Chapter Six
Two nights later
By the time Poppy had dressed for Georgie’s dinner, Mama had lost one glove, found a different glove belonging to no one in the household, and announced that she intended to bring a man who claimed to be a count with them.
Poppy wore the new blue silk Mama had insisted upon, the one that made Poppy’s eyes look larger and more lovely than was strictly necessary. Every seam of it had been purchased on credit, which made the gown feel less like finery than a wager.
“Count Bellarosa,” Mama said from her dressing table, holding a diamond earbob to one ear and a topaz one to the other. “Or Bellarose. Possibly Bellarosi. It changes according to his mood, darling.”
“It should not change at all,” Poppy said, attempting to retrieve the diamond earbob before Mama added it to the topaz. “Names are not meant to shift with the weather.”
Mama sighed. “Well, neither are men, darling, and yet they often do. I have no idea where Mr. Fenwick went.”
Ignoring that, Poppy took the diamond earbob, set it on the dressing table, and selected its match. “You cannot bring a man no one knows to Georgie’s dinner.”
“I know him.”
“You just met him.”
“That is not the same as not knowing him. It is merely knowing him recently.”
“Mama.”
Lady Viva sighed and tipped her head obligingly while Poppy fixed the earbobs. “You are very severe this evening, sweetie.”
“I have cause.”
“Do you? How dreary. Cause is always the death of delight.”
Poppy caught her mother’s gaze in the looking glass.
Lady Viva looked radiant in rose silk, her red curls arranged with deceptive care in a brightly colored turban, a fan dangling from one wrist with all the airy innocence of a woman who had never misplaced anything more serious than a handkerchief.
No one seeing her would believe they had eight days before they must quit their home.
No one would believe there were unpaid bills tucked in the study, a snuff-scented letter folded in Poppy’s reticule, or a solicitor downstairs who had already made plain the law would not save them.
“Mama,” Poppy said more gently, “I am trying to make a good impression tonight.”
“You always make a good impression.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“You mean you hope to gain an offer.”
Poppy’s fingers stilled. “It may be the only way to remain in London.”
Lady Viva’s expression softened by a fraction, and for a moment Poppy saw the mother she remembered from childhood.
The one who had brushed her hair by the fire, hummed little songs under her breath, and told Poppy that a girl with red hair and blue eyes and freckles should never apologize for being exactly herself.
Then the softness vanished beneath a too-bright smile.
“Well,” Mama continued, “then you had better make an excellent impression. Something between graceful princess and mysterious heiress. Men like both, I believe.”
Poppy sighed. “Unfortunately, I am neither a princess, nor an heiress.”
“Hence mysterious.”
“That is not helpful.”
“No, but it is accurate, darling, and therefore useful advice.”
At the mention of advice, Poppy glanced toward the door.
Mr. Ashby was downstairs in the study, reviewing the draft marriage settlement she had cobbled together that morning in case Georgie and Bea’s plans proved successful sooner rather than later.
The settlement was quite premature, of course, but so was needing a husband in eight days.
If some titled gentleman was fool enough—or noble enough—to take on the Montfort calamity, Poppy meant to know precisely what she could offer, what she must ask, and what trouble might be waiting in the fine print.
Poppy ought to be grateful Mr. Ashby had agreed to review it.
And she was grateful.
She was also something else, something less definable and far less sensible.
She had spent the entire afternoon thinking of the moment in the study when he had said wanting security was not foolish, wanting to remain in the world she had been born into was not foolish.
No one had ever made her fears feel so reasonable, simply by meeting them with plain, steady seriousness instead of surprise or amusement.
The difficulty was that Mr. Ashby had also told her marriage might not be the worst course.
And tonight she was expected to begin proving it.
Downstairs, the front door opened, then closed. A male voice murmured to Jenkins. It was not Mr. Ashby’s voice. This one was louder, more theatrical—the voice of a man who clearly expected admiration.
Mama clapped her hands together, smiling.
Poppy closed her eyes. “No.”
“Darling—”
“No.”
“But he has already arrived.”
“Then he may leave.”
Lady Viva stood and gathered her shawl with every appearance of imminent disobedience. “One cannot abandon a guest in one’s own hall.”
Poppy scowled. “One can if one did not invite him.”
“I did invite him.”
“Mama.”
Lady Viva waved her hand, and her fan flapped against her wrist. “I invite many people to many things. It keeps conversation nimble.”
Poppy turned and marched from the room before she said something ungenerous. Halfway down the stairs, she spotted Count Bellarosa in the foyer.
He was difficult to miss.
He wore deep blue velvet, a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread, and a cravat pin that looked large enough to anchor a small ship.
His dark curls had been arranged in shining waves, and he held a silver-topped cane he plainly did not need.
Every line of him suggested grandeur in search of an audience.
He was exactly the sort of ostentatious man Mama loved to befriend.
Jenkins stood before him with a blank expression that did not quite conceal despair.
Mr. Ashby stood near the study door, a document in one hand, Freddie at his side.
He looked at the count. Then at Poppy. Then back at the count.
The ensuing silence had the careful precision of a legal document.
The moment Count Bellarosa saw her, he swept into a bow. “Miss Montfort. At last. Your esteemed mother has spoken of you with great tenderness, great pride, and great affection.”
“How kind,” Poppy said, still descending the stairs.
“I am Bellarosa, of the ancient Bellarosas of Naples, Palermo, and, when history insists, Vienna.”
Poppy reached the bottom step with her brow furrowed. “How is Vienna involved?”
Mr. Ashby made a small sound like throat clearing and looked down at the document in his hand.
The count smiled magnificently, accepting the question with all the satisfaction of applause. “A lady of wit. Excellent. Wit improves beauty, though beauty is always welcome to attempt the journey alone.” He laughed at his own jest.
Poppy stared at him.
Mama appeared at the top of the stairs. “Isn’t he marvelous, darling?”
“He is certainly something,” Poppy said.
Mr. Ashby’s mouth quirked.
Poppy did not look at him, because if she did, she might laugh, and if she laughed, she might forgive Mama, which would be premature.
“Count Bellarosa,” Poppy said, “I fear there has been a misunderstanding. Lady Pembroke’s dinner is a private gathering.”
“Private?” The count placed one hand to his chest. “Madam, privacy leads to loneliness.”
“That may be so,” Mr. Ashby said, lifting his gaze, “but invitations are not philosophical.”
The count turned to him with the delayed interest one might grant an unfamiliar footstool. “Remind me… You are?”
“Mr. Ashby.”
“The man of law?” the count said.
“Yes.”
“Ah.” The count nodded solemnly. “Then we are brothers in tragedy. You serve the law. I serve beauty. Both mistresses are cruel.”
“Mine keeps better accounts,” Mr. Ashby said.
Poppy bit her lip.
Mama drifted down the stairs in a cloud of perfume they could ill afford. “Count Bellarosa is to accompany me.”
“He is not,” Poppy said.
“He will be quite bereft,” Mama retorted.
“He shall recover,” Poppy insisted.
“Recovery is one of my lesser gifts,” the count assured them.
Poppy looked at Mr. Ashby.
It was not a pleading look. She refused to plead. She merely looked at him as one might look at a locked door while holding a key one was not certain would fit.
Mr. Ashby’s expression altered slightly, and the cool politeness in his face gave way to understanding.
He stepped closer. “Lady Montague, may I have a word with Miss Montfort?”
Mama brightened. “How formal. Certainly, darling. I adore words. Especially when other people are having them and I am not required to listen.”
Poppy followed Mr. Ashby into the study, leaving Jenkins to stand guard over Count Bellarosa and whatever cities he intended to claim next.
The moment the study door closed, Poppy turned to Mr. Ashby. “I am sorry.”
He blinked. “For what?”
“I suppose because I am forever apologizing for people who are not sorry, which is probably foolish, but it has become a habit.” She crossed to the desk and set one hand upon the back of the chair.
“I did not invite him. I do not know what he wants from Mama, but I am quite certain it is not her conversation.”
“A reasonable suspicion.”
“We both know she has no money,” Poppy continued.
“Not a fact I would advise announcing widely.”
“Unfortunately, Mama has a talent for attracting men who assume glamour and wealth are the same thing.”
“In some circles, they often travel together,” Mr. Ashby said.
Poppy shook her head. “In this house, glamour travels alone and sends the bill after.”
That did it. Mr. Ashby smiled, though only a little, because he never gave away more than a little. Still, it was enough for Poppy to feel the effect in the most inconvenient places.
The smile vanished quickly, but her body had already recorded it, low and deep, with a humiliating eagerness she had no business feeling.
She looked away and saw his notebook lying open on the desk.
She had not meant to read it. Truly, she had not. But her gaze caught upon the page before manners could intervene.
Calculate arrears owed to Ashby and Son.
Recommend alternate solicitor.
Provide final bill and demand payment.
Conclude account upon settlement of urgent matters.
The room seemed to shift.
Conclude account.
There was a line drawn through it but still…neat as a death sentence.
Poppy drew her hand from the chair before her fingers could tighten visibly.
Mr. Ashby had not come merely to help them. He had come to set their disaster in order, tie it with string, and hand them to someone else.
Of course, he had.
Why should he not? His father had given them years of patience they could not repay. Mr. Ashby owed them nothing. Less than nothing, perhaps, given the arrears.
Still, the words stung. Another person preparing to leave once the worst of the mess had been measured.
Mr. Ashby glanced at the notebook, then back at her face. Something flickered in his eyes. He had seen what she had seen. “Miss Montfort—”
“No.” She gave him a smile. Too bright. Too practiced. “You must not explain. It is a perfectly sensible list.”
His jaw tightened. “It was written before I fully understood the circumstances.”
“But after you understood enough.” She heard the hurt in her voice and despised it. “Forgive me. That was unfair.”
“It was not.”
She wanted to ask him whether he still meant to do it.
She also wanted very badly not to care.
Neither desire could be indulged, because Mama was in the foyer with a man who might or might not be a count, and Georgie’s dinner would not wait while Poppy nursed the foolish ache of being inconvenient even to a solicitor.
Still, she could not stop herself from making the request she had decided upon earlier. She had no other choice. She lifted her chin. “Mr. Ashby, I know this is a shocking imposition.”
His expression became guarded. “What is?”
“I need you to attend Lady Pembroke’s dinner tonight.”
For the first time since she had met him, Mr. Ashby looked genuinely startled. “Attend?”
“Yes.”
“As a guest?”
“Yes. That is…” She winced. “Not precisely.” She tipped her head toward the hall.
“If Mama is determined to bring Count Bellarosa—and she is, I assure you—then I am afraid he may persuade her to act inappropriately or do something rash while I am attempting to be charming to some eligible gentleman who will no doubt flee the moment he discovers what my family considers ordinary. In short, I cannot handle Mama on my own. Not tonight.”
Mr. Ashby said nothing.
Poppy hurried on. “I know solicitors do not attend dinners merely because clients’ daughters ask them to. I know this is far outside what is proper or reasonable. And I… Oh, I ought not have asked. Please forget I did.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No, I will not forget it.” He moved to the desk and closed the notebook. “I will be there. What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Very well. Allow me to go home and change into the appropriate clothing and I shall meet you there.”
Relief washed through her and for one treacherous heartbeat, Poppy imagined him across Georgie’s dining room beyond the neat categories of solicitor, adviser, and guardian against fraudulent counts. She saw only the man whose eyes had followed her too carefully in the study.
The thought made the evening ahead feel less like a husband hunt and more like a test she was already failing.
“You need not,” she said.
“I know.”
“It is not your responsibility,” she added.
“I know that as well.”
“Then why—”
“Because Lady Montague should not be left vulnerable to opportunists,” he said, with enough certainty to discourage argument.
Poppy’s throat tightened.
Professional then.
Professional was good. Professional was safe. Professional was precisely what one wanted from a solicitor. She did not need tenderness from Mr. Ashby. She needed competence.
“Thank you,” she said.
He inclined his head. “You are welcome.”
Poppy nodded and turned toward the door.
“Miss Montfort.”
She paused.
His gaze was steady on hers. “I had not yet concluded anything.”
Oh. He was speaking of the notebook then.
Poppy’s fingers curled once at her side before she smoothed them flat against her skirt. “No,” she said lightly. “You merely wrote it down.”
She turned on her heel before he could see how badly she wanted him to deny it. She wanted him to make her believe that one person in England might look at all her difficulties and not immediately plan his escape.
Instead, she left before he could answer.