Page 5 of The Wallflower Takes All

Mr. Ashby’s son?

Oh, dear. Now it made sense.

This was their new solicitor. The man who was, at this very moment, taking in the overturned umbrella stand, the traveling case abandoned on a chair, the suspicious scent of spilled champagne before noon, the barking puppy, and—if heaven had fully abandoned her—the sound of Mama in the salon declaring that no truly interesting person had ever balanced a ledger correctly in his life.

Heat rushed into Poppy’s cheeks. Of all the days for Mr. Ashby’s son and replacement to appear looking like an archangel with excellent tailoring, it had to be this one.

He bowed. “Miss Montfort.”

She ought to have curtsied. Or spoken. Or at the very least remembered how ordinary human breathing worked.

Instead, she heard herself say, “You are young.”

The corner of his mouth raised. “I beg your pardon?”

Dear God. She wanted to die.

“What I meant,” Poppy said, her dignity apparently determined to fling itself from a rooftop, “is that Mr. Ashby did not mention?—”

“My age?”

“That he had sent”—she gestured vaguely, hating herself more with every passing second—“someone not old.”

One golden brow lifted.

Behind her, from the salon, Mama’s voice floated into the foyer. “Poppy, darling, if that is the flower merchant at the door, remind him that lilies make me sneeze.”

Mr. Gabriel Ashby’s gaze flicked over Poppy’s shoulder toward the sound. Then back to her.

There was that look again. It wasn’t quite mockery. It was more like…understanding.

And Poppy knew, with a sick plunge in her stomach, that before this day was over, Mr. Ashby, the younger, would understand far too much.

Because he had not simply entered a position. He had stepped into the wreckage she had spent years trying to disguise. And under that steady blue gaze, Poppy had the awful feeling that he had already begun to see straight through all of it.

Chapter Two

Mr. Gabriel Ashby had expected disorder.

He had been prepared for it, in fact. He had dressed for it. Dark coat, plain waistcoat, well-polished boots, gloves of sober brown kid, and every intention of being calm, precise, and thoroughly uncharmed.

The Montforts, by all accounts, required a man in full possession of his faculties. His father, unfortunately, had not always behaved as one.

For the better part of the last decade, Gabriel had listened to his father discuss the affairs of the late Viscount Montague’s widow in tones far too indulgent for a solicitor speaking of a client. Lady Viva Montfort, according to his father, had “a generous spirit.” Her household “suffered from an excess of hospitality.” Her creditors required “delicate handling.” Her daughter, Miss Poppy Montfort, had “a good head on her shoulders” and “too much to bear for one so young.”

Gabriel had translated all of that easily enough.

Lady Viva spent too much. Her house was overrun with idlers and opportunists. Her finances were a shambles. And his father had allowed sentiment to fasten him to the family like a burr to wool.

Worse, the Montforts were not merely troublesome clients. They were troublesome clients in arrears. Lady Viva owed their firm more than she appeared to comprehend and more than his father had ever pressed her to pay.

Gabriel, however, had no intention of inheriting an unpaid account, an unruly household, and a widow who treated legal advice as another form of entertainment. If the Montforts wished to continue in disorder, they might do so with another solicitor.

He was merely here to get their ledgers in order, demand payment, and turn the account over to whichever poor soul would agree to accept it.

“You mistake indulgence for duty,” he had told his father only last month, when the elder Mr. Ashby announced his intention to retire.

His father, spectacles low on his nose, had merely smiled. “One day, Gabriel, you may discover that human beings make a poor fit for tidy categories.”