“Bea, you can make yourself useful by helping,” Portia added, and Bea saluted her, clicking the heels of her silk slippers together.
Cordelia glanced back down to the stack of letters and shook her head in disbelief. “I hope this will not lead us to another cache of correspondence. Because if it does…”
Portia squeezed her arm and grinned. “Keep the faith. No matter what happens, we will still be together at the end of this.”
By the time Bea and Hermione had arrived back, Cordelia and Portia had solved another portion of the mysterious clue.Cordelia’s heart hammered in her chest. It was becoming more real to her now. She was beginning to grasp that she would perhaps not have to accept Rhys, that she could be a free woman.
But there was more to it than that. She glanced around the room at her sisters and now knew that even if they lost Hollyhead, if they were forced from their home, if they had no dowries or money or futures that resembled those of other aristocratic ladies… they had each other. And that would be enough. It had always been enough for Bea, Hermione, and Portia. She’d not seen it before, but she could see it now.
The concept made her feel dizzy. She gripped the edge of her desk.
“Don’t faint on me again,” Portia said, clapping her on the back.
“Rhys asked me to marry him,” she blurted out. There was a collective gasp from her sisters.
“A-and?” Hermione said.
Cordelia shook her head. “I-I thought I would say yes. At the time it seemed like a good idea. But now… now…” She could hardly get the words out.
“It’s okay, Lia,” Bea said, wrapping her arms around her neck. “We’ll love you anyway.”
Hermione squeezed her arm, and Portia tangled her fingers affectionately in Cordelia’s hair. “You love being the one to always come to our rescue, but you know that we are older now, right? We can come to your aid every once and a while, too,” Portia said, at a reasonable volume, which was so unexpected that Cordelia burst out laughing, wiping the streaming tears from her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Justin checked hispocket watch for the hundredth time and suppressed a sigh. The clock in the drawing room thrummed like a metronome, the silence thickening as Rhys Billings tapped his walking stick against a booted calf. In his thirty-three years, Justin had been made to stare down wigged professors and ghoulish school masters; later he learned to deal with cajoling businessmen, crooked politicians, and power-hungry officials. But the well-dressed dandy was a new breed.
Justin checked his watch again, seeing that the smallest hand had only inched forward another thirty seconds. They had been waiting for a full twenty minutes with no sign of Cordelia. Mrs. Norris had been sent to fetch her, and although Lady Billings had assured them that she would take tea in the library, he had an inkling that she’d joined Mrs. Norris in the search.
Rhys cleared his throat. “I’ve heard you are making improvements to the Hollyhead grounds,” he said.
Justin nodded. “A new irrigation system.”
Rhys considered it for a moment. “I could rather use one of those at Halton House. Though the estate is known more for its livestock than crops.”
Justin took a sip of tea, hoping that Mrs. Norris had laced it with something that could immediately put him out of his misery. Justin felt as though he was getting a glimpse at hispossible future and shuddered. He tried to convince himself he was happy to be leaving it all behind.
Justin and Rhys had already covered the weather, horses (a topic at which he was entirely inept), and their schooling (Rhys at Oxford, Justin at Cambridge). He wondered how exactly high-born men put up with the drudgery of day-to-day conversation. Perhaps it was not such a shock that Will Nichols created such problems for himself.
“Is that right?” Justin muttered.
The two men resumed their survey of the drawing room, until the door slammed open. A few ornamental vases on top of the fireplace shook.
“I have never been treated in such a way…” He heard Lady Billings’s voice trail off as Cordelia entered the room, closing the door behind her.
Justin stared at her, mouth agape. Her hair was only half up, the rest of it curling in messy tendrils nearly to her waist. Her day dress was wrinkled, and her fingers were stained with ink. Cordelia’s brown eyes were alight with… was it mischief? He had a wild thought that Portia had possessed her body, but then he remembered her holding the mallet in the garden, swinging up onto Brutus’s back, and laughing with the farmers’ wives. This was Cordelia, who she truly was, without airs or graces about her.
“I’ve been dragged from very important business, apparently to meet with you, gentlemen,” she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. She went to the sideboard to pour herself a cup of tea.
Rhys looked just as stunned by her behavior, but then quickly resumed his guise of country gentleman. “Yes, well, Lia. I was thinking that our discussion in the yard the other day ought to be ratified by the duke, wouldn’t you agree?”
Cordelia smiled at Rhys. “No.”
His eyes widened. “I… I beg your pardon?”
“No. I will not. I will never,” she said, maintaining her smile.
“What!?”
