She rose, nearly knocking the elegant hand of the Earl of Apthorp out of the way with her shoulder.
“Archer!” she cried with a clap of her treacherous hands. “And here I thought you were never coming back so long as you lived.”
He scowled at her.
She grinned at him. “Well? Tell me you have news for us!”
“A word, Constance. In my study. Immediately.”
She smiled indulgently at her guests. “Excuse us.”
He strode down the hall to his desk and poured himself a generous slug of brandy.
She perched beside him on his desk. “Are we toasting to your betrothal?”
He examined her slowly, in the way he might inspect a lurid crop of algae that had bloomed on his lake and killed his fish. She looked every inch as colorful and guilty.
“Before you say another word, I would like to make it clear that one simple fact became apparent to me today as I was riding here. And that, Constance, is the location of your bedchamber.”
She sucked in her lips with a guilty pop.
“Desmond Flannery—and, indeed, all of our guests—slept in the east wing the night of the ball. I know, because, if you recall, you plagued me for a fortnight with their sleeping arrangements. The eastern rooms lack views of the forest. In fact, only one person has such a stunning vista from her window. You.”
He watched his sister’s face flicker from guileless denial, to feigned offense, to acceptance of her doom, and finally placation.
She flopped down into an armchair, caught.
“I will not contest your deduction, Archer. I will merely say in my defense that if meddling is what I have to do to make you see there are less depressing possibilities than the utterly preposterous notion of marrying Miss Bastian, then I congratulate myself for my success. There are plenty of Lord Apthorps in this world for its supply of Miss Bastians. But there are not so many Archer Stonewells, and precious few women like Poppy Cavendish who might, dare I say, have some chance of making them happy.”
She looked tempted to bow, so pleased was she with the fluency and touching nature of her oratory.
He was not moved.
The sight of Poppy crouched around her seeds and crates, trying not to be disconsolate at the fact of her diminished future, had been unbearable. He never wanted to see a sight like that again.
He slammed his brandy on the desk.
“You could have destroyed Miss Cavendish’s life irreparably with that gossip. Do you understand the magnitude of what you’ve risked?”
She made her eyes into hostile little slits. “I understand far more than you think I do, Your Grace.”
“Then I hope it has not escaped your notice that our name is synonymous in this country with the hurt and pain our father caused by doing exactly what he pleased with no regard to the cost on others. I will not see that legacy continued. Decency is the highest and only value I have ever asked of you, Constance, and I’m appalled at what you did. Appalled.”
She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “I never could live up to your standards. Not even as a child. God forbid one simply live.” She looked up at him, her face impassive. “Did you offer for her or not?”
His mouth fell open at her audacity. How it could still have the power to shock him, he could not reckon.
“Of course I did.”
She raised an amused brow at him. “And she accepted?”
“What choice does she have?”
The truth was that he was offering Poppy less than she deserved, and they both knew it. She had made no secret of her clear-eyed views of his inadequacies. He had never felt less wanted nor less deserving in his life, and he was half-sure she would change her mind yet.
Constance’s smile bloomed into an all-out beam. “Oh, good. Your mood was so dark that for a second I thought she declined. What a relief. I shall accept my thanks in the form of a niece or nephew.”
“I am not offering you my thanks. I have no desire to marry Miss Cavendish.”
She squinted at him. “Is that truly what you think? You poor, daft man. You’ve been wandering around this estate like a condemned man ever since she threw you off.”
The undeniable truth of this observation did nothing to decrease his anger at having to listen to it.
“Hear this, Constance. You are forbidden to have anything further to do with Desmond Flannery.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
“I forbid you to feed him information. I forbid you to set foot on Grub Street. I have given you far too much liberty and I can now see that you are not mature enough to inhabit it gracefully.”
“Archer! You can’t forbid me.”
Oh, he could. He should have done so ages ago.
“I am your guardian. I have a moral obligation to prevent you from harming the lives of others—or your own—with actions that are cruel and reckless. If I catch wind you have given Flannery so much as a loaded stare, I will move you into my house in Hoxton, where I can keep an eye on you myself. Do you understand?”
“I understand you perfectly, Your Grace. Now may I return to my guests? I was just in the midst of a very moving country ballad, and they are no doubt in an agony awaiting its conclusion.”
“Go.”
When she had completed stomping down the hall, he sank back against the edge of his desk and tried to catch his breath, thoroughly shaken.
With the crisis settled and the future resolved, all the urgent clarity that had compelled him to race back to Wiltshire in a furious all-night lather deserted him.
Perhaps he had embarked on something foolish.
For Constance, despite her recklessness, was a preternaturally observant person. If she thought she’d engineered some kind of love match, perhaps she saw something that he didn’t.
He recalled Poppy’s face, arranging itself in mute horror at his ring box.
No. Her views were clear enough.
Could Constance have perceived some unsuitable fondness in him?
He took a swig of brandy and tested the theory, worrying the key around his neck.
Certainly he thought highly of her. He would see to it that the arrangement suited her wishes and addressed her scruples.
And yes, he had felt reduced when she greeted his offer with dismay. Had found himself making arguments he couldn’t precisely defend in order to convince her to agree despite her better judgment.
Then again, had he not done that same thing a thousand times in negotiating with reluctant sellers, and made them all rich?
He had, without a quibble of conscience.
He felt his shoulders relax.
Constance was a twenty-year-old girl who acted rashly and thought she knew more than she did. That did not make her correct. He held Poppy Cavendish in high regard because she was clever and steely and unlikely to get the wrong impression.
And as with any valuable asset, he would invest in her, for their mutual benefit.
His plan held. Nothing was at risk.
He tucked the key back inside his collar and sat down to write to his solicitors about a wedding contract sealed in panes of glass.
Chapter 17
Peerage marriage settlements were meant to be drawn by solicitors in austere London offices and signed by the signet-banded hands of noble relations in plush drawing rooms. Brides took no part in these activities. Surely they did not do so in the flickering light of a tallow candle in a drafty outbuilding that smelled of moss and soil.