"Kingsley," Hawksley repeated. He rolled the na around in his mouth like a sip of wine he wasn’t sure he liked. "Kingsley. It is a common enough na, I suppose. And yet..."
He narrowed his eyes, staring at the steam rising from his cup.
"It rings a bell," Hawksley murmured. "A rather unpleasant bell. There was a scandal, was there not? A few years back. A Baron Kingsley. Embezzlent and defrauding the queen, if I recall. Cheated the queen before having the decency to die."
The room went dead silent.
Ines stopped bouncing Harry. Celine froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth. Even Lady Farrington looked uncomfortable, her fan fluttering rapidly against her chest.
Rowan felt a cold spike of adrenaline. He didn’t know Delaney’s history—she had never told him about her family—but he saw the trap opening. If Hawksley connected Delaney to a disgraced Baron, her reputation would be ruined. And by extension, his own judgnt would be questioned. Hawksley was trying to trap him.
"I believe you are mistaken, my Lord," Rowan began, his voice dangerously low. "My cousin has no relation to—"
"Oh, pish-posh!"
Aunt Margery’s voice bood across the room, shattering the tension like a cannonball.
Sitting on the sofa, Fifi the poodle perched on her lap like a fluffy statue, yawning. Margery waved a dismissive hand, her bracelets jingling.
"You are thinking of the London Kingsleys, Lord Hawksley," Aunt Margery declared with a scoff. "Dreadful people. There’s one who had a gambling problem and the wife wore yellow to a funeral. No taste whatsoever."
She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with a masterful lie.
"Delaney is from the Scottish branch of the family," Margery lied smoothly. "Very boring, I’m afraid. They raise sheep. Thousands of them. All they talk about is wool prices and the weather. Delaney ca to London simply to escape the bleating."
Hawksley looked at Margery. He blinked.
"Sheep?" Hawksley asked.
"Endless sheep," Margery confird. "She married a sailor, a Kingsley, just to get off the land, poor dear. She hates mutton."
Ines choked on her tea. She turned it into a cough. "Excuse . Dry throat."
Hawksley stared at Margery for a long mont. He looked for the crack in the armor. He looked for the lie.
But Aunt Margery was a veteran of forty seasons. She stared back with the innocent, slightly vacuous smile of an eccentric old woman.
"I see," Hawksley said slowly. The suspicion didn’t leave his eyes, but it retreated slightly. "My mistake. I simply have a mory for... bad debts."
"Well, forget it," Margery chirped. "We are here to discuss weddings, not ledgers."
"Yes," Hawksley said, his grey eyes scanning the room. "But where is she? Is she supposed to be here too?"
Rowan opened his mouth to speak, to invent another excuse, but Aunt Margery beat him to it.
"She just left for a while, my Lord," Aunt Margery interrupted. She sat on the sofa, clutching Fifi the poodle. "I think she rely retired. The preparations for her cousin’s happiness have been exhausting."
"Indeed," Hawksley murmured.
Rowan exhaled slowly. Thank you, Aunt Margery.
Hawksley nodded slowly. He took a sip of tea, his eyes widened as if he rembered a crucial detail.
"Oh, yes. I think I rember her," He said. "Lord Sterling told about her. He ntioned a woman in burgundy velvet who knew a surprising amount about soil stability."
He chuckled, a low, dry sound that grated on Rowan’s nerves.
"She helped you close the deal," Hawksley noted, looking at Rowan. "I was impressed when I heard the story. A woman who understands business is a rarity. She’s really sothing."
Rowan gripped the mantelpiece tighter. He didn’t like the way Hawksley said sothing. It sounded predatory. It sounded like a collector admiring a rare butterfly before pinning it to a board.
"Yes, she is," Rowan replied. His voice was cold. "She is intelligent and capable."
"A pity," Lord Hawksley said, taking a seat further back into the cushions. "I was hoping to et this... Scottish cousin of yours. The one married to the sailor. Sterling was quite taken with her. He was disappointed to learn she was spoken for."
Rowan stiffened. If Hawksley pushed too hard, if he asked for the husband’s ship or his regint, the whole house of cards would fall.
"But why is she taking the title of ’Miss’ when she’s married?" Hawksley asked, raising a brow, his voice laced with suspicion.
Rowan replied straightforwardly. "She prefers that title."
Hawksley nodded his head. "Very well then. Where is she? I would like to et her."
"She might be... resting," Rowan said. He forced his shoulders to relax. "She overworked herself to ensure everything was perfect for Lady Celine’s arrival. She takes her duties very seriously."
"Of course, your aunt just said so. Sorry for repeating the question," Hawksley said. He accepted a fresh cup of tea from Simmons, who had appeared silently at his elbow.
"Fragile creatures, won." He murmured. "They possess such delicate constitutions. One mont of exertion and they must lie down for a week."
He smiled at Lady Celine as he said it.
"Not you, of course, my dear," Hawksley added. "You are the picture of health."
Celine smiled weakly. "Thank you, Uncle."
Rowan gritted his teeth. The sound of his own jaw clenching echoed in his skull.
Fragile.
He thought of Delaney arguing with a railway tycoon about mud. He thought of Delaney kneeling on the floor of his study, organizing his entire life.
She was not fragile. She was made of steel and storm clouds. And hearing this man dismiss her made Rowan want to throw the teapot at him.
He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t listen to this man poison the air in his ho while Delaney was upstairs.
"Simmons," Rowan said sharply.
The butler stepped forward. "Your Grace?"
"Go and check on Miss Kingsley," Rowan ordered. "Tell her... tell her her presence is requested. Tell her we simply cannot manage the tea service without her."
It was a code. I need you. Co back.
"Yes, Your Grace," Simmons said.
Simmons bowed and left the room. The heavy doors clicked shut.
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