“The ever-delightful Miss Tolliver was observed last evening in animated conversation with no fewer than three eligible gentlemen, none of whom departed without adjusting their cravats. One wonders what precisely was said to provoke such evident agitation.”
“I told one of them his boots squeaked,” Hetty murmured behind the fragile veneer of her smile, “and the other that his teeth appeared dangerously sharp.”
Georgie – immaculately arrayed in sprigged muslin with puffed sleeves and a pink sash tied just so at the waist and slippers dyed to match – stood guard near the drawing room doors. In one hand she held a clipboard procured from their father’s study, and in the other, a quill. Though explicitly forbidden by Lady Tolliver from engaging with callers on account of her youth and a regrettable tendency to interrogate gentlemen about their reading habits, Georgie had nevertheless appointed herself Mistress of the Ledger. With an expression of cool disapproval, she recorded the name of each gentleman, the time of his arrival, the quality and type of his floral tribute, and in the margins, her personal commentary on the state of his boots, cravat, and conversational value. Those who perspired excessively were struck through altogether. The system, she claimed, was foolproof.
“It is a matter of ratios,” she had explained earlier, when Nell asked what determined a man’s placement. “A viscount bearing tulips shall rank above a solicitor with roses, naturally – but may still fall below a baron if said tulips are yellow. And let it be noted that any gentleman, be he duke or marquess, who arrives bearing carnations will find his social score plummeting accordingly.”
“Because carnations are too cheerful?” asked Nell.
“No. Because they reek of desperation. They are the calling card of a man who was turned away by the florist and forced to make do.”
And thus, Georgie worked her way through the morning’s procession of hopefuls. “Mr Linley is placed foremost. He brought peonies… well-shaped, evenly arranged, pleasingly subdued in colour. A rare achievement, given the season.”
“He has no title,” Lady Tolliver reminded her, wafting her fan before her face in a manner that suggested she was not entirely displeased.
“No, but he does have excellent taste,” said Georgie. “Mr Elcombe is next. He sent lilies. They were adequate. A trifle uninspired, but not offensive.” She glanced once more at her list, making a notation in the margin. “Lord Mayfield, who was initially intended to follow Mr Linley, has now been placed third.”
“Mayfield?” Lady Tolliver repeated with a sniff. “But his family boasts two baronetcies and a brewery.”
“Indeed, Mama,” said Georgie, “but he brought gladiolus.”
Lady Tolliver gave a small shudder. “How vulgar.”
“Precisely,” said Georgie. “I am debating whether to consign him to the very bottom – just above the poor soul who sent a posy of lavender tied up in twine and had the audacity to omit his card.”
Lady Tolliver gave an approving nod. “Your eye for social positioning is a gift, my darling.”
“It’s not a gift, Mama. It is simply arithmetic. The taller the bouquet, the more desperate the suitor. And the poorer the taste, the shorter the match.”
Another knock echoed through the house.
Mari did not look up from her book. “If it’s one more gentleman bearing flowers and bad verse, I shall climb into the fireplace and set up permanent residence.”
The footman returned with another bouquet, so exquisitely composed it seemed the sender had read a treatise on Georgie’s floral hierarchy and passed with distinction. She plucked the calling card from the salver and cleared her throat, before announcing with the solemnity of a royal birth, “Lord Langley.”
At this, Hetty’s head snapped up.
“And – good heavens,” Georgie continued. “He’s brought ivory peonies. With blush ranunculi! And sprigs of myrtle… not a carnation in sight.” She adjusted a small brass paperclip. “Well, we’ve found our frontrunner.”
A moment later, the drawing room doors opened and in strolled Theo, every inch the picture of careless aristocratic splendour. His coat was of midnight blue superfine, the shoulders crisp, the waist perfectly nipped to flatter his frame, which was taller and broader than Hetty recalled. His waistcoat, pale dove-grey with a subtleembroidered pattern, offered just enough contrast to be fashionable without tipping into foppery.
Hetty, despite herself, felt the corners of her mouth tighten. She was not attracted to him – emphatically not – but she was, regrettably, in possession of two functional eyes, and the sight before her was objectively well-arranged.
“Ladies,” he began, bowing with a smile so effortless it might well have been rehearsed, “you are all looking most radiant this morning.”
The footman made to present the bouquet, but Theo forestalled him with a casual gesture and reached for the flowers himself. “Thank you, Barnes. I should like the honour of delivering these myself.”
Lady Tolliver gave a gasp of delight and fluttered her fan with rather more vigour than the morning’s warmth could reasonably excuse. “Girls! We shall take our tea at the farthest table and afford your sister a moment of discreet discourse with our guest. It would be most improper to hover. Perhaps the earl harbours a question for your dear sister.”
With varying degrees of reluctance and poorly concealed curiosity, the Tolliver sisters rose and drifted obediently towards the tea table. Georgie cast one last approving glance at the bouquet as she passed.
Theo crossed the room with dramatic steps and presented the bouquet to Hetty with a grand flourish. “For you, Miss Tolliver. I understand that peonies are not only the height of fashion, but also indecently extravagant, and rumoured to herald either fortune, scandal or sudden engagement. I could conceive of no bloom more fitting for the Season’s most notorious diamond.”
Hetty accepted the bouquet with a tight smile, though her fingers were dangerously close to snapping one of the stems in two. “What, in Heaven’s name, are you doing here?” she hissed. “Have you entirely taken leave of your senses?”
“No fond greeting? I had fancied myself your gallant deliverer, come to rescue you from an endless parade of rose-bearing dimwits.” He cast a glance towards the tea table, where Georgie was now quietly ranking a new posy of violets. “Besides, we must confer. You are the subject of half theton’s whispers already, though, I wager, not in quite the manner you intended. It seemed wise to ensure the next act of your downfall is managed with a touch more finesse.”
Hetty gave him a look that could have curdled milk. “Must you speak so audibly? Mama is positively trembling to restrain herself from ordering a special licence this very moment. One more mention of ‘fortune’ or ‘engagement’ and she will have you fitted for wedding gloves before I have taken my tea!”
