He left me at the altar.
THREE TIMES.
If Noah expects me to simply hold my tongue and play the good little hostess (much less forgive and forget), he will be sorely disappointed. I’ll make no preparations for The Ratbag’s stay here. Cater to him, after his infamous conduct towards me? Never! I shan’t suffer my calligraphy pen to write his name on a festive place card. Nor shall I lay sprigs of wintergreen atop his pillows, or strew his hearth with fragrant cloves. If Noah wants the ogre treated as a guest, he can do the treating himself.
Instead I quite intend to hide in the workshop and pretend houseguests will not be descending upon us tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll finish crafting my new ring, in case Lord M proposes (as he seems likely to do). I cannot wait to see how much better it looks on my finger than the crusty old ring I almost ended up with. Only one final stone remains to be set, which is simple enough work. Stone-setting always soothes me.
As does wassail. Alas, Mrs. O’Connor will surely look askance if I beg another cup so soon. Though, as the workshop is right next to the kitchen stores, it would be quite natural to look in as I pass by.
Noon. — More wassail did not help. Nor did stone-setting. In fact, I found myself disinclined to work on the ring today and decided to finish Elizabeth’s Christmas present instead.
Five whole days The Ratbag will be in this house. FIVE—WHOLE—DAYS. I want to scream!
Ten minutes past. — Screaming did not help, either. Only frightened my cat, who sprang onto the workbench and scratched up my casting molds.
I hear voices in the corridor, must hide you away now!
Exasperatedly,
Claire
Two
TWENTY-THREE-year-old Lady Claire Chase managed to throw a cloth over the workbench—concealing both her diary and the evidence of the pendant she was making—moments before the door burst open.
“There you are!” cried her younger sister, Elizabeth. She tossed a handful of fresh-picked, scraggly winter plants on a nearby table. “We’ve been ages searching for you!”
“We?” Claire echoed. “Who’s we?”
“Why, Noah and me, of course. Er—” On realizing there was nobody behind her, Elizabeth retreated to the corridor. “Noah, you coward! Come here this instant!”
A sheepish Noah appeared in the doorway.
Elizabeth prodded him through it. “I found this one hiding out in the stables.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Noah protested. “I was checking on poor Endurance’s hoof.”
“You were hiding.” Claire rose to loom over her brother as best she could at six inches’ disadvantage. “Because you are a coward. What else can one call a man who sends his valet to do his dirty work?”
“Ah”—Noah made a fair attempt at indifference—“so Collins delivered my message.”
But Claire knew him too well: she could tell by his stiff posture and elusive gaze that he was dissembling, and she had no patience for it. Or for him. “Have you told Elizabeth what was in the message,” she barked, “or shall I?”
“He didn’t have to—the whole castle is talking about it.” Elizabeth gave the offender another poke. “Don’t you have something to say to Claire? Something that starts with a- and ends with -pology?”
He swatted her hand away. “I’m not convinced that I do. It’s my estate, after all, and Rathborne is my friend. Why shouldn’t I invite him to stay?”
Both sisters were incensed. Claire nearly upset the workbench in her haste to get at her brother. “Because he was my intended, who trifled with my heart!” she shrieked as Elizabeth let fly with a string of thoroughly unladylike expletives.
Whether Noah understood either sister was doubtful, but he grasped their tenor. “Claire,” he began when Elizabeth had worn herself out, “I know you and Rathborne have a thorny history?—”
“Thorny?” Claire repeated incredulously.
How dare Noah use such a trivializing descriptor as thorny? Noah, who knew nearly every mortifying detail of that history. Who had been present at the first meeting, and kept a keen eye on their increasing attachment—had promoted it, even, as any man would promote an alliance between his sister and his wildly eligible friend.
He had applauded every step of their courtship. Had, in his capacity as the family patriarch, given his blessing upon their engagement, and witnessed Claire’s perfect happiness on the occasion. Had parsed and approved every particular of the wedding, the honeymoon, and the bride’s anticipated installment as mistress of her new home, the splendid Twineham Park. He’d even donned his best suit in readiness to give her away.
But the suit had been donned in vain.
