Chapter Four #3
Lord Vanover appeared on the threshold, dark-haired, handsome, and so composed it seemed he had known precisely when he would be needed.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, though Poppy decided he did not require much forgiveness in his own house. “But my wife has been silent for so long I feared someone had been murdered.”
Bea turned to face him. “I am planning.”
“Ah,” Lord Vanover said gravely. “Worse.”
His gaze moved from Bea to Georgie to Poppy, taking in the letter, the expressions, the general air of female conspiracy. His face changed. “What has happened?”
Bea handed him the letter. “The new Viscount Montague means to take possession of Lady Viva’s town house in ten days.”
Lord Vanover read quickly, his expression becoming more severe with every line. “Algernon Montfort,” he said. “I know the name.”
“Of course you do,” Bea replied. “You know everyone.”
“He has not been much in London,” he said. “I met him once in the country. He was fifteen, perhaps sixteen, and wore a waistcoat embroidered with beetles to dinner, if I recall correctly.”
Poppy closed her eyes briefly. “Yes. That sounds like Algernon.”
“He also corrected a gardener on the proper arrangement of moss.”
Bea looked appalled. “Moss?”
“With confidence,” Lord Vanover added.
Georgie sighed. “Men should not be given property merely because they have reached one-and-twenty.”
Lord Vanover folded the letter and tapped it once against his palm. “Does your solicitor believe Montfort is within his rights?” he asked Poppy.
“Yes,” Poppy said. “Unless there is something in Mama’s settlement, which Mr. Ashby does not expect.”
Lord Vanover’s gaze sharpened. “What do you need?”
There was nothing sentimental in the question. It was plain, practical, and kind in a way that did not require softness. Poppy was immediately grateful for it. She answered him without hesitation. “A husband.”
Lord Vanover did not blink. “Titled?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Solvent,” Poppy added, tapping her finger against her chin as she thought. “Kind. Or at least not cruel, if we are making requests.”
Georgie slipped an arm around her waist. “We are.”
Lord Vanover moved toward the writing desk, calm efficiency in every step. “Then we begin with a list.”
Bea looked triumphant. “Exactly.”
“A short list.” Lord Vanover took up a quill. “We shall need eligible peers, unmarried, financially sound, not ancient, or visibly depraved, or so weak that Lady Viva can frighten them off within five minutes.”
Georgie gave a small laugh. “Can that be determined in advance?”
“Rarely,” Poppy noted.
“Which is why,” Bea announced, “we shall host twice. A dinner at Pembroke House, then a ball here.”
Poppy looked from one to the other. “You are all talking about this far too calmly. As if it’s a simple matter.”
“My dear,” Bea said, sweeping back to her and taking her hands again, “we are not calm. We are prepared to act. That is what our society does.”
Georgie winked at her again. “Indeed.”
Poppy felt the laugh rise again, though this time it lodged behind tears.
She would not cry. Not here. Not when they were being so kind and so ridiculous and so wonderfully certain that something could be done.
Bea must have seen it despite Poppy’s efforts. Her voice gentled. “Poppy, you helped us when Georgie needed to escape. You helped us when I needed to fight. Did you truly imagine we would stand idle when it was your turn?”
Poppy shook her head. “No.” She gulped. But she had feared it.
She hadn’t feared that they would refuse her. Never that. She had feared they would pity her. Worse, that they would agree with the quiet little voice inside her that said wanting a husband made her less brave than they had been.
Instead, they looked ready to lay siege to the entire peerage on her behalf.
“Very well,” she said, and her voice was not quite steady, but it did not break. “Then what is the first step?”
Bea’s smile turned sharp enough to cut ribbon. “The first step is to make certain every eligible gentleman in London sees you.”
Georgie nodded.
Lord Vanover looked down at his list. “We may need to define eligible with care. I believe we should begin with Ernest Rillington.”
Lord Rillington. Yes. He was eligible, and he was rarely seen at ton events. Perhaps that explained why he had not yet taken a wife.
“He’s been out of the country for several years,” Lord Vanover explained. “He just returned this week.”
Ah, perfect. He might not have had time to hear the worst rumors about Poppy and her mother.
Poppy glanced at the paper, then at her friends, then at Lord Vanover, who had somehow become general counsel in a campaign to marry her off with all reasonable haste.
Humiliation and terror both had their claims.
Beneath them, something smaller stirred.
Possibility.
For now, that would do.
Bea lifted her teacup in a toast. “To the wallflowers’ final revolt.”
Georgie lifted hers. “To Poppy.”
Lord Vanover raised the quill. “To efficiency and a good list.”
Poppy laughed then, properly this time.
And for the first time since she had opened Algernon’s snuff-scented letter, she did not feel entirely alone.
The hunt for her husband was on. And she had reinforcements.