However, no one had told Carlos that Ainsworth’s daughter would also be at Pencliff Towers, or that she was marriage-minded. Blanche Ainsworth had apparently decided that Carlos would make a perfect match for her. Why, he didn’t know, other than that he’d inflated his supposed wealth and influence as part of his story, and now the Ainsworths thought his family practically owned half of Hispaniola.
It was easy to play along with Blanche at first. She was beautiful and witty (if a little too impressed with her own cleverness), and the flirtation seemed harmless. Carlos was smart enough to avoid any traps she might set. He had no intention of getting ensnared by any woman. Then Poppy’s face flashed briefly in his mind, and he shook his head to get her out of there.
He’d hoped that a place called Pencliff Towers would possess multiple towers (it would make watching for smugglers’ ships much easier). But he soon learned that the name was merely a whimsy of the current owners, who had changed it from the simpler Pencliff House when they purchased it.
“Took the locals about five years to come round,” Mr. Towers said the day Carlos arrived and asked about it. “But they finally call the place by the name we like. Probably helps that I’ve employed half the town for work or repairs at some point!”
He left his room on the upper floor and walked down the wide staircase to the main level. Downstairs, he saw Mr. Towers holding court in the parlor, where people were gathering before the dinner chime rang.
“Ah, there’s the man we were just speaking of!” Mr. Towers said, gesturing in welcome.
“I hope the words were kind,” Carlos responded easily.
“But of course, Mr. de la Guerra,” Blanche said, with a smile. “We were saying that it’s remarkable how well you speak English, despite having grown up in the Caribbean.”
“My grandmother is English,” he noted, privately thinking that these people were easily impressed. The typical Brit (after admitting that other countries existed) was always astonished to realize that it was possible to speak not only one language, but several. “And she’s a very talkative lady.”
“Oh, I should just love to meet her someday!” Blanche cooed. It was the most blatant hint she’d offered so far—it was unlikely she’d ever meet Carlos’s grandmother unless they got married.
And to be sure, Blanche seemed perfectly content with the notion. She was beautiful, accomplished, and possessed nearly every quality one could ask for in a proper lady (especially if one overlooked the fact that her family wasn’t quite as blue-blooded as they seemed). She had the sort of soft beauty that had probably already inspired a few amateur poets to praise her in verse. Carlos could do far worse. One thing he did not like, however, was the concept of being presented with a bride.
“What a sweet thought, Blanche.” Mr. Ainsworth said.
“Someday,” Carlos echoed, again refusing to commit to anything. “Perhaps after I have taken care of some matters this summer.”
“Whatever you hope to accomplish, sir, you must call upon me as a friend. The Ainsworth name opens many doors in this part of the country.” The implication was clear. What better business alliance than marriage?
Carlos offered some platitudes and accepted the seat next to Blanche after Mrs. Ainsworth patted the couch meaningfully. Blanche leaned forward and began to talk, and he nodded at all the right points, even as he kept watch on the doorway from the corner of his eye.
When would Poppy appear?
* * * *
Poppy spent longer than usual preparing for that evening.
“I’ll be proper. I’ll be sweet.” Poppy repeated these words as she dressed for dinner. Her gown wasn’t new, but it was one of her favorites: a soft cotton lawn in a lovely blue, the same shade as a cloudless summer sky. The gown was edged in white lace, and her lace wrap completed the outfit. She bound her hair up carefully and even curled a few locks around her face so that she might look as delicate as possible. Her headdress was a simple band of blue ribbon, looped several times around the blonde strands to affect a careless type of grace.
She put on her gloves and slid her feet into the soft leather slippers she favored. The result was a simple, but she hoped alluring, picture. For some reason, the knowledge that Blanche considered Poppy a sort of threat made Poppy quite keen to become a threat. Surely Carlos would at least glance at her!
She didn’t take more than five steps into the main room before she saw Carlos. He looked incredibly dashing in evening clothes. His face was animated and earnest…because he was completely focused on whatever Blanche Ainsworth was saying.
And why not? Blanche was a vision. She looked radiant in her gown, which probably cost five times more than Poppy’s ensemble. The delicate cloth was stitched all over with embroidery, and beading at the hem and the neckline glittered softly in the light. Her hair was caught up in a pile on her head, save for a few locks that lay loose around her neck. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and she smiled at Carlos as if he were the only man in the room.
In turn, Carlos looked enchanted by Blanche, who was the epitome of a proper young lady. She probably never collected beach rubble and climbed stairs until she was sweaty. She never worked in a shop or counted bolts of cloth in a warehouse.
He leaned in close to her, as if he hung on her every word. Poppy’s eyes prickled, the way they did when she wanted to cry. Oh, why couldn’t she keep her smart comments to herself, even for a moment? Naturally he would think twice about renewing any acquaintance with her after she’d been so rude to him earlier.
In the room where the guests gathered before dinner, Poppy saw that her options for conversation partners were the elder Ainsworths, who smiled at her the way tigers must smile at a piglet, the Hobbsons, and the Metcalfe sisters. The decision was an easy one to make.
Poppy strolled directly to the sisters. “May I join you?”
“Oh!” said Elowen. “Please, if you like.”
“Well, if I didn’t like, I should not have come over.”
Elowen smiled at that, then said. “Please meet my younger sister, Elisa.”
“Hello, Miss Elisa. I’m Poppy St George.” Poppy saw with a slight surprise that Elisa was actually much older than she had first assumed. Mrs. Towers called her a “sweet child” (which Poppy took to mean an actual child of twelve or younger). But Elisa must have been eighteen or so. It appeared she suffered from some defect of birth. Her head seemed a bit small for her stature, and lids of her blue eyes were slightly slanted. But she smiled at Poppy, in no way discomfited by the inspection.
