Page 17 of The Wallflower Takes All

Poppy stared at her mother. “You received a letter from the new Viscount Montague and did not tell me?”

“I have received several letters from the new Viscount Montague and have endeavored not to tell anyone. Not speaking of it makes the whole matter less distasteful, darling.”

Poppy’s jaw clenched. “It does not make the matter less distasteful, Mama. It makes me unprepared.”

Mama waved one languid hand. “Ignorance is quite a soft pillow, darling. You should try it.”

Poppy unfolded the letter fully and continued reading.

As the present holder of the title, I shall be coming to London within the fortnight and must request that you make whatever arrangements are necessary to vacate the town house prior to my arrival. I have already begun to consider improvements at Brambleberry Court, which suffered, I need hardly remind you, a regrettable fire last year. I trust you will understand that a gentleman cannot be expected to delay taking possession of his own property indefinitely.

A rushing sound filled Poppy’s ears.

Yes, Mama had caused a small but damaging fire at Brambleberry Court last year, and, yes, Algernon Montfort was precisely the sort of man to make a tragedy out of singed draperies and scorched paneling. But that was not what made Poppy’s fingers tighten around the page.

It was three words.

Within the fortnight.

Her gaze darted to the date at the top.

No.

Not within the fortnight.

The letter had been sitting here, folded and ignored, while Mama drank coffee from champagne flutes, or champagne from coffee mugs. He would be here in ten days.

Ten days.

Poppy took a deep breath.

They had been fortunate for years, if one could call waiting for ruin fortunate. Cousin Algernon had inherited the title as a boy, but he had remained in the country with his mother while his affairs were managed for him. Poppy had always known the day would come when he reached his majority and took possession of all that was now his: Brambleberry Court, the town house, the authority her father had once held.

She had simply imagined the day would arrive with warning enough to breathe.

Worse, in some foolish, hopeful corner of her mind, she had allowed herself to believe one-and-twenty-year-old Algernon might prove kind. The sort of gentleman who would permit them to remain in the town house until they had somewhere else to go.

But no. He had already asked them to leave. Politely, perhaps. But the meaning was plain enough.

He meant to take the only home Poppy had ever known.

She forced herself to look down at the letter again and continue reading.

As Miss Montfort is of marriageable age, I assume she will soon be settled elsewhere. Such arrangements are, of course, no concern of mine, though I trust you will see to the matter with all reasonable haste. I must also request that the blue bedchamber remain available for my personal use, as I find morning light disagreeable except when filtered through eastern curtains.

Poppy’s eyes burned.

Eastern curtains.

He was tossing them from their home and had included instructions about curtains.

“Mama,” she said, and was proud of how calm the word sounded. “How many letters have there been?”

Lady Viva made a vague gesture. “Several.”

“Several.”

“At least more than one.”