“Any time, Emily!”
Before I’m at the top of the steps, the door opens and Lady Meade ushers me in. She waves at Joe, then shuts the door behind me, saying everyone’s in the kitchen.
The atmosphere is clearly tense. Cordelia isn’t there when I walk in, but the marquess is, with Jonathan and Tom. Jonathan is pacing, looking frazzled. The marquess is staring out of the window, his hands behind his back. Tom is leaning against the kitchen counter, clasping a mug of tea and yawning. His hair has definitely not been brushed this morning—in fact, I’m almost certain he’s just got out of bed. He sees me in the doorway and smiles.
He’s got such a nice smile. It makes me smile in response. It must be the crinkles round his eyes…
Wait. Stop this.Focus,Sophie. You can’t go round with a dopey grin on your face when there’s been some kind of emergency! And you just heard he was with some pop star last night.
Back to serious face. Serious, professional face.
“Hey,” he says sleepily, to me. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Emily,” Lord Meade says, acknowledging me with a nod. “Did Cordelia call you?”
He’s wearing a smart tailored suit and his brow is furrowedin deep concern. Interestingly, his tie is at odds with the rest of him, a bright jolly red with swordfish dotted about on it. I wonder if this shows a splash of humor beneath his serious façade, but from the look on his face, I’m guessing he’s not in a mood for fun at the moment.
“What’s happened?” I ask, as Lady Meade floats in behind me. “Where’s Cordelia?”
“She’s upstairs,” the marquess responds, glancing upward. “She won’t leave her room.”
“Drama queen,” Tom mutters into his tea.
“This isn’t the time to joke,” Lady Meade scolds.
“I get that it’s a big deal, but was it necessary for her to barge into the house this morning and go raging about waking everyone up and making my hangover a lot worse?” he says, taking a sip of tea and wincing. “And now she’s dragged her friend here for emotional support and I’m sure Emily has better things to do.”
“You can surely understand why Cordelia’s upset,” Jonathan says.
“Besides, you shouldn’t be hungover. You should be at work,” Lord Meade reminds Tom.
“I’m working from home today,” he retorts. “I have a meeting this afternoon and it was decided it made sense that I don’t bother going into the office.”
His father raises his eyebrows. “Yes, I can see you’re hard at work.”
“I would be if Cordelia hadn’t been shouting the house down.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, unable to take the suspense any longer. “Is Cordelia OK?”
“This morning we received this.” Lady Meade places a long, perfectly manicured finger on a thick envelope lying on the island in front of her and pushes it across the surface. “Have a look.”
From the style, I know straightaway it’s a wedding invitation. Curious to see whose wedding has caused this much of an upset among them, I pull it out and begin to read. It’s an expensive and traditional invitation, thick cream card with swirly black embossed lettering.
The invitation is from the Earl and Countess of Derrington requesting the pleasure of their company at the marriage of their daughter, Annabel, to Mr. Aubyn Ludlow on 21 May.
I stop. I read it again, just to be sure.
Oh, God.
“It’s the same date as your wedding,” I say, staring at it in disbelief. “It can’t be. Is this Lady Annabel Porthouse?”
“I’m afraid so.” Jonathan sighs, biting his lip nervously. “Such bad luck.”
“It has nothing to do with luck,” Lady Meade says. “It’s sabotage.”
“Mum, come on.” Tom groans, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why else would they send out a wedding invitation seven months in advance?” she asks bitterly. “They knew that’s the date we’d settled on.”
