Page 27

Chapter

Twenty-Six

SCHEMES AND SALONS

A fter the duke departed, I sent Claire a note asking her to come round the next morning for a strategy session. Given her level of curiosity, I knew she’d take the bait. Her reply was delightfully predictable and unmistakably Claire:

In the morning, darling? Why, I’m barely conscious before ten. But for you, yes—I’ll be round at eleven. That’s the earliest I can manage to make myself presentable.

The following day, Claire swept into the morning room in a rustle of rose-colored skirts, her cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes alight with mischief. The subtle scent of her perfume—something scandalously expensive and vaguely reminiscent of hothouse orchids—trailed behind her as she sank into the settee opposite me with all the theatrical flair of a society actress taking the stage.

“Darling, you look as though you’ve been pacing all night. How deliciously dramatic. Do say it’s something scandalous.”

“Only if plotting an ambush counts,” I replied. “Though I rather imagine you’ll approve. It involves an American widow, suspect investments, and no shortage of guile. Tea?”

Claire’s eyes gleamed as she perched delicately on the edge of the settee. “Coffee, if you want me awake. I didn’t crawl into bed until four.”

“Of course,” I said. Once coffee and a light breakfast were served, we settled into our discussion.

“If you recall,” I began, handing her a plate, “Mrs. Greystone was mentioned—rather pointedly—at Lady Farnsworth’s tea. She was seen leaving Walsh House around midnight several days before his death.”

Claire bit into her biscuit with the air of a cat who’d just scented cream. “And you believe Mrs. Greystone was involved?”

“Call it intuition or something more, but yes, I believe she played a part.”

“And now you wish to lure her into a trap—upholstered in silk and scented with bergamot. How deliciously subtle.”

“My original plan was a quiet tea here,” I admitted, passing her a steaming cup. “But that won’t do. Between the children and Grandmother—who tends to appear at the most inopportune moments—it would be chaos. Not to mention impossible to conduct any sort of meaningful conversation.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “So it falls to me to make something scandalously appropriate out of a social inconvenience.”

“Indeed.”

She sipped thoughtfully. “A simple tea won’t do. Not with someone like Mrs. Greystone. You need something clever. Something layered. What you need, my dear, is a salon.”

I arched a brow. “A salon?”

Claire leaned forward, warmed by both firelight and inspiration. “A proper one. Drawing-room discussion, sharp minds and sharper tongues, women only, naturally. An extension of your beloved Society for the Advancement of Women. You’ll speak. Oh, don’t make that face. You’re quite captivating when you’re passionate about your causes. Mrs. Greystone will attend just to see who dares to challenge the rules.”

I couldn’t help a small smile. “You think she’ll come?”

“She won’t be able to resist. Intellectuals are moths, and I am an exceptionally captivating flame.”

Before I could reply, the door opened, and Cosmos stepped inside with the cautious air of a man trespassing into unknown territory. His hair was still damp from the greenhouse, curling slightly at the temples, and he carried a small terracotta pot cradled carefully in both hands.

“Rosalynd,” he said, then caught sight of Claire and hesitated. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

Claire rose with the fluid grace of a prima ballerina and offered a slow, elegant curtsey. “Lord Rosehaven. What a pleasure.”

He looked vaguely panicked. “Er—yes. Good morning, Lady Edmunds.”

I stood to greet him, unable to help a smile. “What brings you out of your hothouse so early?”

He stepped forward and extended the pot. Nestled within was a delicate spray of tiny white blossoms, their dark green leaves glossy and fine. “It’s one of the alpine varieties from Father’s collection. I repotted it for you. I thought ... well, your morning room looked rather bare.”

Of flowers, he meant. Furnishings were in abundance.

The gesture caught me off guard with its thoughtfulness. I took the pot gently. “Thank you, Cosmos. It’s beautiful.”

He gave a sheepish nod. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His eyes flicked once more to Claire. “I’ll leave you to your ... planning.”

“Oh, do stay,” Claire said, stepping just slightly closer. “I’ve always had a weakness for alpine flora. So dainty and yet so very resilient.”

“They’re hardy by necessity,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

“I do admire necessary hardiness,” she murmured, her eyes full of wicked amusement.

Cosmos flushed to the roots of his hair.

“Claire,” I said sharply, slicing through the charged moment like a blade through silk.

She turned to me with a look of mock innocence—lips demure, eyes dancing—and then faced Cosmos once more. “Well then, thank you for the visit. Do enjoy your greenhouse.”

Cosmos gave a strangled sort of nod and retreated, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug on his way out.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I set the pot down and turned on Claire. “Must you toy with him?”

“I wasn’t toying,” Claire said, serenely reclaiming her seat. “Merely appreciating. He’s rather lovely, in an absent-minded, scholarly sort of way.”

“Lovely?” I echoed, incredulous. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t notice as you’re his sister. But he is. Quite striking, really. Those curls like velvet, the shade of aged wine. And those eyes—stormy and distant, like the sea just before it breaks.” She paused, then added with a dreamy sigh, “And he hides a surprisingly fit physique beneath all that tweed. Like a Grecian statue who got lost in an herbarium.”

“Honestly, Claire,” I muttered. “Where do you come up with these notions? He’s not like other men. He’s quiet. Gentle. Entirely uninterested in romantic pursuits.”

Claire raised one perfect brow. “You mean he’s uninterested in women.”

“I mean, he’s uninterested in anyone who doesn’t photosynthesize.”

She gave a soft hum of amusement, clearly unconvinced. “You misjudge him.”

“No, I don’t,” I said, the edge easing from my voice. “A woman like you would turn him inside out.”

Claire exhaled through her nose, then nodded solemnly. “Very well. I shan’t flirt. I’ll be a sister. Or a cousin. Second cousin, perhaps. Third, if that’s less threatening. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

With the awkward moment passed, Claire’s attention returned to the task at hand with mercurial enthusiasm. “Now then, this salon. We’ll hold it, let’s see.” She tapped a delicate finger against her lips. “Tuesday afternoon. You’ll introduce the theme— The Role of Women in Financial Autonomy: A Civilized Discussion —and I shall supply the sherry and the sparkle.”

“I can already hear my grandmother’s cane striking the floorboards in protest.”

“All the more reason to make it unforgettable,” Claire said, eyes alight. “We’ll fill the room with ladies who have something to say and no one who dares tell them not to say it. We’ll give Mrs. Greystone the spotlight—then watch what shadows she casts.”

I lifted my teacup in salute. “To schemes and salons.”

Claire clinked hers against mine. “And to uncovering whatever secrets bloom in the shade.”