Page 136 of The Wallflower Takes All

Those words might mean anything from taking passage to America to inviting a foreign prince to take up permanent residence in the blue bedchamber.

Gabriel took the letter from Poppy and studied it. “The King’s Arms Hotel,” he said. “Albemarle Street.”

Poppy looked up sharply. “How do you know?”

He turned the paper toward her and pointed toward the small crest pressed into the corner of the sheet. “The note must have been sent after she arrived.”

For one foolish moment, relief loosened Poppy’s chest. They knew where Mama had gone. That was something.

Then the implications returned. Mama had packed a valise. Mama had gone to a hotel. Mama believed she could solve all their difficulties before evening.

Poppy tightened her hold upon the note. “We must go immediately.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said and, in that moment, Poppy was grateful for him. He did not tell her to remain at home. He did not suggest that Lady Viva might return of her own accord. He did not offer some useless reassurance.

He simply reached for his hat.

That steadied her more than comforting words would have done.

She did not stop to change from the pale pink muslin she had worn for Lord Caldermere’s expected call. Let the gown be crushed, rained upon, or ruined entirely. Mama was missing, and muslin could fend for itself.

Jenkins appeared beside the hall table, his composure strained but intact. “Shall I send for a hackney, miss?”

“Yes, please.”

Jenkins inclined his head and dispatched a servant.

Poppy looked again at Mama’s note, trying to extract something useful from the extravagant loops and flourishes.

The last sentence remained the most alarming.

Mama had not known precisely what she was doing since Papa died.

Perhaps before that. Papa had merely been there to catch the pieces when her schemes shattered.

Poppy closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

When she opened them, Gabriel was watching her. Not with pity. Never pity. With the grave attention that saw far more than she wished anyone to see and somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed.

“Poppy,” he said quietly. “Are you well?”

“I do not have time to be anything else.”

His expression tightened, but he did not argue.

A moment later, Jenkins opened the door and announced the hackney. Poppy stepped outside with Gabriel close behind her, grateful for his presence and far too conscious of everything that remained unresolved between them.

Only minutes earlier, he had told her he wanted her. Not merely desired her. Wanted all of it, he had said. Every unpaid bill. Every false count. Every dying poet. Every one of Freddie’s disasters.

Then she had asked him to choose her.

Those words should have filled her head. Instead, the instant Mama was missing, fear swept everything else aside. Poppy climbed into the hackney and gathered her skirts. Gabriel settled opposite her and rapped once against the roof.

The carriage lurched into motion.

For several streets, neither spoke. Poppy read Mama’s note again despite having committed every word to memory.

“You think she means to marry the count,” Gabriel said at last.