Page 156 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Jenkins,” Poppy said, without turning from the window. “Send for Mr. Ashby immediately.”

“At once, miss.”

Mama stood beside Poppy with one hand resting against the curtain. Since the hotel, Lady Viva had been quieter. Not transformed. Mama would never become the sort of woman who rose early to compare household accounts and rejected champagne on moral grounds. But there was something altered in her, a hesitation before she laughed too brightly, a new softness when she looked at Poppy.

Now she slipped her hand into Poppy’s. It was a small gesture, almost shy. But one that Poppy appreciated, nonetheless.

“I shall try not to make anything worse,” Mama said.

Poppy swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I make no promises if he mentions curtains more than twice.”

“That seems fair.”

Algernon descended from the carriage. He had grown taller since Poppy last encountered him several years before. Regrettably, height had done nothing to improve him. His coat was a deep shade of plum, his neckcloth arranged in elaborate folds, and his pale hair brushed forward with such determination that it appeared to be attempting escape from his forehead. The beetle-green waistcoat strained slightly across his middle and shimmered whenever he moved.

Mama leaned closer to the glass. “Darling, he has dressed himself as an insect.”

Poppy pressed her lips together. “He has always admired a dramatic waistcoat.”

“There is drama, sweetie, and then there is molting.”

Behind them, Freddie gave a low, suspicious growl. The puppy had spent the morning unsettled by activity in the house. Crates stood open in the hall. Books had been removed from shelves. Mama’s gowns had been folded into trunks with varying degrees of success. Jenkins directed servants and hired men with quiet authority, while Poppy moved from room to room checking lists, settling questions, and pretending the ache beneath her ribs was merely haste.

The house no longer looked like home. It looked like a memory being packed away. Papa’s portrait had already been removed from the study and wrapped carefully in cloth, its absence leaving a pale rectangle on the wall.

For one unguarded moment, Poppy remembered the night before. Gabriel’s mouth against hers. His hands gentle and certain. The warmth of waking beside him before dawn, his arm still around her while the house slept on, unaware that everything between them had changed.

She pushed the memory aside.

Her cousin had arrived, and whatever waited beyond the door required her full attention.

“Ready?” Mama asked.

“No.”

Lady Viva squeezed her hand once. “Let us admit the beetle.”

Poppy laughed despite everything.

Then she marched into the foyer.

Jenkins opened the front door just as Algernon raised one gloved hand to knock. Behind him, Mr. Pritchard descended from the second carriage carrying a leather portfolio and an expression of professional resignation. Clearly, pomposity required administrative support.

Algernon stepped over the threshold without waiting to be invited. He held an open snuff box in his hand.

“Lady Montague,” he said, with an awkward bow. “Cousin.”

“Algernon,” Mama said. “How splendid to see you in full plumage.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your waistcoat, darling. It announces you.”

Poppy cleared her throat. “We did not expect you until tomorrow.”

“I prefer matters to proceed without unnecessary complication.” Algernon glanced around the foyer, his eyes narrowing. “Delay encourages confusion.”