Arabella’s brows drew together. “There will be dozens.”
“There will be as many asCharlottebelieves necessary,” Lord St. George replied.
Charlotte started at what her father said and sipped her tea thoughtfully, understanding the . “I believe fifty will be enough.”
Eleanor did not flinch. “Very well.”
“And Arabella shall deliver them,” Charlotte added.
Eleanor’s gaze lifted. “The footmen–”
Charlotte smiled. “They will be occupied with other matters. She will do it. She has legs.”
Eleanor’s fingers twitched. She forced them still. “I will do it.”
Lord St. George stood suddenly and appalled. “You will do no such thing, Miss Barker!”
Everyone in the room jumped at the rage-filled outburst and stared at him.
“Arabella will do it, as ordered, and that will be the end of it!”
Charlotte smirked, and Eleanor’s gaze shifted to Arabella, who had dropped her gaze to the floor and softly responded, “Yes, Father.”
That afternoon, Eleanor stood at the sideboard in the breakfast room, arranging a tray that Charlotte had insisted must be “proper”. An engagement to a duke meant more suitors would come to St. George Manor calling.
The silver teapot gleamed. The cups were aligned. The biscuits sat in a neat stack, though Eleanor doubted any of the ladies of their acquaintance came for biscuits rather than gossip.
Eleanor glanced down at her hand. A faint smudge of black marked her skin where she had blotted too quickly the night before.
“It will wash,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte clicked her tongue. “A duchess with ink stains. How charming.”
Arabella shifted in her chair; her gaze fixed on her plate. Eleanor could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself as if bracing for impact.
Lord St. George had left early, announcing he had letters to write and calls to make. That meant the morning belonged to Charlotte.
Which meant it belonged to cruelty dressed as propriety.
Charlotte reached for the teacup Eleanor had set closest to her. “This cup is chipped.”
“It is not,” Eleanor said, already knowing the argument was unwinnable.
Charlotte held it up to the light with exaggerated care. “There. A flaw.”
Eleanor stepped closer. The “flaw” was a faint scratch in the glaze, nearly invisible unless one searched for it.
“We have no time to replace it,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked up, bright. “We have nothing but time. You are the one running out of it.”
Eleanor set her jaw.
“You must be feeling quite accomplished,” Charlotte continued, voice light. “Tricking a duke. Securing a title. All without even possessing a decent complexion.”
Arabella’s head lifted sharply.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the edge of the tray. “I did not trick him.”
