”
Lady Viva cracked one eye open. “Which?”
“This letter.”
“Does it smell of snuff?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is from Algernon, darling.”
Poppy’s fingers went cold. “Algernon Montfort?”
“The very same.” Mama closed her eye again. “Dreadful waistcoats. Dreadful opinions. A man who dresses like an over-trimmed curtain and has the mental capacity of a hat stand.”
Poppy stared at her mother. “You received a letter from the new Viscount Montague and did not tell me?”
“I have received several letters from the new Viscount Montague and have endeavored not to tell anyone. Not speaking of it makes the whole matter less distasteful, darling.”
Poppy’s jaw clenched. “It does not make the matter less distasteful, Mama. It makes me unprepared.”
Mama waved one languid hand. “Ignorance is quite a soft pillow, darling. You should try it.”
Poppy unfolded the letter fully and continued reading.
As the present holder of the title, I shall be coming to London within the fortnight and must request that you make whatever arrangements are necessary to vacate the town house prior to my arrival.
I have already begun to consider improvements at Brambleberry Court, which suffered, I need hardly remind you, a regrettable fire last year.
I trust you will understand that a gentleman cannot be expected to delay taking possession of his own property indefinitely.
A rushing sound filled Poppy’s ears.
Yes, Mama had caused a small but damaging fire at Brambleberry Court last year, and, yes, Algernon Montfort was precisely the sort of man to make a tragedy out of singed draperies and scorched paneling. But that was not what made Poppy’s fingers tighten around the page.
It was three words.
Within the fortnight.
Her gaze darted to the date at the top.
No.
Not within the fortnight.
The letter had been sitting here, folded and ignored, while Mama drank coffee from champagne flutes, or champagne from coffee mugs. He would be here in ten days.
Ten days.
Poppy took a deep breath.
They had been fortunate for years, if one could call waiting for ruin fortunate.
Cousin Algernon had inherited the title as a boy, but he had remained in the country with his mother while his affairs were managed for him.
Poppy had always known the day would come when he reached his majority and took possession of all that was now his: Brambleberry Court, the town house, the authority her father had once held.
She had simply imagined the day would arrive with warning enough to breathe.
Worse, in some foolish, hopeful corner of her mind, she had allowed herself to believe one-and-twenty-year-old Algernon might prove kind. The sort of gentleman who would permit them to remain in the town house until they had somewhere else to go.