The drawing room was still lively as ever even after Rowan’s departure.
Lady Farrington was recounting a story about a garden party in Sussex where the Duke of York had sneezed into a punch bowl. Aunt Margery was listening with rapt attention, feeding small pieces of biscuit to Fifi, who was perched on her lap like a furry queen.
Lady Celine sat by the window, the afternoon light catching the gold in her hair. She was talking to Ines about ribbons.
"I think velvet is too heavy for the season," Celine said earnestly. "But Mama insists it shows status."
Ines nodded politely. She was bouncing Baby Harry on her knee. Harry was currently trying to eat his own fist, a task he found endlessly fascinating.
"Mothers often have strong opinions on velvet," Ines agreed. "My own mother once tried to make wear a bonnet with a stuffed bird on it. That was before my debut. I looked like a walking aviary."
Celine giggled. It was a sweet sound.
In the corner, Carcel watched the room with a lazy, affectionate smile. He was relaxed, his long legs stretched out, looking every inch the contented family man.
Then, the bubble was pierced.
The double doors opened. Mr. Simmons entered.
He did not carry a tea tray. He carried a silver salver with a single, folded letter resting on it.
Simmons walked straight to Carcel. He moved with a speed that suggested urgency, though his face remained perfectly blank.
"A letter for you, Your Grace," Simmons said softly. "It just arrived by express rider."
Carcel sat up. The lazy smile vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a man who managed vast estates and complicated affairs.
He took the letter. He broke the wax seal with his thumb.
He unfolded the paper.
Ines watched him from across the room. She saw his eyes scan the lines. She saw his jaw tighten just a fraction of an inch.
Carcel looked at the signature at the bottom.
Vance.
He folded the letter imdiately and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.
He stood up.
"Ladies," Carcel said. His voice was smooth, but there was a finality to it. "I am afraid I must excuse myself. A matter of... estate business has arisen that requires my imdiate attention."
Lady Farrington looked up, disappointed. "Oh, Your Grace? Leaving us so soon? We were just getting to the part about the Duke of York’s handkerchief."
"I am devastated to miss it," Carcel lied charmingly. "But duty calls."
He walked over to Ines. He placed a hand on her shoulder. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I will be in the room," he whispered to her. "Do not wait for for dinner."
Ines looked at him. She didn’t ask questions. She knew the face. It ant trouble, or at least, sothing that needed to be handled with discretion.
"Go," she whispered back.
Carcel leaned down further and kissed the top of Harry’s head.
"Be good for your mother," he told his son.
Harry blew a raspberry in response.
"Excellent conversation," Carcel said.
He bowed to the room. "Lady Farrington. Lady Celine. Aunt Margery. Miss Kingsley."
He turned and walked out of the room. He didn’t look back.
The door clicked shut.
Delaney sat in her chair, watching him go. She felt a strange sense of unease. The air in the room felt thinner without Carcel’s grounding presence. Now it was just the won, the expectations, and the weight of the lie she was living.
She looked down at her dress. It was beautiful, but it felt like a costu. She looked at Celine, who was so effortlessly perfect.
"I..." Delaney started.
She needed to leave. She felt out of place as if she wasn’t ant to be there in the first place.
"I must excuse myself as well," Delaney said, standing up. "I have... I have forgotten to give the housekeeper the list for the linen closet."
It was a weak excuse, but Lady Farrington didn’t seem to care. She was too busy telling Aunt Margery about the punch bowl.
"Go on, dear," Aunt Margery waved a hand, distracted. "Do not let us keep you from the sheets."
"Thank you," Delaney said.
She curtsied and walked out of the room.
The hallway was quiet.
Delaney closed the drawing room doors behind her and leaned against the wood for a mont. She closed her eyes.
Just get through the week, she told herself. In a blink of an eye two months will be gone. Just get him married. Get the money. Be free.
It sounded simple when she said it in her head. But her heart was a tangled ss.
She pushed herself off the door and walked toward the grand staircase. She intended to go to her room, take off the shoes Rowan had bought her, and lie down for ten minutes.
She walked across the marble foyer. She reached the foot of the stairs.
She placed her hand on the polished banister.
Then, she heard voices.
They were coming from the corridor that led to the study—the sa corridor Rowan had disappeared down earlier to et his "business guest."
Delaney froze.
One voice was Rowan’s. It was low, firm, and sounded exhausted.
"I understand your position, my Lord," Rowan was saying. "But this seems... excessive."
Then, a second voice answered.
"Excessive?"
The voice was deep. It was smooth, like oil sliding over stone. It had a gravelly undercurrent that sounded like expensive brandy and bad intentions.
"I prefer the term ’thorough,’ Your Grace," the man said. "We are discussing a rger of great importance. Railway shares are volatile. Marriage settlents are permanent. I rely wish to ensure that both are... locked. You just have to sign this."
Delaney’s hand tightened on the banister.
That must be Lady Farrington’s brother, she thought. He must be Lord Sterling business associate or the main owner of the business plan.
She should keep walking. She should go to her room and mind her own business.
But sothing about the tone of the conversation stopped her.
"Why sign another contract?" Delaney whispered to herself.
She frowned.
Rowan had signed the railway deal already. She had been there. She had saved the deal with her story about the mud. The papers were inked. The handshake was done.
"Wasn’t his visit to finalize the already signed contract?" she thought. "Why is he asking for more?"
Sothing was fishy.
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