Chapter Ten
Six days.
Poppy had begun measuring time not by meals, sleep, or the number of times Freddie stole something unsuitable, but by Algernon Montfort’s approach.
Six days until the new Viscount Montague arrived in London.
Six days until he expected to take possession of the town house.
Six days for Poppy to secure a future before the present one was taken from beneath her.
After the dinner party disaster, Bea and Georgie had called an emergency council of The Wallflowers’ Revolt, which sounded grander than what it was: three determined friends, two alarmingly practical husbands, and a great deal of tea.
They had reviewed the situation with ruthless honesty.
Lord Rillington was gone. Count Bellarosa could not be allowed within signing distance of Mama.
Algernon was coming. Desperate circumstances, Bea had declared, required decisive measures, and by noon that same day, Lord Vanover and Lord Pembroke had begun narrowing the list of eligible gentlemen who possessed titles, fortunes, and no immediately obvious defects of character.
Which was how Poppy came to be standing in Lady Vanover’s ballroom wearing her best pink satin, smiling at gentlemen while silently calculating whether the gown might be returned if she did not perspire in it.
Though she already knew it could not be returned. Mama had bought it on credit, of course, and the dressmaker had already written twice.
At least it was pretty. The satin caught the candlelight in soft little gleams, and the color made Poppy look more cheerful than she felt, which was useful. She had discovered Society did not care if one was falling apart so long as one did it becomingly.
“Stop watching your mother,” Bea murmured at her side.
“I am not watching Mama.”
“You have looked toward her nine times in the past five minutes.”
“That is because she is in the vicinity of a widower with a hopeful expression.”
“Lord Crampton,” Bea said. “He has three daughters, gout, and a fortune much smaller than he wishes people to believe. I invited him only because he is a distant relation.”
Poppy looked across the ballroom again.
Lady Viva stood near a potted orange tree, laughing behind her fan while Lord Crampton bent toward her with avid attention. Mama looked ravishing, of course. She always did, even when catastrophe loomed. Something about impending ruin seemed to improve her complexion.
“He thinks she has money,” Poppy said with a sigh.
“Then he deserves the disappointment,” Bea replied.
Poppy’s mouth twitched. “That is uncharitable.”
“Perhaps, but it’s true.”
The evening, according to Bea, was “a small ball.” By any reasonable definition, that was a lie.
Archer House had been filled with music, flowers, gilt chairs, liveried footmen, trays of champagne, and half the unmarried gentlemen Lord Vanover had not immediately dismissed as fools, rakehells, gamblers, weaklings, or men with unfortunate political opinions.
“This is small for Bea,” Georgie said, appearing at Poppy’s other side in lavender satin. “For anyone else, it would be an event requiring a map.”
“I heard that,” Bea said.
“You were meant to,” Georgie replied in a singsong voice.
Poppy tried to smile, but her gaze strayed again toward her mother. At least Count Bellarosa wasn’t here. That was something. Poppy had forbidden Mama from inviting him, and Lady Viva had obeyed, though with so much sighing that even Jenkins had looked worn down by the time they left the house.
“You are doing it again,” Bea said.
“I am ensuring Mama is not signing anything,” Poppy retorted.
“She is holding a fan and Lord Crampton’s attention. No paper in sight,” Bea said.
“Fans can conceal paper.” Poppy desperately wished Mr. Ashby were here, which was inconvenient, improper, and entirely useless.
As if the wish had acquired a will of its own, Lord Vanover appeared at her elbow and said, “Mr. Ashby has arrived.”
Poppy turned so quickly that Bea’s hand tightened around her arm.
“He has?” Poppy asked.
“I invited him,” Bea said. “After the Bellarosa incident, I refuse to host an evening that includes your mother, champagne, and writing implements without legal reinforcement.”
“That is both insulting and wise,” Poppy replied.
Bea nodded. “Precisely. Now, Lord Ketterham is the most promising on the list.”
Poppy forced herself to listen as Bea began reciting his virtues. Widowed. Titled. Financially sound. Two children, both in the schoolroom. A well-managed estate, according to Lord Vanover. A gentleman who meant to marry again and possessed no known taste for opera fraud.
It was useful information. Crucial information, in fact.
And still, despite every sensible effort, Poppy’s gaze moved past Bea’s shoulder.
She found Mr. Ashby near the ballroom doors, dressed elegantly in black and white, speaking quietly with a footman.
He did not belong in Bea’s glittering ballroom, surrounded by silk, candlelight, and titled men who had been born to this world.
Yet he did not look diminished by it in the least. He looked even more himself: steady, contained, and so handsome that Poppy briefly forgot Lord Ketterham existed.
Then Mr. Ashby’s attention found her.
The room seemed to sharpen around that single point of contact.
He crossed to where she stood with his usual controlled stride and bowed. “Lady Vanover. Lady Pembroke. Miss Montfort.”
“Mr. Ashby,” Poppy said.
His attention dipped briefly to her pink satin gown before returning to her face. The glance lasted no longer than courtesy allowed. It still warmed her more than it ought.
Beside her, Georgie went very still, and Bea’s brows lifted by the smallest, most damning fraction.
“Lady Montague appears well guarded,” he said.
“Three footmen, one marquess, and an earl,” Bea replied, referring to Nicholas and Jason.
“Then I almost pity any charlatans in the room,” Mr. Ashby said.
Poppy smiled despite herself.
Mr. Ashby’s expression softened by the smallest degree. “And you, Miss Montfort?”
“I am being displayed to eligible gentlemen with ruthless efficiency.”
“So I gathered.”
“You disapprove?”
“Of efficiency? Never.”
A dry answer, certainly. Yet it warmed her more than it had any right to do.
Bea touched her elbow. “There he is.”
“Who?”
“Lord Ketterham.”
Poppy’s stomach tightened.
Mr. Ashby turned his head at the name. His gaze found the gentleman across the room and sharpened, moving over him with the cool, assessing precision Poppy had seen him use on ledgers, creditors, and questionable legal documents.
Apparently, Lord Ketterham had just become a matter requiring examination.
Georgie smiled encouragingly. “Jason agrees he is the next most promising.”
“Does he have all his teeth?” Poppy asked.
“Nicholas did not mention teeth,” Bea said. “But he is thorough.”
Poppy winced. “Comforting.”
“His estate is well managed, according to Jason, and he’s quite kind,” Georgie added.
“I do believe he’s looking for a new mother for his children,” Bea added.
Mr. Ashby’s gaze remained on Lord Ketterham. “Does he want a wife or a governess?”
Georgie’s brows lifted. Her gaze moved from Mr. Ashby to Poppy, then back again, and her mouth softened with the faintest suggestion of understanding.
Heat rose in Poppy’s cheeks.
“Possibly both,” Georgie said, though she was still watching Mr. Ashby with far too much interest.
“At least he is honest about it. I appreciate that,” Poppy said.
Mr. Ashby bowed. “Then I shall leave you to Lord Ketterham’s many virtues.
I believe I can be of more use standing nearer Lady Montague.
” Then he moved away, taking up a position within sight of Lady Viva, though Poppy could not help noticing his gaze returned once—briefly, severely, and not at all indifferently—to Lord Ketterham.
Apparently, Mr. Ashby had completed his first inspection and found the candidate wanting.
Bea followed the direction of his stare, then cleared her throat.
“Ketterham is sensible,” Bea said. “You are sensible. There are worse foundations for a marriage.”
Poppy drew in a deep breath and pressed her palm to her middle.
Sensible.
Safe.
Exactly the sort of match she ought to want.
Which made it deeply inconvenient that her mind chose that moment to remember Mr. Ashby’s mouth brushing her cheek and his voice going rough enough to threaten every rule between them.
Poppy forced the memory aside before it could take root. She was not here to think about Gabriel Ashby. She was here to find a titled husband before Algernon Montfort arrived and claimed the only home she had left.
Lord Vanover approached with a gentleman at his side.
Lord Ketterham was perhaps five and forty years of age, brown-haired, clean-shaven, and steady in every visible particular. Serious gray eyes. Composed manner. The general air of a man who valued punctuality, sound judgment, and firm expectations.
He did not dazzle, which Poppy found reassuring.
Dazzling things had a way of proving complicated.
“Lord Ketterham,” Lord Vanover said, “may I present Miss Montfort?”
Poppy curtsied. “My lord.”
Ketterham bowed. “Miss Montfort.”
His gaze did not flick to her empty wrists, her gown, or Mama. It stayed on her face. That was promising.
“I understand Lady Vanover has thrown us all into this room with purpose,” he said.
Poppy blinked, then laughed. “Good heavens. You begin plainly.”
“I prefer plain beginnings. They save confusion later.”
“I suppose that depends upon whether confusion was one’s only advantage,” Poppy replied.
Lord Ketterham’s brow furrowed. “Is it yours?”
“At times.” There. That was sensible, wasn’t it?
“Then I shall proceed with caution,” he said without humor.
There was no flirtation in his tone. No fluttering compliments, no honeyed nonsense, no silly comparison between her eyes and the heavens. Yet there was attention in it. Respect, perhaps. He seemed to be listening to her answer rather than waiting for his own turn to speak.