“That’ll need repainting,” he said. “Rude lot.”
The entry hall blossomed with flowers. Bouquets lined the occasional tables and spilled onto the floor. Darien looked around in surprise as the butler took their hats and coats. It seemed an excessive display for a small family party.
Henrietta came to the top of the stairs, draped in a mountain of feathers. “You survived the gauntlet, I see. None the worse for wear?”
The pleasure he felt at her welcoming smile was absurd. Darien tamped it down. “No worse than Brooks’s at the dinner rush,” he said. “The greater trick will be wading through all these flowers. Are you starting a conservatory?”
“Yes, they’re outrageous, aren’t they?” She led them to a large, lofty drawing room adorned with neoclassical frescoes, warmed by oil lamps and rich fabrics. Her tiny cousin perched like a sparrow on a settee fresh from the Chippendale showroom. There was no one else.
“The flowers have been coming all day,” the sparrow said shyly. “And the spectators, too. Hetty’s advert announcing her debate for the Minerva Society appeared in all the papers this morning.”
Darien hoped neither girl, nor her family, had seen the ha’penny broadsides featuring the adventures of Miss Hop-Higher. His suit with Sir Pelton would not speed if Darien made his family figures of public ridicule, but more than that, Darien didn’t want to see what either of the men with the notebooks would make of Henrietta’s current costume.
Henrietta made the introductions. “Marsi, you will remember Lord Darien from the Ellesmere gathering. This is his cousin, Mr. Rutherford Bales, in orders. Lord Darien, Mr. Bales, my cousin, Miss Marsibel Pomeroy.”
Henrietta held out her hand and shook Rufie’s with a frank smile. “You are the scholar of the family, I hear. Well and good.Lord Darien and Marsi can talk fashion, and you can tell me about your studies.”
Annoyance made Darien bridle. Both of the girls left unchaperoned when expecting a notorious rake for dinner? And how could she possibly find Rufie more interesting than him?
“Do the Wardley-Hines generally have newsmen clustered at their door?”
“Would you like a drink while we wait for Lady Mama to come down? Sir Jasper is in the study finishing up with our man of business. Marsi is having sherry, and I am having a nip of Canary wine. It is my Aunt Davinia’s favorite, and she likes her liqueurs to stand on their own, if you know what I mean.” Henrietta distributed glasses, then raised her own like a barmaid in the public house. “To new friends!”
“There was mention of a fire,” Darien prodded.
“Yes.” Henrietta took a sip of Canary wine. “Someone burned down the mill at Bamford that I’m trying to buy.”
Darien stared at her. Fires at textile mills were epic disasters, with so many flammables at hand—fabrics, thread, wooden equipment, people. And Henrietta, who had wept over a sickly infant in the workhouse, was drinking wine and flirting with Rufie. Was she a trifle disguised?
“How unfortunate,” he said flatly.
“No, it’s wonderful. I’m certain Steppenfield set it after I outbid him. He did me a favor, really.” Seeing Rufie’s horrified look, she explained. “It was an old corn mill, long abandoned, and he likely fired it so Hodge would come down on the price. But I intend to hold firm on my offer, and if Hodge sells to me, I can rebuild with iron framing. Papa’s done so in several of his mills, and it reduces the risk of fire considerably.”
She noisily sipped her wine. “I’ve any number of improvements I want to experiment with, but I need a mill ofmy own. I want to try the new style of looms, with one of Newcomen’s steam engines to power them.”
Darien sniffed his glass. The smell was potent. “Does this fire account for all the floral arrangements in the hall?”
“No.” She flushed a pretty shade of rose. “Those are from friends and supporters of the Minerva Society.” She glanced at her cousin on the settee, as delicate as a china ornament. “What can be taking Lady Mama so long?”
Darien set his glass on a mahogany table. “Miss Pomeroy,” he said, “who approved your cousin’s ensemble for this evening?”
Henrietta looked down at herself. Instantly the pleased chatterbox fell away. “Ibegyour pardon.”
“You cannot wear a day gown into dinner,” Darien said. “Just what impression is this meant to achieve? To make you a stork in truth?”
Miss Pomeroy smiled, mischief in her eyes. “Miss Wollstonecraft believes that the efforts women spend on self-adornment are better devoted to cultivating their minds and rational interests.”
“Miss Pomeroy, I promised to give your cousin the benefit of my advice on matters of dress. Would you think it very wrong of me to do so now?”
“I should think Hetty might benefit from your instruction.” The sparrow’s brown eyes danced with amusement. “If Duprix is with you?”
“I do not see how my dress is any of his concern,” Henrietta snapped.
“It is an offense to taste, and moreover, looking at it will put me off my feed. Come,” Darien prompted, holding out his hand in command.
He waited as her face reflected her inward struggle—indignation, distrust, and a flicker of—could he hope that was a flicker of interest? Women threw themselves at Lord Daring enmasse; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to woo one. When she stepped toward him, consenting, his breath released in a painful rush. She would come to him.
Frowning. “I know I oughtn’t leave Marsi alone withyou,” she said, “but is it altogether proper to abandon her to your cousin?”
