Page 158 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Filtered.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Algernon glanced toward the nearest window, plainly prepared to hold the sun accountable if necessary. “Very good,” he said at last.

He moved farther into the foyer and looked around.

Poppy had known this moment was coming. For ten years, some part of her had understood that the house belonged not to Mama or to Poppy, but to the title. The late viscount’s heir would reach his majority. He would claim Brambleberry Court and the London residence. He would decide which rooms suited him, which furnishings displeased him, and how swiftly the women who had lived beneath this roof might be removed.

Knowing had not prepared her for the sight of Algernon standing on Papa’s carpet and inspecting the walls as though Poppy and Mama were stains he expected the servants to scrub away.

He pointed toward the silver urn. “That is still here.”

“For the moment,” Poppy replied.

“I asked that it be taken away. It upsets the proportions of the hall.”

Mama looked at the urn, then at Algernon. “Then you must stand elsewhere, darling. One should never linger near an object that outshines one.”

Algernon frowned.

Poppy stepped in before Mama could expand upon that thought. “The urn belongs to Mama. It will leave with the rest of our effects.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Algernon moved toward the staircase.

Freddie darted into his path, and Algernon stopped abruptly. The puppy planted himself squarely upon the bottom step and growled with open hostility.

“Whose animal is that?” Algernon insisted.

“Mine,” Poppy said.

“He should be sent to the mews.”

Algernon shifted right. Freddie shifted right.

Algernon shifted left. Freddie shifted left.

For one dreadful moment, Poppy thought she might laugh.

Mama felt no such restraint. “Oh, excellent. He understands siege warfare.”

“Cousin,” Algernon said stiffly, “remove the dog.”

Poppy bent and scooped Freddie into her arms. The puppy continued glaring over her elbow. “He will be gone by this evening,” she said.

“As will we all,” Mama added with a brittle smile.

Algernon did not reply. He had already begun climbing the stairs, pausing halfway to inspect the banister. “The wood requires attention.”

Mr. Pritchard made a note. “Attend to the wood.”

“It has survived many years without your concern,” Mama informed him.

“That is hardly an argument against polish,” Algernon replied, curling his lip.