Page 57 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Her voice was not raised. It was perfectly even, quiet, and deadly.

Vivienne paused, glancing over her shoulder with a slight frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I do not care about Cecily Vane, or her connections, or her title,” Corinna repeated, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her sister. “I like Mr. Marsh. I like him not because of any title, or any wealth, or any position he might hold in your ridiculous social hierarchy. I like him because he is a good man.”

Vivienne stared at her, genuinely shocked by the immovable force in Corinna’s voice.

“He is intelligent, he is honorable, and he looks at the world with a clarity that most people in this city lack,” Corinna continued, the words pouring out of her with a freeing honesty. “He does not perform. He does not preen. He is a good man, Vivienne, which is considerably more than can be said for most of the people in this room.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Vivienne’s mouth fell slightly open. The radiant glow of her impending triumph vanished, replaced by an offended fury. She stared at Corinna as if the younger girl had just sprouted a second head. To suggest that a mere secretary possessed more worth than the glittering aristocracy, that he possessed more worth than Vivienne herself, was a heresy Vivienne’s mind could simply not compute.

“You are hysterical,” Vivienne finally snapped, her voice trembling with indignation. “You are completely ungrateful, and you are embarrassing yourself over a servant.”

“Stop.”

Phoebe’s voice cut through the room like a whip.

The older woman had set her brushes down completely. She looked faintly ill, her face pale, and the usual sharp lines of her features softened by a deep sorrow.

“That is enough, Vivienne,” Phoebe said, her voice brokering absolutely no argument. “You have made your point. Your triumph is secure. Now, I suggest you go upstairs and leave your sister in peace.”

Vivienne looked from Phoebe’s severe face to Corinna’s unyielding stare. She let out a highly offended scoff, gathering her yellow silk skirts in her hands.

“I am going,” Vivienne announced haughtily. “But you mark my words, Corinna. You will make a fool of yourself over a man who will drop you the moment a better offer presents itself.”

Vivienne swept out of the room, her footsteps hammering aggressively up the main staircase.

The morning room fell back into a ringing silence. Corinna stood perfectly still, her chest heaving slightly, the adrenaline of the confrontation burning in her veins. She felt the weight of the note in her pocket.

Phoebe crossed the room. She did not offer a clever remark, nor did she attempt to analyze the social disaster that had just occurred. She also did not offer a perceptive deduction about the state of Corinna’s heart.

Phoebe simply reached out, wrapped her arms around Corinna’s shoulders, and pulled her into a fierce, tight embrace.

Corinna let out a shaky breath, burying her face against her aunt’s shoulder. It was the way someone held you when words were entirely insufficient to stop the bleeding.

“Listen to me,” Phoebe whispered fiercely, her hand smoothing the back of Corinna’s dark hair. “Whatever happens today. Whatever you learn. I will stand by you. Do you understand me? You are brilliant, and you are brave, and you deserve honesty and love and absolutely nothing less.”

Corinna squeezed her eyes shut, holding onto her aunt for one long, grounding moment. The fear and the confusion were still there, swirling darkly in the corners of her mind, but the paralyzing uncertainty was gone.

She pulled back slowly. “I know,” Corinna said softly.

She turned away from her aunt and steadied herself, smoothing her skirts, feeling the weight of the hidden parchment against her leg. She was not sure what Mr. Marsh was going to tell her, or what secrets were waiting by the Serpentine, or how the board was going to rearrange itself once the truth was finally spoken.

But she was certain that she was going to be there to hear it.

Corinna walked to the doorway, her chin lifted, her shoulders thrown back. She stepped into the main hall and looked up at the landing.

“Mary!” Corinna called out, her voice ringing clearly through the townhouse. “Bring my coat, please. And my walking boots. I am going out.”

Chapter 21

Edmund paced the length of the sitting room, the soles of his boots sinking into the thick Turkish rug. The morning light filtering through the tall sash windows offered no warmth.

In the center of the room, seated in a high-backed damask chair, Lady Margaret Ashford waited, adjusting the black mourning lace at her wrists. She sat with the terrifying, absolute stillness of a woman who had already braced herself for the worst possible blow.

“Sit down, Edmund,” she said quietly.