Indeed, Robert's booming tones were already echoing through the hall, punctuated by Henry's drawl and what sounded like the twins arguing about horses? Hazard? It was difficult to tell and ultimately unimportant. Whatever had them annoyed would spill into the drawing room momentarily.
She was proven right within seconds. The door burst open and Robert strode through, still in his riding coat, mud on his boots, and a letter clutched in his fist like a weapon. His face was the particular shade of red that suggested either apoplexyor news from the Montclaires. Given the paper in his hand, she suspected the latter.
"Those, insufferable..." He caught sight of his mother and modified his language with visible effort. "Those blackguards."
"Robert!" Mrs. Coleridge protested weakly.
Henry followed, already heading for the brandy with the purposeful stride of a man who knew he'd need fortification. "I take it we're discussing our dear neighbours?"
"The Montclaires," Robert spat the name like something rotten. "The old Duke is dead."
"How... unfortunate," their mother managed, though her tone suggested she found it anything but.
The twins tumbled through the door next, Charles already reaching for the decanter while Edward collapsed dramatically into a chair. "No longer among the living," Edward confirmed cheerfully. "I heard it at the club. Apparently, the funeral was a frightfully big event. All black horses, black plumes, the full theatrical production."
"Good riddance," Charles muttered, pouring generous measures all around.
Ophelia remained in her corner, keeping her hands busy with the flowers. Deaths and funerals were matters for the men to discuss. Her opinion was neither needed nor wanted, which suited her perfectly.
"But that's not the best part," Robert said, waving the letter with unnecessary vigor. "Oh no, the old rogue had one last insult to deliver."
Henry took the letter, scanning it with the practiced eye of someone who'd read too many legal documents. His expression shifted from mild interest to genuine surprise to something that might have been unholy amusement.
"My goodness," he murmured. "He's actually done it."
"Done what?" Charles demanded.
Henry cleared his throat and read aloud: "'Let it be known that too long have Montclaire and Coleridge lived at daggers drawn..."
"Pretty words for forty years of spite," Edward interrupted.
"...and therefore,'" Henry continued, "my heir shall take to wife Miss Coleridge within one year of my decease, or the Montclaire estate shall pass into trusteeship."
The silence that followed was complete. Even she stopped arranging flowers, her hands frozen mid-gesture.
Then chaos erupted.
"Marriage?" Charles knocked over his glass.
"To a Coleridge?" Edward shot to his feet.
"To our sister?" Robert's voice could have shattered crystal.
Ophelia very carefully did not look up, though she felt their eyes turn toward her one by one, as if they'd just remembered she existed. The forgotten Coleridge daughter, suddenly remembered at the worst possible moment.
"This is about Aunt Cordelia," Henry said quietly, and the room stilled. "This is their twisted idea of... what? Atonement?"
"It's revenge," Robert corrected harshly. "Pure and simple. They want to humiliate us again. Take another Coleridge woman and..."
"And what?" Mrs. Coleridge's voice was surprisingly steady. "Marry her? Make her a duchess? How terribly insulting."
"You can't be serious," Robert turned to stare at his mother.
"I'm merely pointing out that as revenge goes, it seems rather poorly thought out."
"The new Duke has to marry her," Edward said slowly, as if working through a puzzle. "Has to. Or he loses everything."
"Exactly." Henry's smile was sharp as glass. "The mighty Duke of Montclaire, forced to come begging for a common Coleridge bride. Oh, this is delicious."
