Page 66 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Then send for me,” he repeated.

Miss Montfort’s lips parted slightly.

Before either of them could say more, Freddie darted between them with the stolen glove once again clamped in his mouth.

“Freddie!” Miss Montfort called.

The spaniel ignored her and barreled into the hall.

Gabriel stepped aside to let the dog pass.

It was easier, he discovered, to avoid a puppy than a young lady with tired blue eyes.

He bowed to Miss Montfort, said his goodbyes to Lady Viva, declined seed cake, and left the house with Freddie’s muffled growl of triumph following him out the door.

Professionally, he had done exactly what he had come to do.

He had reviewed the matter, set the proper limits, and reminded Miss Montfort that their association belonged to ledgers, letters, and legal necessity. Everything was in order.

So why did leaving feel so much like a mistake?

Chapter Ten

Six days.

Poppy had begun measuring time not by meals, sleep, or the number of times Freddie stole something unsuitable, but by Algernon Montfort’s approach.

Six days until the new Viscount Montague arrived in London.

Six days until he expected to take possession of the town house.

Six days for Poppy to secure a future before the present one was taken from beneath her.

After the dinner party disaster, Bea and Georgie had called an emergency council of The Wallflowers’ Revolt, which sounded grander than what it was: three determined friends, two alarmingly practical husbands, and a great deal of tea.

They had reviewed the situation with ruthless honesty. Lord Rillington was gone. Count Bellarosa could not be allowed within signing distance of Mama. Algernon was coming. Desperate circumstances, Bea had declared, required decisive measures, and by noon that same day, Lord Vanover and Lord Pembroke had begun narrowing the list of eligible gentlemen who possessed titles, fortunes, and no immediately obvious defects of character.

Which was how Poppy came to be standing in Lady Vanover’s ballroom wearing her best pink satin, smiling at gentlemen while silently calculating whether the gown might be returned if she did not perspire in it.

Though she already knew it could not be returned. Mama had bought it on credit, of course, and the dressmaker had already written twice.

At least it was pretty. The satin caught the candlelight in soft little gleams, and the color made Poppy look more cheerful than she felt, which was useful. She had discovered Society did not care if one was falling apart so long as one did it becomingly.

“Stop watching your mother,” Bea murmured at her side.

“I am not watching Mama.”

“You have looked toward her nine times in the past five minutes.”

“That is because she is in the vicinity of a widower with a hopeful expression.”

“Lord Crampton,” Bea said. “He has three daughters, gout, and a fortune much smaller than he wishes people to believe. I invited him only because he is a distant relation.”

Poppy looked across the ballroom again.

Lady Viva stood near a potted orange tree, laughing behind her fan while Lord Crampton bent toward her with avid attention. Mama looked ravishing, of course. She always did, even when catastrophe loomed. Something about impending ruin seemed to improve her complexion.

“He thinks she has money,” Poppy said with a sigh.