Page 14 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

A young woman walked quietly beside her mother. Corinna assumed this must be Arabella, the earl’s sister. She looked terribly uncomfortable, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the carpet as if she expected the floorboards to give way at any moment.

Eleanor rushed forward to receive them, completely overwhelmed by the honor of the visit.

“Lady Margaret,” she said, dropping into a deep curtsy. “We are so deeply honored. Please, take the most comfortable chair by the fire.”

Lady Margaret offered a gentle, composed smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashwell. I apologize for the sudden intrusion. I leave for my sister’s estate in the countryside within a few days; my health and my grief require some time away from the noise of London. But I could not let the Season pass without calling on your family at least once. Our husbands were such wonderful, dear friends. It is a tragedy that our families never properly came together during their lifetimes.”

“It is a tragedy indeed,” Eleanor agreed softly.

Lady Margaret looked warmly at Vivienne and then at Corinna. “You have beautiful daughters, Mrs. Ashwell. I only wish to see them settled and happy. I have long meant to spend some time at my sister’s country estate, once my health allows it.”

Vivienne immediately launched into a speech full of practiced, sugary sympathy, expressing her deep sorrow for the countess’s loss.

Corinna said very little. She sat quietly and watched the exchange. She watched Arabella, who stood slightly behind her mother’s chair. The girl was wringing her gloved hands together in a continuous, nervous motion, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.

She looks exactly how I feel at these terrible gatherings, Corinna thought with a spark of genuine sympathy. Like a prisoner waiting for the warden to look away.

Eleanor sat with Lady Margaret for a moment longer once Vivienne finally stopped talking. The two older women exchanged a few quiet, private words about the heavy burden of grief, trading a silent understanding that neither would ever repeat to anyone else afterward.

Lady Margaret took her leave within fifteen brief minutes. She expressed her hope to return to London before the Season completely closed, and then she was gone, taking the highly nervous Arabella with her.

Later that evening, the townhouse finally fell quiet. Vivienne was asleep, exhausted from her afternoon of ordering new dresses and complaining about ribbons.

Corinna sat at the small writing desk in her bedroom. A single candle burned steadily next to a fresh sheet of thick parchment. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write a letter to Thomas Briggs, the estate steward back in the country.

She did not mention names. She did not mention titles. She simply described the entire confusing situation using the only language that made sense to her.

Dear Thomas,

I find myself playing against a very unusual opponent. Their moves are incredibly clever and completely unhesitating. They command the center of the board with absolute authority. But they never once show what piece they are actually protecting. They hide their true position behind a wall of pawns.

What would you do against an opponent like that? I strongly suspect they could be beaten, but only if I could manage to see one full turn ahead of them. Please send your advice. London is proving to be a much more dangerous game than I anticipated.

She signed her name, folded the heavy parchment, and sealed it with a drop of red wax. She pressed her family crest into the warm wax, fully determined to uncover the truth behind the quiet companion’s unreadable face.

As the candle flickered low, Corinna realized the game had shifted. The board was no longer confined to boxwood and ebony. It had expanded to include the entire room, and she had absolutely no intention of losing. She looked out the window at the dark London streets, feeling the electric hum of curiosity that only truly difficult puzzles could provoke.

Somewhere, out in the sprawling city, a man was hiding behind a secretary’s coat, and she was going to find out exactly why.

Chapter 6

“Arabella, if you pace this floor one more time, you shall wear a trench into the parquet that even the finest carpenter in Mayfair will be unable to repair,” Edmund said, his voice taut with the effort of remaining completely still. “I feel as though I am watching a caged tiger, and frankly, it is making my own nerves fray.”

“Perhaps you should be frayed,” Arabella countered, stopping mid-stride so her skirts rustled sharply against the rug. Her gentle features were tight with an unfamiliar, cold anger. “It is wrong, Edmund. Deceiving a family that has acted with good faith and honor is a stain upon our name, and I do not care what your elaborate rationale is. It is simply wrong.”

“I had to know who she was before I committed my life to a contract I never signed,” Edmund said, gripping the cold marble of the mantelpiece until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. “Do you truly expect me to walk into a marriage blind?”

“I expect you to walk into it honestly,” Arabella fired back, closing the distance between them. “Father made this arrangement because he trusted Sir Gerald, just as he trusted the Ashwell name. You are treating them like common swindlers who must be investigated. What do you think Mother would say if she knew the truth?”

“Mother knows the stakes,” Edmund replied quietly.

“Mother knows the stakes of the earldom,” Arabella corrected, her voice trembling slightly. “She does not know the depths of your deception. If she saw you standing there in a secretary’s coat, she would weep.”

She would do far worse than weep, Edmund thought, a heavy knot forming in his chest. She would never forgive me. “I am doing this to protect our family,” he insisted.

“You are doing this to protect yourself,” Arabella said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, measured tone. “Do not dress your fear up as nobility, because it does not suit you. You could have met her as yourself. You are the Earl of Ravenswood. If they were looking for a title, you were already that man, and if you were looking for a wife, you have robbed them of the truth before the courtship has even begun.”

“It is not a matter of pride,” Edmund argued softly, keeping his voice strictly controlled to mask the rising panic in his blood. “It is a matter of survival. Cecily proved how easily a title obscures the man beneath it, and I will not make that terrible mistake twice.”