Page 159 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"We need to stop that."

"We need to lock them in separate wings."

"That seems extreme."

"Our dog can pick locks, Arabella. Nothing is extreme anymore."

It had been six weeks since the incident with Harrington. Six weeks of blessed peace. The news that he'd escaped custody three weeks ago had initially sent them into a panic, but when nothing happened—no fires, no threats, no mysterious appearances—they'd slowly relaxed. The magistrate assured them he'd likely fled to the Continent. Julian had contacts watching the ports. Life had returned to its chaotic version of normal.

"Have you seen the paper?" Cordelia asked, breezing in with her morning enthusiasm. At some point in the last weeks, she'd transformed from timid mouse to confident young woman, though Arabella suspected teaching Thistle to pick locks had been the turning point.

"What's happened now?" Lucien asked with the resignation of a man who expected disaster with his morning tea.

"Nothing bad. Lady Potts’ daughter is betrothed. To a poet."

"Oh, my goodness."

"A wealthy poet," Cordelia clarified.

"Is there such a thing?"

"Apparently. He inherited a fortune and writes sonnets about flowers."

"That sounds terrible," Arabella said.

"That sounds perfect for Lady Potts’ daughter. She collects pressed flowers."

"A match made in botanical heaven," Lucien observed dryly.

"Speaking of matches," Cordelia said with studied casualness, "Lord Ashby's son has asked to call."

"No," Lucien said immediately.

"You don't even know which son."

"Doesn't matter. No."

"The younger one. James. He's quite nice."

"No."

"He has a degree from Oxford."

"Still no."

"He breeds dogs."

Lucien paused. "What kind of dogs?"

"Spaniels."

"Absolutely not. Can you imagine Thistle with access to a breeding program?"

"He'd create an army," Arabella agreed.

"A criminal army."

"The worst kind."