“My apologies.” She was usually practical and pragmatic, but the upcoming nuptials had stirred all sorts of sentimental thoughts about family and friends—and how over the last few years the lines between the two had become blurred beyond recognition. “I was just musing on how Love is an even more elemental bond than ties of blood.”
Alison’s gimlet gaze gave way to a softer twinkle. “True. How else to explain what binds together our exceedingly eccentric group?”
Their eyes met for a moment . . .
And then the dowager cleared her throat with a brusque cough. “Be that as it may, let us return to the subject of flowers. Because despite Hawk’s best efforts, the plans for the wedding flowers have gone to Hell in a handbasket!”
“We are very good at improvising,” soothed Charlotte. “But first, what is the problem? After all, we have a large hothouse here on the estate, and I know the head gardener has it filled with all manner of lovely blooms.”
“Yes, but Hawk had designed a lovely bridal bouquet for Cordelia featuringhydrangea,” explained Alison.
Charlotte was knowledgeable about a great many subjects, but botany was not one of them.
On getting naught but a blank look, the dowager rolled her eyes. “It’s a blooming shrub, and a certain mophead variety produces exquisite blue flowers which are a perfect match with the silk sash of Cordelia’s wedding dress.”
“It sounds lovely,” murmured Charlotte. “But I take it that something is amiss?”
“The wind and rain of last night’s dratted storm knocked off every last petal from the hydrangea shrubs,” intoned Alison. “Blue flowers aren’t easy to come by.” A pause. “Unless we organize a raiding party to break into the Duke of Devonshire’s conservatory at Chatsworth. Word is, there is a whole section devoted to the color blue.”
Charlotte didn’t like the martial gleam in the dowager’s eye. “The duke has no sense of humor—and larceny is not a trifling crime. Would you and the Weasels rather spend the wedding day in a cell in Newgate Prison instead of Wrexford Chapel?”
A sniff.
“I thought not,” she said dryly. “And so, I suggest that we improvise.” The corners of her mouth twitched in humor. “Perhaps I could use my paintbrushes to tint a selection of white roses the exact shade of blue to match Cordelia’s sash.”
Charlotte was a highly accomplished artist, though her skills were usually put to use poking fun at the peccadilloes of Polite Society, as well as making sure that the leading politicians and those who possessed wealth and influence did not abuse their power. Working under thenom de plumeA. J. Quill, she was London’s most infamous—and popular—satirical gadfly.
“Oiy, oiy!” Hawk rushed into the parlor, followed closely by Cordelia and McClellan, whose official title as lady’s maid to Charlotte did not begin to describe the full measure of her position within the family.Trusted confidante, occasional sleuth, firm-handed taskmaster of the Weasels, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—McClellan was, in a word, the glue that helped bind their household together.
“No need for worry, Aunt Alison,” added Hawk, once he had caught his breath. “As m’lady often says, we are very good at improvising!”
Charlotte felt another sweet stirring of nostalgia. The boys had taken to calling her “m’lady” during the first days of their acquaintance, and though the relationship had undergone a number of profound changes since then, they all felt comfortable with it.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” drawled the dowager.
“Lilacs!” He looked expectantly at the maid. “It was Mac who came up with a very clever idea.”
“Watered silk,” explained McClellan. “I recalled seeing a length of lovely lilac-colored watered silk in the sewing room. As you know, the sheen is slightly iridescent and in sunlight its shimmer turns into a beguiling mix of lilac and steely blue.”
“It was Mr. Sheffield who asked me to include blue hydrangea in the bridal bouquet,” offered Hawk, “because their petals would bring out the blue of Lady Cordelia’s eyes.”
Alison batted her lashes, setting off flashes of sapphire. “Men find blue eyes very alluring.”
“So we had Lucy, who is the best seamstress of the house maids, replace the sash on my wedding dress,” interjected Cordelia, “and just tested the effect with a bouquet of lilacs and white dahlias, and—”
“And Sheffield will swoon on the spot when you walk down the aisle,” finished McClellan.
“Let us hope not!” said Alison with a mock shudder. “At least, not before the vows are said.”
“If he’s having second thoughts,” replied Cordelia lightly, “I do hope he’ll choose a less dramatic way to evade the parson’s mousetrap than keeling over in the chapel.”
“Oh, you know me, I seem to have a knack for making a mull of the best-laid plans.” Sheffield appeared in the doorway, his wind-tangled hair damp from the morning’s recent rain squall.
Cordelia’s eyes took on a sapphire-bright light as she looked at her fiancé. “Yes, but I rather like your mulls.” A pause. “They make life infinitely more . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?” repeated Sheffield as the two of them exchanged a very intimate smile.
Charlotte repressed a laugh. “Speaking of making a mull, how bad was the damage to the road leading into town?” Wrexford and Sheffield had ridden out after breakfast to survey the damage done by the fierce winds and heavy downpours of the previous evening.
