Indeed, her thoughts were already engaged in the design of several suitable punishments, each more medieval than the last. (Drawing and quartering held the most appeal, though tarring was another fine option). It was perhaps fortunate for Mr Deverell that fate—or something with rather less mercy—intervened at that precise moment.
For the breakfast parlour door opened, and in marched a pair of gleaming Hessian boots, a flash of polished buttons, and a grin so self-satisfied it could only belong to one man.
Lord Marchmont had returned.
There are few moments in life so perfectly, exquisitely dreadful that one almost admires their symmetry, and the entrance of Lord Marchmont was, regrettably, one of them.
Lottie went quite pale, Lady Tolliver hiccupped loudly, and Lord Tolliver—for once entirely aware of impending catastrophe—promptly dropped his monocle into his tea. The only person unmoved by the calamity was its author, who found it a rather predictable turn of events.
“Lady Malverne!” Marchmont declared, striding into the room. “My compliments on your hospitality. How good of you to extend the invitation whilst I was still abroad! I scarcely expected to find myself welcomed back into such distinguished company so soon after my travels.”
Lady Malverne inclined her head with composure that surely deserved a medal. “England is ever generous to her prodigal sons, Lord Marchmont.”
Lottie could feel the blood draining from her face. Across the table, the Duke of Morleigh had stirred. Of course, he could say nothing—though the rigid set of his jaw betrayed precisely how much he longed to—for to acknowledge Lord Marchmont’s presence beyond the strict bounds of civility would be to breathe life into the whispers he had gone to such length to bury. And what a treacherous burial it was.
For though every lady in the room had declared last Season’sincidentwith Miss Charlotte Tolliver “a dreadful misunderstanding,” they had done so with the particular relish that ensures a story is never truly forgotten. To protest was to confirm it; to defend was to dignify it.
A confrontation now—however justified—would serve only to breathe colour into rumour, and to grant weight to what Society already believed but would never quitesay: that Lottie Tolliver had indeed fled with the man, and had been retrieved with hervirtue hanging by so fine a thread one could scarcely tell whether it was intact at all.
Surely the man could not be standing there. There must be some rule, some gentlemanly code, that permitted his immediate removal, preferably by force. Could one summon a footman for such an occasion? Or a firing squad?
Truly, who could say if Lady Malverne had even extended him an invitation? It seemed far more likely that Lord Marchmont had extended it to himself; such men possessed a singular genius for appearing precisely where they were least wanted. But what in heaven’s name was he doing back in England at all? Had her brothers-in-law not beaten him half to death? Had they not made it perfectly clear that if he ever dared show his face in the kingdom again, the remainder of his teeth would be the forfeit?
Whatever had brought him back, it did not bode well—for England, for Lady Tolliver’s nerves, and least of all for Miss Charlotte Tolliver.
Lady Tolliver’s hand trembled as she lifted her cup. “Well,” she said beneath her breath, her smile forced, “what apleasantsurprise. I had thought Lord Marchmont quite… gone.”
“Alas, Mama,” Lottie murmured, her voice deceptively mild. Her fingers were twisting a napkin into a state of strangulation, “some men are like bad pennies.”
“Or debts,” Lady Tolliver said faintly, staring into her cup as though hoping it might contain laudanum instead of tea. “They do have a way of returning.”
Lord Tolliver gave a startled laugh that died an instant later beneath his wife’s glare.
Marchmont offered an elegant bow to Lady Malverne before taking a vacant seat at a perfectly calculated distance opposite Lottie. A footman hurried to pour his coffee. Marchmont lifted the cup, and Lottie, against her better judgement, looked up. His eyes were colder than the porcelain he held.
“I trust you are well, Miss Tolliver. I had wondered, these past months, whether I might have left you… altered by our adventure.”
Lottie’s throat tightened. “Your lordship’s concern is unnecessary. I am precisely as I was—and, I assure you, quite as I intend to remain.”
Marchmont’s smile widened. “Ah. I see the spirit has not diminished. Excellent. I had feared your family’s enthusiasm for my absence might have subdued it.”
At that, the Duke of Morleigh’s knife paused midway through his ham.
“I hear you have lately returned from the Continent,” Lady Tolliver interjected, brittle with cheer. “Did you find the climate agreeable?”
“Exceedingly,” Marchmont replied, stirring sugar into his coffee with exquisite care. “Though England’s chill air is equally invigorating. There are matters here yet unfinished.” His gaze slid back to Lottie. “Promises to honour. One ought never to leave a thing incomplete.”
Lottie’s pulse thudded in her ears. She had never been more conscious of how little a woman might do when trapped within the polite confines of civility. The room was a cage gilded with silverware, and she was expected to smile through the bars.
At the far end of the table, Jasper set down his cup. “Lord Marchmont,” he said easily, as though they were the best of friends, “you do remind me—did you not once boast of having the finest eye for sport in the county? Lady Malverne was only this morning lamenting the want of a proper shooting party. You must lead it, of course.”
A murmur of approval stirred amongst the gentlemen. Marchmont, momentarily disarmed, inclined his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Indeed, I—well, yes, I daresay I might be prevailed upon to—”
“Splendid.” Jasper rose. “Then it is settled. And Miss Tolliver, who has the soul of a sportswoman, shall no doubt wish to attend.”
Every eye turned upon her. What was Jasper about?
“I—certainly not—”
