Celia shook her head and waved her hands, deflecting attention. “Please, let us not make lists of potential suitors. I have more than enough of that, but I shall manage. I shall.”
“But not Lord Edmund.” Henrietta was stern.
“But—” Celia glanced around the table, meeting equally grim expressions.
Marianne put a hand on her heart. “Do not undertake a Forlorn Hope on our behalf, for your loss will devastate us!”
“It’s not my life,” Celia protested. “It’s only marriage.”
Rose shook her head. “Marriageisyour life, Celia Westhaven.”
Charlotte placed her hand over Celia’s. “She just returned from a drive, and the beastly fellow has unsettled her. It will help if she knows we have a plan.”
“Look at us all.” Lord Francis circled his finger around the table, his voice dropped into that soft and natural register. “Between us all, we will keep Edmund Hargreaves from bothering you. We might not be able to keep him away from you entirely, but we shall not leave you alone. You don’t need to manage him by yourself.”
“Maybe we can even convince him that he doesn’t like you at all,” Rose mused, and to Celia’s shock, there was immediate agreement.
Celia was tangled and overwhelmed. Her plan to take care of her cousins was snatched from her hands, blown away in the energy of her family and friends.
“I have another idea,” Charlotte said, moving the conversation away from Celia.
“Permission to speak,” Henrietta said, and Celia sensed that she was returning to the playful formality to take the attention off herself.
“We are talking about promising marriages, correct?” Charlotte glanced at Rose, almost nervous. “Rose is waiting onOwen Featherstone, and meanwhile has Mr. Hanson dancing attendance. Celia has Mr. Cade and Mr. Penrose and”—she spun her hand—“whoever else we shan’t list right now. Henrietta…”
Charlotte took a deep breath, and Celia braced herself without knowing why.
Charlotte let out her gust of air with a deliberate smile. “Why not capitalize on the connections you already have, and Henrietta could marry Clarence?”
Celia gasped, but Henrietta was already nodding slowly. Not like she was madly in love with her cousin, but like she had already considered it.
“Not too shabby.” Lord Francis’s expression was absolutely bland. “Guaranteed income. A title. If he spends too much in Town, you might be a little tight, but you’ll always have a country home to retreat to.”
Celia liked the idea of Henrietta being safe at Killyreigh, and she liked the idea of Killyreigh being safe with Henrietta, but shehatedthe idea of Henrietta marrying someone she did not love or respect. Celia sensed a certain reserve in Henrietta lately. Now that she was grown up, the luster of her older cousin had dimmed, and Henrietta was not the sort of woman who would believe a title and a family castle could restore that luster.
Henrietta made a note. “It won’t hurt to try, just a little bit. See if I can tip his interest in that direction. If not, we might as well know. Now, onto a catalogue of our assets.”
No money. No house. “I can persuade Clarence to help,” Celia said, slowly. “And there’s your cousin, Giles.”
“He has the Thompson family seat,” Henrietta said, “but his father left it terribly indebted, and his wife is expecting yet another interesting event.”
Marianne sighed.
“Three clever sisters, one wise cousin, and assorted loyal friends, all working together!” Rose raised her teacup as though it were a whiskey.
“Hear, hear!” Charlotte cried, and even Lord Francis smiled his natural smile, pleased instead of deliberate.
Celia’s heart was warm as she added, “Sláinte!”
They tipped their teacups together—gently, not at all like beer steins, because they were ladies and they cared about things like teacups. Rose passed out another ration of iced biscuits.
“We have our marching orders.” Henrietta paged through her list again. “Lt. Frankie is working on introductions and keeping tabs on the gentlemen’s clubs. Major Charlotte shall increase her hostess game. I shall test out my favorite cousin for new developments, Rose shall wait patiently without starting any new arguments”—laughter, including Rose—“and Celia shall be her usual self, which is profoundly lovable. All hands on deck—wait, that’s the wrong military—at any rate, all hands shall keep Lord Dead-mund away from our best beloved.”
Celia was too flustered to protest.
“Any further business? Shall I dismiss the War Council?” Henrietta raised her penknife like a gavel.
“Oh wait!” Marianne raised her hand. “We just need a name.”
