Page 138 of The Wallflower Takes All
Recognition dawned. It was not reassuring.
“The lady in the rose-colored cloak?”
“Yes.”
“With the gentleman?”
Poppy’s stomach tightened. “Which gentleman?”
The porter lowered his voice. “The foreign count, miss.”
Gabriel went still beside her.
“Count Bellarosa,” Poppy said.
“Something of the kind.”
Poppy briefly closed her eyes. “Where are they?”
The porter shifted. “Private parlor on the first floor, miss.”
Gabriel’s voice became cool enough to frost glass. “Show us.”
The porter led them upstairs and along a carpeted passage. Before they reached the end, Poppy heard Mama’s laughter behind a closed door.
Relief swept through her.
Mama was here. Alive. Safe enough to laugh.
Then a second voice rose, magnificent in its self-importance. “Madam, matrimony is a ship upon a moonlit sea. A man must steer. A woman must provide the wind. And occasionally, one requires a little ready money for sails.”
Count Bellarosa.
Poppy closed her eyes again.
Gabriel glanced at her. “Ready?”
“No.”
He waited.
Poppy drew one more breath. “Yes.”
Gabriel opened the door.
The private parlor contained Mama, Count Bellarosa, a bottle of champagne, two glasses, one valise, a ring of questionable size and unquestionable vulgarity, and a nervous-looking man in ill-fitting black attempting to hide a prayer book behind his back.
Count Bellarosa stood beside the mantel in purple velvet embroidered with gold. His sapphire pin glittered at his throat with the blue intensity of an object unlikely to have originated in nature.
Mama sat upon a sofa in her rose traveling cloak, cheeks bright and expression determinedly cheerful. “Poppy,” she said. “Darling. You found me.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Lady Viva looked toward Gabriel and brightened further. “And Mr. Ashby. How useful. We shall need someone to look over the marriage contract.”
Poppy stared at her. “Marriage contract.”
Count Bellarosa placed one hand over his heart. “Yes. ’Tis but a modest ceremony. Private. Sacred. Swift enough to spare all tender sensibilities.”
