Page 21 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Chapter 8

The carriage wheels rattled loudly over the uneven Mayfair cobblestones, but Edmund barely heard the noise. His mind was still firmly anchored to the gravel path in Hyde Park that morning. He stood by the window of the townhouse study, staring blankly at the passing carriages while Arabella’s hushed, controlled voice echoed relentlessly in his ears.

“The elder sister is everything you feared,” she had told him, stepping close so her words would not carry over the loud promenade. “And the younger one is everything you did not expect. Whatever you are doing, Edmund, you must be very careful who gets hurt by it.”

He had said nothing in response. He had not needed to. Arabella had simply sped up her pace and walked away, leaving him to absorb the absolute truth of her warning.

Careful who gets hurt, Edmund thought, rubbing a hand over his tired face. I am already losing my grip on the board, and the pieces are beginning to move on their own.

“If I am forced to listen to one more exhaustive soliloquy regarding the tragic limitations of pink satin, I shall throw myself from a moving carriage,” Julian announced, shattering the quiet of the study. He tossed his leather gloves onto the mahogany desk and collapsed onto the sofa.

“You are the one who insisted on this theatrical production,” Edmund replied, turning away from the window to adjust the stiff cuffs of his plain brown secretary coat.

“I volunteered to play a wealthy earl,” Julian corrected, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “I did not volunteer to become a captive audience for a woman who views her own reflection as a religious artifact. Vivienne Ashwell is entirely exhausting. Every single engagement requires me to absorb her complete self-absorption.”

“She is precisely what the solicitor promised on paper.”

“Paper does not have to listen to her,” Julian argued. “I am treated to endless commentary on fabrics, ranks, and precisely who looked at whom. Furthermore, her subtle cruelties toward her younger sister are becoming completely impossible to endure in silence. She speaks to Corinna as if the girl were a particularly dull piece of furniture.”

A flare of irritation ignited in Edmund’s chest at the mention of Corinna’s treatment. I noticed, he thought grimly. I notice everything about her.

“You cannot call her out without breaking your cover,” Edmund reminded his friend.

“I am acutely aware of my limitations,” Julian grumbled, staring up at the ceiling. “But my patience is wearing incredibly thin.”

“We must attend the private recital at the opera this evening,” Edmund said, pulling his focus back to the immediate tactical requirements. “Both households will be present. You must remain entirely focused, Julian. We cannot afford a mistake tonight.”

“I shall focus on not yawning while Miss Vivienne explains the social hierarchy of London dressmakers,” Julian promised dryly. “But I make absolutely no guarantees regarding my sanity.”

Two hours later, the combined parties converged in the grand foyer of the opera house. The air was thick with expensive perfumes, the rustle of heavy silk, and the loud, echoing hum of excited voices. Finding their designated row of seats involved the comfortable chaos of entirely too many people attempting to arrange themselves in a very limited space.

Vivienne immediately took Julian by the arm, securing her prize.

“My lord, you simply must sit beside me,” she insisted loudly, guiding him toward the center. “I require your expert opinion on the tenor’s performance. I am told his high notes are completely uninspired.”

“I would be honored, Miss Ashwell,” Julian said, offering a charming smile that did not quite reach his tired eyes.

Vivienne pulled Julian firmly toward the seats farthest from the aisle. This arrangement suited everyone perfectly. Eleanor Ashwell took the seat next to her eldest daughter, while Arabella claimed the center seat. Phoebe Cavendish efficiently guided Corinna toward the remaining empty chairs near the edge of the row.

By some natural gravity, Edmund ended up taking the seat directly beside Corinna, with Phoebe settling on her other side. It was a perfectly respectable arrangement for a secretary to sit at the absolute edge of the party, and it placed him exactly where he secretly wished to be.

As Edmund settled into the velvet chair, he caught the faint, clean scent of lavender. In the dim light of the theater, Corinna’s simple dark lavender gown stood out starkly against the sea of heavy feathers and glittering jewels around them. She possessed a quiet, striking stillness that constantly drew his eye away from the chaotic room.

Before either of them could speak, a loud rustling of heavy fabric announced an unexpected arrival.

“Move along, Mr. Finch. You are stepping on my hem,” a booming voice commanded from the aisle.

Lady Sophronia Quill inserted herself into the very end of their row, dropping into the empty seat directly beside Phoebe. Swathed in an alarming amount of emerald green velvet, she wore a turban decorated with large, bobbing peacock feathers and immediately began narrating the room to anyone within range.

“Oh, look at the Duke of Bedford,” Lady Sophronia declared loudly, pointing a gloved finger toward the boxes above them. “He is wearing that dreadful purple waistcoat again. Someone should inform him that he looks precisely like a bruised plum.”

Phoebe opened her fan with an echoing snap. “I am certain the duke is entirely comfortable in his choices, Lady Sophronia.”

“Comfort has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Cavendish,” Lady Sophronia insisted, leaning forward so her feathers quivered dangerously close to Phoebe’s face. “It is a matter of visual decency. And oh, heavens above, is that Lady Danbury arriving with the young captain? That means the rumors of her broken engagement must be entirely true.”

The heavy velvet curtains finally parted, and the orchestra began to play a sweeping overture. The audience quieted down, but Lady Sophronia did not let a minor detail like a musical performance interrupt her vital work.

Throughout the first act, the feathered woman leaned across Phoebe at regular intervals, offering loud, breathy whispers that had absolutely nothing to do with the tragedy unfolding on stage.