Page 23 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Althea had stolen and replaced another waistcoat.
Orange in that particular shade shouldn’t be possible, much less legal for purchase.
This theft forced him to choose a different day’s color, further breaking the predictable routine of dressing that had served him well for years.
Scheduling such things meant one less decision to make.
One thing in his day over which he had complete control.
As he shrugged into his coat, the ace of spades from Sir William’s office caught his eye. Yellowed with age and fraying around the edges, it mocked him from the table on which he’d thrown it. Without overthinking the urge, he shoved the card in his pocket and went downstairs.
Two hours later, Oliver cradled his head in his hands and stared at the tidy stack of invoices.
Modistes. Shoemakers. Milliners—five of them.
God, how many different bonnets did one woman need?
Lace weavers. A random warehouse with a delivery address near the docks.
He wanted to question that one specifically, since the idea of Althea wandering the docks and shopping terrified him.
Unthinkable things happened to women at the docks.
Still resting his forehead in one palm, he reviewed the papers. “There’s even a cheese monger. Who, pray tell, spends this much on cheese ?”
It wasn’t the expense, although that was enough to make King Midas’s eyes water.
It was the fact that no one needed that much cheese. Not even Althea.
Also, the waistcoats. Drinking too much and flirting with the footman at dinner the other night. The damned cat. Perhaps even stranger, the way things moved and resituated themselves around his house. These days, he spent the first few minutes in a room returning items to their proper place.
If Miss Martin was in on the plan—and the longer he considered it, the more obvious that became—it would explain why she moved the inkwell on his desk. Althea was not an unintelligent woman.
All of it was designed to deliberately provoke, annoy, and inconvenience him. Part of Oliver wanted to give them both, Althea especially, a standing ovation. The other part wished he could capitulate and give her what she wanted, even though it wouldn’t serve her well in the end.
Althea’s feelings on their marriage were quite clear, and God knew he didn’t desire an unwilling bride. However, with Sir William’s circumstances being what they were, becoming Oliver’s countess was the best she could expect.
Without him, Althea would face a father in debtor’s prison—or dead from shady moneylenders—no dowry to speak of, and yet another scandal on a family name that wasn’t illustrious enough to withstand the stain.
It would be so easy to walk away from the whole situation.
Release her from their engagement and allow Sir William to reap the harvest he’d sown with his poor decisions.
Yet, a lifetime of memories of a golden-haired, laughing little girl begging him for piggy-back rides refused to let him react as his father would have.
Once upon a time, that little girl trusted him. As had the thirteen-year-old; when heady with her first infatuation, she’d asked Oliver how to get the attention of the boy she fancied.
When Dorcas eloped and Sir William informed Althea she’d fulfill the marriage contract instead, Oliver had witnessed the swift death of her trust.
Obviously, Althea didn’t realize how dire the circumstances were.
Not when gaining that knowledge required her father to be truthful with her.
It seemed like a safe guess to assume Sir William was equally cagey with his family as he’d been with him.
Otherwise, Lady Thompson would be making economies, rather than planning a grand spectacle of a wedding.
Which left a few solid truths to cling to.
First, he needed to speak with Althea and apprise her of the situation.
Preferably before she escalated her current tactics with a visit to Rundle & Bridge and beggared him entirely.
Second, he’d reassure her that he would not abandon someone who’d been part of his world for the entirety of his life.
In time, their affection for one another might turn romantic instead of platonic. It could happen. Otherwise, his marriage would be nothing more than a lifetime of Tuesdays.
Oliver drew in a gust of air, forcing calm over the churning thoughts. Restacking the bills, he handed the pile to his secretary. “Pay them.”
Constance loved her sister. Of course she did. That they were twins added another layer of intimacy—and conflict. Some, or most, would argue it was impossible to not love Betsy.
A mirror image of Constance on the outside, she too was often described as a pocket Venus.
Short, buxom, with wildly curly blond hair and dimples that winked when she smiled.
Which was often, because Betsy possessed an even disposition, a methodical mind that didn’t betray her at every turn, and the kind of peaceful presence that made others feel lucky to be around her.
It was hell to look like her while being so different in every way that mattered.
Betsy fell in love with Barrister Steven Tilford, married him a few months later, set up a cozy home a couple hours from London, then proceeded to give birth to the most angelic daughter on Earth.
A blond cherub with her mother’s dimples and both parents’ analytical minds, Georgia was impossible not to love. Just like her mother.
Constance might be her mirror image, but in all other ways, they were night and day. Alas, she wasn’t the “day” part of the idiom. Her parents would never admit it, but compared to Betsy, Constance must be a disappointment.
Yet, she loved her sister. Loved her niece. Even loved her brother-in-law, although she’d never have chosen him for herself. Steven fit Betsy in the same way Caro and Dorian fit. Like puzzle pieces snapping together, linked for life.
“Aun’ Connie,” Georgia gently reprimanded.
Constance shook her head. “So sorry, darling. I was woolgathering.” Taking the picture book from Georgia’s little fist, she patted her lap and waited as the three-year-old settled in the cradle of her legs. When a pointy elbow dug into her thigh, Constance winced but didn’t complain.
“Will I see my cousin soon? Mama’s been gone for so long.”
“Yes, if Aunt Caro feels he’s up to it. Nathaniel is new to the world, moppet. He might be tired after meeting your mama.” They waited in the sitting room of the duke and duchess’s chambers. Her niece had been watching the closed door to the bedroom since Betsy disappeared inside.
Georgia relaxed against her aunt’s chest with the confidence of a child who’d only ever found welcoming arms. Dropping a kiss on the golden head, Connie breathed in.
Sunshine, a little sweat, soap, and traces of both her mother’s perfume and father’s cologne.
Connie might never have a family of her own, but she relished being an aunt.
However, as time passed, it seemed more likely that Georgia might be the only child who would resemble her.
“Will ’thaniel be my friend? Like Aun’ Caro, and Aun’ Happy are your friends?”
The day this child learned to say her t ’s and Hattie stopped being Aun’ Happy, Constance would cry. She just knew it.
Smiling, she dropped another kiss on those adorable curls, so much like her own. “I believe you and Nathaniel could be great friends. Cousins are like bonus siblings. Perhaps someday you’ll have brothers or sisters, but Nathaniel will always have been first.”
“I wan’ a sis’er.”
Constance knew it was wicked, but she said, “You should say so to your parents. Often.”
The bedroom door opened, and Betsy walked in holding the baby. Caro followed, wearing a loose morning gown.
“Would you like to meet your new cousin, Georgia?” Caro asked. She sat gingerly on the sofa before taking her son from Betsy. Georgia clambered off Constance’s lap.
“Careful, darling,” Betsy said. “He’s quite delicate, remember.” She sat beside her daughter, close enough to intervene if the three-year-old grew too excited.
They needn’t have worried. As soon as she peeked into the bundle of cloth, Georgia audibly gasped. “How is he so small?”
Betsy chuckled. “You were tiny like that once. And here you are, growing taller and stronger every day. Nathaniel is fragile at the moment, but he won’t be for long.”
“If you hold very still and follow directions, I’m sure he’d like you to hold him,” Caro said, and received a beatific smile from Georgia.
Constance felt her heart twist slightly as she watched them teach the little girl how to support the baby’s head. Soon, Nathaniel was cradled on Georgia’s lap, who’d instantly fallen in love with him. Caro and Betsy exchanged a sweet, knowing look.
They didn’t glance her way, even though Connie probably wore the same expression.
Of course, Caro was a mother now, which gave her and Betsy something in common.
Something Constance knew nothing of. As Georgia and Nathaniel bonded with murmured words, coos, and grunts, Betsy offered Caro advice about nursing, and discussed nappies and sleep schedules.
Connie had nothing to add to the discourse, and she was achingly aware that she might never have a similar conversation with either of them.
Jealousy struck her as too strong a word, but whatever this feeling might be, it wasn’t comfortable. It felt a bit like standing outside a bakery, inhaling the delicious smells and admiring how beautiful everything looked through the window. All the while, knowing her pockets were empty.
Soon, Constance would leave this breathtaking home in Bloomsbury, while her sister and niece stayed behind. Caro and Dorian had offered a guest room for the duration of their visit.
Caro and Betsy had never been close. But in this moment, Constance watched them connect in a way that made it seem like they were growing away from her.