“I am taking it seriously; I simply don’t agree with your course of action.” Miss Danby sighed and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Shall we strike a compromise? Your case isn’t being heard today, I trust. How much time do you have? If your chief concern is my reputation, we might keep things as they are until the story makes the papers.”
Keep things as they are.Lyman wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Sparring with Miss Danby in her drawing room while telling himself he wasn’t enjoying her company too much, and sharing the occasional kiss after a night at a casino?
“They’ve set the hearing for February 17.”
“So soon! That’s less than three weeks away.”
“You should try to finish your book as soon as possible,” Lyman said, “so we have time to go over the manuscript first.”
“Don’t worry.” Della smiled, her eyes betraying a trace of mischief. “I work best under a little pressure.”
***
Della felt a good deal better after her talk with Lord Ashton. As uncomfortable as the revelation had been for both of them, it had finally helped her to understand the behavior she’d found so perplexing when they first met. His refusal to drink or gamble, his discomfort whenever the subject of his marriage came up, even the way he’d balked at the prospect of spending the night with her.
I must remind him of the worst period in his life.
If Della felt a measure of relief at finally having everything in the open between them, it was tempered by sadness. She didn’t like to think of what was in store for him if his wife proceeded with her plans for divorce.
Besides which, he’d been right. There wasn’t any hope for an amorous connection between them—not when she owned a gambling house and he had such a dreadful reason to avoid them. She would be more careful in what she said and did in his company now that she understood the whole story, but the damage was likely already done. He must see her as a threat to his efforts to live a better sort of life.
Is he right?
Della tried to focus on her work. She’d managed to start the chapter on parks, adding a few paragraphs on some locations she’d tested with Miss Chatterjee last week. After that, she’d paused to consider what she might tackle next and realized she hadn’t included anything on gambling clubs, even though that had been the impetus for the whole project! She was sitting before a blank page of foolscap now, trying to land on the right words.
She didn’t feel nearly as enthusiastic about the subject after her talk with Lord Ashton.
They would never have allowed such a thing to happen at Bishop’s, of course. There were strict limits on how much the ladies could wager. But all the same, the prospect of such a terrible loss wasenough to give her pause.
Were she and Jane wrong to carry on a business like this when it could cause such pain?
“Ahem.”
Della jumped at the sound of another person nearby. Annabelle hovered in the doorway, like a spindly butterfly poised over a flower, all limbs. What nectar did she search for here?
“Are you going to come in?” Della asked, irritated. “It’s very off-putting to lurk.”
Annabelle shuffled into the room and shut the door behind her, but still didn’t explain herself. After a moment, she inched close enough to spy Della’s papers.
“Why have you crossed everything out?” she asked. “Don’t you need tokeepsome of the words if you intend to write a book?”
“It’s all part of my process.” Della set both hands in the middle of her notes, shielding them from view. “What is it you want? I have heaps of work to do, and I’m meant to be at Bishop’s in two hours.” She shot a precautionary glance to the clock to make sure the hands were still moving.
Annabelle didn’t walk across the room so much as slide, like a heavy, brooding mist. She slumped onto the little divan just past Della’s desk. Her posture would have earned her a scolding from their old governess.
“Please just tell me,” Della repeated tiredly.
She’d been expecting a scolding for banishing Annabelle from the drawing room and sitting alone with the viscount that morning, but her sister’s deportment was far too glum for that. This must be something more personal to her.
She’s gotten herself in some sort of trouble and needs me to free her from prison.
Della knew the lines to this play by heart. First, Annabelle wouldprotest that it wasn’t her fault. She would put on her doe eyes and plead innocence. Second, she would lay out the terrible fate that awaited her (or, very possibly, Miss Greenwood), to stir up sympathy. In the third and final act, she would appeal to Della’s sisterly compassion, and they would strike some bargain for their mutual advantage, though Della often got the more miserly end of the deal.
What would she do without me?
“I’ve…gotten myself into a spot of trouble,” Annabelle said, perfectly on cue. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold, though the room was comfortable enough. “It really isn’t my fault. I wasso carefulto be discreet, but how could I have known her father was so overbearing?”
Oh dear. This already had the makings of a sticky problem.
