“Hmm?” Constance asked absently, scribbling away in her journal with fingers specked in their customary splatters of ink. Poppy sighed. It was essential that they complete the inventory for the ball today, but Constance’s interest in the task was proving elusive.
“Sorry, darling,” she said. “Yes, of course. Oh—but what if we used gold thread?”
Poppy’s head ached. “The cost of five hundred skeins of gold thread would be—”
Constance waved the thought away. “Nothing to bother ourselves about. Gold it is. Unless you think—silver?”
“Right. Next on the list, the pergolas of roses in the ballroom will need to be built by Maxwell’s crew by next Tuesday in order to be wired and strung by—”
“Oh, Poppy.” Constance placed her forehead on her ink-spotted hands. “How might I convince you to resume this in the morning? My eyes water from the dullness.”
“We’re nearly finished,” she coaxed.
“What will you wear to the ball?” Constance asked, suddenly perking up. “My mantua-maker is arriving tomorrow to finish my gown. She is terrifying. You will adore her.”
Poppy had not for a single moment contemplated attending the ball.
“The ballroom is not my native climate, I’m afraid,” she said lightly.
“Oh, but you must attend! Once everyone sees your designs, they will want to meet you, and once they meet you, they will want nothing more than to purchase your plants. Desmond will write about you in his gazette—we’ve already come up with a nickname: the Beau Monde Botanist.”
“That’s very kind. But as soon as my work here is finished, I need to turn to an urgent matter at home.”
“Poppy Cavendish,” Constance growled, playful but by no means joking, “you will come to my ball. After all, there is no greater pleasure in life than dancing. Don’t you agree?”
Poppy tried to summon a breezy response, but with the full, radiant beam of Constance’s attention trained on her, her wit failed.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say. Dancing is not part of the curriculum in the greenhouse.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Constance said, drawing to her full height, “that you have never danced? But surely you had a season? Mrs. Todd told me you are a viscount’s granddaughter. Your mother was presented at court. You must have had a season!”
Poppy was growing tired of this line of inquiry. “I am a gardener. Maxwell is also a gardener. Did he have a season?”
Constance flicked her with her fan. “Maxwell looks dreadful in satin. Don’t be perverse.”
“Miss Cavendish, may I have a word in my study,” Westmead’s low voice called from across the room. He was walking briskly toward them, carrying a sheaf of papers. He looked positively fierce.
“Miss Cavendish and I are exceedingly busy with our inventory,” Constance said with mock seriousness. “Do come back later.”
“I need to speak to Miss Cavendish. Alone.” He stood and waited, the line of his back tense.
Constance glanced at Poppy with concern. “And he doesn’t even know about the gold thread yet,” she whispered. “You’d better speak to him.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said, rising.
He led her down the corridor to his private wing. She had not yet seen this part of the house. It was dark, austerely furnished—clearly he had his limits when it came to his sister’s fondness for gilt—and smelled of sandalwood.
He held open the door to a study and pointed to a chair before an imposing mahogany desk. “Please, sit.”
His words were solicitous, but something seethed beneath his tone. He leaned his long body against the front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that, with his height, was almost menacing.
“Miss Cavendish, I have just concluded an interview with your friend Mr. Raridan.”
He said the name distastefully, his finger tapping a brisk rhythm on the desk, angry and percussive. “It was a most unusual conversation. Perhaps you might help me make sense of it.”
She arranged her posture as straight as it would go, hoping not to reveal her unease. Westmead had been almost defiantly affable in their previous conversations. Arrogant, perhaps, but calm as a lake. Where had that man gone? And what could Tom have said to drive him there?
“Certainly, Your Grace. What is it you were discussing?”
The duke stared at her a second too long. “Mr. Raridan thought to warn me that you are removing the plants from your late uncle’s land illegally. And using my men to do it before it is discovered by his heir.”
Exhaustion pooled through her. Tom. Forever overstepping. Forever living in a world with a loose relationship to reality.
“Mr. Raridan asked for my assistance in blocking your scheme, for your protection,” the duke said. “He suggested that I should leave the matter with him, given he is your fiancé, and has a duty to protect your best interests. I believe the word he used to describe you was ‘confused.’”
His face was unreadable, and his fingers continued to tap, tap, tap on the desk. Her pulse quickened with the time he kept.
“I advised Mr. Raridan that your work here was contracted by my sister, not myself, and sent him on his way,” he went on, “but you can understand that this interview leaves me with a great many questions. For you see, Miss Cavendish, if there is one word I would not use to describe your manner, it is confused.”
“Your Grace,” she said evenly, trying to maintain a cool head. “Mr. Raridan is not my fiancé. And there is no scheme. You are mistaken on all counts.”
“Ah. I am mistaken,” he breathed. He closed his eyes and nodded, as though overcome with relief. “Of course.”
She hated him in that moment, for his japery of her. “I simply mean you would be wrong to believe Mr. Raridan.”
“I did not say I believed him, Miss Cavendish. But since I have spent the better part of an hour attempting to unravel truth from nonsense from a man brought here at your behest, perhaps you might indulge me in a clarification. Let’s start with what precisely you are undertaking at Bantham Park.”
“I am removing goods from my late uncle’s property in advance of his heir taking possession. That is correct. However, I do so legally.”
“Raridan claims the estate is entailed. Is this true?”
“My nursery is not included in the entailment. I have paid my uncle a tenant’s duty for use of his land, with funds from a small inheritance from my mother. We arranged the matter with a solicitor so that there would be no question. The goods I am moving belong to me.”
“Yet the fact remains you are removing them from the property covertly.”
He stared at her intently. She hated it, this assault on her integrity.
“The business is profitable. After many years, it has developed a steady stream of customers. Whereas my late uncle’s estate is not productive and requires independent fortune to maintain.”
His eyes softened slightly, but she could tell he was not fully convinced.
“Furthermore,” she went on, gaining momentum, “I have no relationship with the family that is to take possession of the estate. Should they challenge my right to the nursery, the legal fees alone would ruin me. Surely, Your Grace, as a man of business, you understand the fragility of an enterprise in the early stages of success.”