The door slammed open.
Henry stomped into the library. Matthew had missed his chance.
“Mama, did you set a maid upon all my things? It took me an age to find my marbles. Everything was all tidied up in boxes, not how I’d left it. Not. At.All.”
Henry paused a short distance from them, a wooden box tucked under one arm.
“What is it? What’s gone wrong?” He looked quizzically at Matthew.
Too late Matthew realized his mouth was still hanging open. He clapped it shut.
“Nothing, darling. Dr. Collier and I were speaking of games, that’s all.”
Matthew nodded vigorously, hoping his face wasn’t flushed. He shoved his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose.
“Is he to be my tutor or yours?” Henry rolled his eyes. “You’d better get on with it, Mama,” he said seriously, his hands tapping at the wooden box. “Marbles can take an age to play, when one is serious.”
“Let it never be said that I would impede two fine gentlemen in their pursuit of entertainment.” Lady Caplin made an elegant show of getting up and moving to depart.
She paused before Henry and gave him a stern look.
“No punting.”
Henry groaned.
“Not yet,” she said, then cupped his cheek fondly.
She glanced back at Matthew, one side of her mouth quirked up slyly.
“Thank you, Dr. Collier.”
Matthew nodded, feeling as foolish as ever.
He would wager hers wasn’t a game of chance, as she’d suggested. No, it was one of skill. And soon he’d be able to play it as adeptly as she.
He didn’t tear his eyes away until the door closed behind her.
Chapter Eight
For weeks, Cressida reveledin her success.
Henry’s gaming prowess was improving markedly; she had even played a game of cassino with him and Dr. Collier and had felt a great relief when he’d not been immediately routed. Unfortunately, there’d been no other opportunity to engage the doctor in atête-à-tête, proving, at least to Cressida’s satisfaction, that seduction was indeed a game of chance, not skill. Every time they’d met it had been in Henry’s presence, with Dr. Collier too preoccupied with his instruction. Which was just as well, for Cressida would sooner die than carry on around her son. And besides, she had her own undertaking to keep her busy: to inflict a most thorough and devastating humiliation upon one Mrs. William Brenchley.
She had been incrementally laying the groundwork across a series of receptions and concerts as she ingratiated herself to the viper, systematically lowering her defenses with feigned humility and heavy dollops of flattery. At a dinner party hosted by the Countess of Pelling, she put on a performance soconvincing that even the countess herself had remarked on what a merry pair they made.
Cressida loathed every minute of it.
Mrs. Brenchley’s conversation was dull and spiteful, her hobbies—aside from gardening—vapid. But enduring it was a necessity. Cressida had no doubt that she was the source of the spiteful rumor of Henry’s parentage, which was why her piddling little nephew Wormleigh had regurgitated it at Harrow. Cressida was also certain that Mrs. Brenchley had been dallying with an unmarried marquess, having had it on very good authority from her own lady’s maid, who’d spotted the pair during a shooting party in Yorkshire that past autumn. She was waiting for the perfect moment to share this knowledge with Mrs. Brenchley—when her guard was down, and she no longer viewed Cressida as a rival.
After the first meeting of the Metropolitan Gardening Society since Henry had been removed from school, Cressida found herself admiring a variety of cuttings alongside Mrs. Brenchley. Members had brought their best and brightest, which were lined up neatly on a long table at the front of the Duchess of Calvely’s drawing room.
“Such a peculiar shade of cream on these daylilies,” Mrs. Brenchley said, gently fingering a bloom with a gloved hand.
“Oh, those?” Cressida replied disinterestedly. Inside, though, she vibrated with excitement. The moment had arrived.
“Yes. I’m so accustomed to only seeing yellows—such a ghastly color. But these are rather fetching.”
“You do not grow them in your hothouse?” Cressida pretended to refasten the button on one of her gloves.
