Chapter Twenty-Four
Algernon Montfort arrived to claim the town house wearing a waistcoat the color of a beetle’s wings and carrying enough snuff to incapacitate a regiment.
He was an entire day early.
A day Poppy had needed. A day to pack, to plan, to breathe. To decide her own fate.
Gabriel had slipped from her bed this morning at dawn, careful and silent so he would not wake her, restrained by the knowledge that staying until full daylight would test every servant’s discretion in the house. Before he left, he had pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.
“I meant every word,” he had whispered.
Poppy had pretended to be asleep.
Opening her eyes would have meant reaching for him. Asking him to stay. Asking whether a proposal made of honor, fear, desire, tenderness, and terrible timing could ever become the proposal she truly needed from him.
Now Algernon’s carriage drew up before the house, and answers became another luxury she could not afford.
Poppy stood at the drawing room window in a plain gray gown chosen for packing, not for receiving the young man who had come to take her home. The skirt was dusty near the hem, and one sleeve bore a crease from carrying books down from the library.
Her cousin’s equipage was handsome, newly painted, and obviously expensive. A second carriage followed, piled with trunks and bandboxes. Then came a small cart bearing two servants, a rolled carpet, and what appeared to be another cabinet devoted to snuff.
“Jenkins,” Poppy said, without turning from the window. “Send for Mr. Ashby immediately.”
“At once, miss.”
Mama stood beside Poppy with one hand resting against the curtain.
Since the hotel, Lady Viva had been quieter.
Not transformed. Mama would never become the sort of woman who rose early to compare household accounts and rejected champagne on moral grounds.
But there was something altered in her, a hesitation before she laughed too brightly, a new softness when she looked at Poppy.
Now she slipped her hand into Poppy’s. It was a small gesture, almost shy. But one that Poppy appreciated, nonetheless.
“I shall try not to make anything worse,” Mama said.
Poppy swallowed. “Thank you.”
“I make no promises if he mentions curtains more than twice.”
“That seems fair.”
Algernon descended from the carriage. He had grown taller since Poppy last encountered him several years before.
Regrettably, height had done nothing to improve him.
His coat was a deep shade of plum, his neckcloth arranged in elaborate folds, and his pale hair brushed forward with such determination that it appeared to be attempting escape from his forehead.
The beetle-green waistcoat strained slightly across his middle and shimmered whenever he moved.
Mama leaned closer to the glass. “Darling, he has dressed himself as an insect.”
Poppy pressed her lips together. “He has always admired a dramatic waistcoat.”
“There is drama, sweetie, and then there is molting.”
Behind them, Freddie gave a low, suspicious growl.
The puppy had spent the morning unsettled by activity in the house.
Crates stood open in the hall. Books had been removed from shelves.
Mama’s gowns had been folded into trunks with varying degrees of success.
Jenkins directed servants and hired men with quiet authority, while Poppy moved from room to room checking lists, settling questions, and pretending the ache beneath her ribs was merely haste.
The house no longer looked like home. It looked like a memory being packed away. Papa’s portrait had already been removed from the study and wrapped carefully in cloth, its absence leaving a pale rectangle on the wall.
For one unguarded moment, Poppy remembered the night before. Gabriel’s mouth against hers. His hands gentle and certain. The warmth of waking beside him before dawn, his arm still around her while the house slept on, unaware that everything between them had changed.
She pushed the memory aside.
Her cousin had arrived, and whatever waited beyond the door required her full attention.
“Ready?” Mama asked.
“No.”
Lady Viva squeezed her hand once. “Let us admit the beetle.”
Poppy laughed despite everything.
Then she marched into the foyer.
Jenkins opened the front door just as Algernon raised one gloved hand to knock. Behind him, Mr. Pritchard descended from the second carriage carrying a leather portfolio and an expression of professional resignation. Clearly, pomposity required administrative support.
Algernon stepped over the threshold without waiting to be invited. He held an open snuff box in his hand.
“Lady Montague,” he said, with an awkward bow. “Cousin.”
“Algernon,” Mama said. “How splendid to see you in full plumage.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your waistcoat, darling. It announces you.”
Poppy cleared her throat. “We did not expect you until tomorrow.”
“I prefer matters to proceed without unnecessary complication.” Algernon glanced around the foyer, his eyes narrowing. “Delay encourages confusion.”
“Does it?” Mama asked, touching a hand to her throat. “How very energetic of delay.”
Algernon ignored her. He took a generous pinch of snuff and lifted it toward his nose.
For one suspended second, nothing happened.
Then he sneezed. Violently. Once. Twice. A third time so forceful that Freddie leapt backward and began barking with conviction.
Algernon’s eyes watered. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a handkerchief.
Mama watched with interest. “Darling, perhaps inhale less of it.”
“I know how to take snuff,” Algernon insisted.
Freddie barked again.
“The dog appears unconvinced,” Poppy said.
From behind her, a familiar voice said, “A reasonable position.”
Poppy turned.
Gabriel stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his dark coat immaculate, his expression grave. Publicly, he was Mr. Ashby again. Correct, composed, necessary. Privately, the distance between them felt almost unbearable.
“Mr. Ashby,” she said as relief swept through her in a quiet rush. Thank heavens he was here. She would not have to face her awful cousin alone.
“Mr. Ashby?” Algernon said, turning.
Gabriel bowed. “Lord Montague.”
“The solicitor?”
“Yes.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking possession of my own property,” Algernon informed him.
“No doubt. I am merely here to ensure the transfer is orderly and that Lady Montague’s personal effects are not included in it by mistake.”
Algernon stiffened. “I know what belongs to me.”
“Then my presence should prove no inconvenience,” Gabriel replied steadily.
Poppy looked down before Algernon saw the smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
Algernon snapped his snuffbox closed. “Where is the cabinet?”
“In the hall beyond the stairs,” Jenkins said.
“The walnut one?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Near the light?”
“As your instructions required,” Jenkins replied.
“Not direct light.”
“No, my lord.”
“Filtered.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Algernon glanced toward the nearest window, plainly prepared to hold the sun accountable if necessary. “Very good,” he said at last.
He moved farther into the foyer and looked around.
Poppy had known this moment was coming. For ten years, some part of her had understood that the house belonged not to Mama or to Poppy, but to the title.
The late viscount’s heir would reach his majority.
He would claim Brambleberry Court and the London residence.
He would decide which rooms suited him, which furnishings displeased him, and how swiftly the women who had lived beneath this roof might be removed.
Knowing had not prepared her for the sight of Algernon standing on Papa’s carpet and inspecting the walls as though Poppy and Mama were stains he expected the servants to scrub away.
He pointed toward the silver urn. “That is still here.”
“For the moment,” Poppy replied.
“I asked that it be taken away. It upsets the proportions of the hall.”
Mama looked at the urn, then at Algernon. “Then you must stand elsewhere, darling. One should never linger near an object that outshines one.”
Algernon frowned.
Poppy stepped in before Mama could expand upon that thought. “The urn belongs to Mama. It will leave with the rest of our effects.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Algernon moved toward the staircase.
Freddie darted into his path, and Algernon stopped abruptly. The puppy planted himself squarely upon the bottom step and growled with open hostility.
“Whose animal is that?” Algernon insisted.
“Mine,” Poppy said.
“He should be sent to the mews.”
Algernon shifted right. Freddie shifted right.
Algernon shifted left. Freddie shifted left.
For one dreadful moment, Poppy thought she might laugh.
Mama felt no such restraint. “Oh, excellent. He understands siege warfare.”
“Cousin,” Algernon said stiffly, “remove the dog.”
Poppy bent and scooped Freddie into her arms. The puppy continued glaring over her elbow. “He will be gone by this evening,” she said.
“As will we all,” Mama added with a brittle smile.
Algernon did not reply. He had already begun climbing the stairs, pausing halfway to inspect the banister. “The wood requires attention.”
Mr. Pritchard made a note. “Attend to the wood.”
“It has survived many years without your concern,” Mama informed him.
“That is hardly an argument against polish,” Algernon replied, curling his lip.
“No, darling. Merely an observation.”
Mr. Pritchard followed with his portfolio. And Gabriel remained one step behind Poppy, close enough that she felt the steadiness of him without a touch.
Ostensibly, he was here to supervise the transfer and ensure Algernon claimed nothing beyond his rights. In front of the household, he was Mr. Ashby again, sober, correct, entirely professional.
Only Poppy knew what lay beneath the immaculate cravat. Only Poppy knew how his restraint could break. Her skin remembered with mortifying ease.
She handed Freddie to Jenkins. “Please keep him away from Lord Montague.”
“I shall attempt it, miss.”
Freddie twisted in the butler’s arms and barked toward the stairs.
“His objections are noted,” Gabriel said.