But Christ. What was he going to do about Poppy?
He’d tempted her to Westhaven with the promise that her nursery would flourish, and instead her prospects were as good as destroyed.
To be a woman in business was difficult enough with a spotless reputation. She’d be ruined by this.
Unless, of course, he married her.
As soon as he thought of it, he realized it had been the answer all along.
There was an elegant kind of logic to it. Who, better than Poppy, understood the nature of a transaction? Who, better than Poppy, would understand that there were aspects of his life that simply did not bear looking into?
Was it not precisely the scenario he sought? A woman who needed his name? A woman who understood the advantages of a fair exchange and could be counted on to extract terms that suited her? A woman who would no doubt find far better uses for his fortune than amassing jewels and dresses? Who would contribute to his offspring’s intelligence and spirit, rather than a tendency toward indolence and gossip?
He ignored the part of himself that objected that he felt many, many things about Miss Cavendish, and not a one was indifference. That the last thing she was to him was safe.
Instead, he strode outside, ignoring the shouting crowd.
“Throgmorton Street,” he told the waiting coachman.
The proprietor of Webb’s brightened at the sight of Westmead on his doorstep, anticipation blooming in his eyes at that rare customer who bought generously and paid readily.
“Your Grace.” He bowed. “What an unexpected surprise. I hope Lady Constance admired the parure. Such a fine set of emeralds—exceedingly pure in quality. What can I help you with today?”
“I need a ring.”
Webb’s eyes glinted with promise. “Of course, Your Grace. Something for a lady? I have recently acquired a cluster of diamonds in a brilliant setting, nine large stones in fine silver. Dazzling by candlelight. Lord Westing has had it in mind for his mistress, but given the weight on his line of credit, I could see that it be released to Your Grace instead.”
Anything coveted by Westing’s mistress was sure to strike horror in the heart of his intended recipient. “What have you that’s … simple?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to locate an appropriate word for Poppy’s humble, unaffected taste.
Webb assembled several trays of baubles, each one gaudier than the next. These would do for Miss Bastian and his sister’s set, but not for Poppy.
Sensing his client was on the verge of departing empty-handed, Webb rummaged in a drawer and produced a box.
“I have a few older pieces, yet to be reset. Perhaps something like this?”
He held out a ring of six teardrop pearls arranged like petals around a small yellow diamond. It looked like a plumeria blossom from Poppy’s greenhouse.
“Quite elegant, if modest, Your Grace. But of course I can add more stones if you desire.”
“No need. I’ll take it now.”
With the ring carefully tucked in a leather box, and the box tucked away in his pocket, he returned to the carriage.
“On to Mayfair, Your Grace?” the coachman asked.
“Change of plans. Grove Vale. And please make haste.”
Chapter 16
Poppy leaned down to inspect the fragile pink petals of a bee orchid. The humble local flowers, which crowned Wiltshire’s chalky meadows in the summer like enormous, fuchsia-winged bumblebees, had been much admired at the ball. She had thought to grow them in large enough quantity that her fashionable new customers might order them for their gardens next summer, at a tidy profit to herself.
Now she wondered if she would have any customers left at all.
It had scarcely been a day since the dreadful story was printed in the Peculiar, and already her new relations, the Hathaways, had withdrawn their invitation for her to dine with them at Bantham Park. Sir Horace Melnick, dear friend to her late uncle, had written to cancel his autumn planting, just as Mrs. Elizabeth Ellis had sent word that she no longer required new hedgerows for the vicarage.
The only positive word Poppy had received was from her loyal correspondent Mr. Carpenter in Virginia. For the first time, she was grateful for the slow and irregular interchange of information between England and the colonies. Rumors of young ladies’ ruined reputations were unlikely to penetrate the wilds of Virginia for some time.
Her friend began his letter, as always, lamenting the difficulty of obtaining suitable European cuttings for his nursery and requesting any help she could provide.
Perhaps all was not lost. Plants could still be her salvation.
She sorted her disorderly boxes of letters into tidy piles in her makeshift workshop, drawing up a list of her contacts at nurseries from Carolina to the Continent. She had well-placed friends in the world of botany and eight hundred pounds of ready money. It was enough to purchase a few acres of land closer to London, where she might establish a larger nursery near the river, with access to the ports. Her reputation would not matter so much if she controlled the prevailing means of horticultural exchange across the Atlantic.
But. There was always a but.
The trouble would be in arranging adequate funds to pay for transport and entice other nurseries to participate in the scheme. She would need to loan out a great deal of her capital, and take on a great deal of credit, in order to engage partners abroad. But to secure a loan without a male sponsor, she would need, at minimum, her good name.
Which was a difficult thing when one was utterly ruined.
She pushed her papers to the side. It was a trap, this business of being a woman. The simple truth of it was that after all her efforts to secure her independence, she was still stuck. To accomplish what she ought, she need not have bothered with years of being single-minded and industrious. She needed only to have been born a man.
She knelt on the floor to sort through a stack of crates that had yet to be unpacked. At least now she would have ample time to cultivate her neglected cuttings. A lifetime, the way this week was unfolding.
She was in the midst of unwrapping a parcel of bulbs when a tapping sounded at the window.
She looked up, expecting the bustling intrusion of some prying village busybody.
It was Westmead.
He’d come back.
He entered the room tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome. Fair be that, for in truth, there was no sense to the relief she felt in looking at him. If they were seen together, it would only add to the rumors. She needed him to leave immediately if she wasn’t to be ruined twice. Which was unfortunate, as she had a sudden pressing desire to launch herself into his arms and spend the next quarter hour recounting her misfortunes into the comfort of his chest.
“Your Grace,” she said instead.
“Archer,” he corrected her.
“Archer,” she echoed.
It was a mistake to use his Christian name. It brought back the unsteady feeling she had felt at their last parting, like her limbs were made of churning water.
“I thought you had returned to London.”
“I had. I turned back as soon as I saw the Peculiar. It seemed I was needed here. To murder Desmond Flannery.”
She allowed him a rueful smile. “Slowly and without mercy, I hope.”
“May I help you with these?” He crouched down to join her on the floor amidst her muddle of crates and trunks.