Chapter Eight
Bea sat primly on the rose-colored settee in her sitting room, though “primly” was a generous interpretation.Her foot tapped and her fingers worried the ivory buttons at her wrist.Her sitting room—normally her sanctuary—felt unusually alive today.Sunlight filtered weakly through the drawn damask curtains, softening the floral patterns that climbed the pale blue wallpaper.The fire crackling behind the gilded screen cast pools of warm gold over the room: the velvet settee, the walnut escritoire littered with sketching pencils, the delicate porcelain figurines on the mantel.It was cozy, feminine, and—this morning—buzzing with the energy of conspiracy.Or, namely, a meeting ofThe Wallflowers’ Revolt.
Bea wore a soft cream gown, the hem sweeping over the embroidered carpet.Her sleeves finished with tiny pearl buttons that refused to lie flat unless she fussed with them.Georgie lounged in the low slipper chair opposite, dressed in a lavender muslin that set off her dark-brown hair, which kept slipping from her pins no matter how many times she patted at them.Poppy, in a sunflower-yellow walking dress with sleeves pushed inelegantly to the elbow, leaned against the pianoforte with her arms folded, looking as if she were posing for a portrait.
The three of them, gathered close around the warmth of the fire, looked less like polite young ladies and more like a clutch of conspirators.
Which, given the topic of conversation, was precisely what they were.
“I nearly dropped my toast when I saw it in the paper,” Georgie declared, waving her teacup as if dismissing imaginary footmen.“That caricature of Lord Vanover.He truly looked like a peacock in a waistcoat.”
Poppy clapped a hand over her mouth to contain a laugh.“And the caption!‘This cock prefers preening over Reform.’Bea, I choked on my tea, I tell you.”
Bea flushed—part mortification, part pride—and lowered her voice.“You mustn’t say my name anywhere near that cartoon.If anyone overhears?—”
“Don’t worry.Your parents are out, and your maid is below stairs,” Georgie reminded her, waving her teacup once more.“No one’s listening.”
“Well,” Poppy added, “no one except the three of us.And we are better than a vault.”She tucked a bright red curl behind her ear.
Bea exhaled and sank deeper into the settee cushions.Her friendswerea vault, and she needed their discretion now more than ever.She’d shared everything with them.They even knew about her secret advantage.
Her gaze flicked toward the far corner of the room, where a small decorative grate sat flush with the floorboards.“Yes, well, the peacocks may have been well received, but the momentum is always short-lived.If I’m to influence the vote, I must begin my next sketch tonight.I’ll require details…and Papa is always generous with those, even when he doesn’t mean to be.”She tapped her foot toward the grate.
Both Georgie and Poppy grinned wickedly.
The grate was connected to the flue that ran directly above her father’s study.From a young age, Bea had discovered that sounds from the study carried straight upward into her room.All she had to do was lie flat on her stomach and press her ear to it, and she could hear everything—every political scheme, every planned vote, every discussion her father had, including those involving one Lord Nicholas Archer.
It was her most valuable tool in the game she hadn’t meant to play but now couldn’t imagine abandoning.Namely, thwarting the Tories at every turn.It wasn’t her fault they were on the wrong side of things.Men dedicated to keeping the status quo at all costs, while the Whigs worked for reform, the expansion of political power to the commoners, and sought to modernize church and state.If women were ever going to become empowered, the Whigs were the party that would help.At least they were far more likely to than the Tories, who wanted absolutely nothing to change.
But at the moment, Bea’s biggest problem was no longer political.She’d been rehearsing the words since breakfast, waiting until she could say them without flinching.She smoothed a hand down her sleeve.“I have some distressing news.”
Both of her friends snapped upright, their faces edged with concern.
“Papa has demanded that I begin accepting the attentions of Nicholas Archer,” Bea breathed.Ugh.It sounded even more awful when she said it aloud.
“What?”Georgie sputtered.“Since when?”She plunked a fist on her hip.
“Whynow?”Poppy asked, brows drawn tightly together.“Your father hasn’t said a word about marriage in all these years.”
Her friends were glorious…indignant, loyal, and entirely on her side.
Bea straightened, drawing strength from their outrage as if it were armor.“Apparently,” she said with a miserable sigh, “Lord Hargrave called me a wallflower, and Papa took it as a personal insult.So now I must be made ‘marriageable.’Immediately.”
Georgie exhaled hard, her breath edged with disgust.“That Hargrave truly is a blister.”
“What a pompous donkey,” Poppy muttered.“And I donotuse either word lightly.”She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.“But Bea…this might actually be perfect.”
Bea blinked.“Pardon?”
“Think of it,” Poppy said, leaning forward.“If Nicholas Archer is courting you, you’ll be welcomed into every Tory salon in London.You’ll heareverything.And no one will suspect a thing.Not when you’re strolling about with him.”
“I’d rather keep company with a goat,” Bea muttered.“Goats, at least, are honest about their intentions.”
“Poppy’s right!”Georgie said, brightening.“You can use the courtship to gather information.Imagine the details you’ll overhear…conversations between political allies, private remarks, quiet quips.Perfect for your drawings.”
Bea stared at them.“But I hear so much of it now,” she argued.
“Of course, you do, but what if you heard even more?”Georgie’s voice dipped lower, the corners of her mouth curling with implication.
