Page 51 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

If you’re silly enough to fall in love, don’t forget your friends

C onstance nibbled at a dry cuticle, then forced herself to stop and return to work. Creating a new display would keep her hands busy. And lord knew she needed busy. Nervous energy hummed under her skin.

The prior evening, the cousins and Dorian sat down with her parents to discuss the future of Martin House. Owen and Mary listened intently and asked seemingly endless questions. After two hours, everyone was in agreement.

Dorian and Caro would purchase the store once Connie’s parents were ready to live closer to Betsy.

The cousins decided they’d equally share ownership of the shop, as well as the responsibility for major decisions.

Since Caro’s role as Blanche Clementine, mother, and Duchess of Holland took a considerable amount of her time, they’d add a staff member to take over the bookkeeping.

Connie’s relief at that particular item in the discussion had been acute.

At her parents’ insistence, everyone agreed to one stipulation.

If Hattie or Connie chose to move on at any point in the future, they’d hire someone to take their place in the day-to-day running of things, without risking their share of ownership.

Owen didn’t want anyone to feel trapped.

Regardless, Martin House stayed in the family and would be there for the next generation.

Which meant Constance never needed to leave the safety of her home. She couldn’t have dreamed of a better outcome, yet her happiness lacked something. Oliver hadn’t been there to celebrate with her, and she’d felt the loss deeply.

Which was ridiculous. After all, they’d only declared their feelings days before. Her heart, however, insisted this achievement—becoming a business-owner-to-be—was one she needed to share with him.

Except, she hadn’t heard from him since their return from Kent.

Last night, unable to sleep, she’d written a long missive, sharing the details of the meeting and telling him how much she wished he’d been there.

However, Oliver sent no reply to her life-changing news, and waiting for one grated on her last nerve.

Waiting was the worst thing in the world and you couldn’t convince Connie otherwise.

It took a while to gather the books for a display, but once she had, things came together quickly.

The store offered a variety of titles explaining the finer points of skills like spinning wool, knitting, and needlepoint.

Thanks to her collection of abandoned hobbies, she had plenty of bits and pieces of half-finished projects to incorporate as examples.

The goal was to inspire people to touch a variety of handcrafts, then find a book and learn how to make their own—and hopefully finish them. The result was colorful, visually interesting, and would have made Constance smile if she wasn’t so busy overthinking her life.

Two days, plus today. Almost three days, really.

Not a peep from Oliver. Every time she thought about it, which was every four minutes—give or take fifteen seconds—anxiety grew until she wanted to climb out of her skin.

Noises struck against her ears. Her shoes pinched across the top of her foot, and no amount of wiggling or loosening them helped.

On top of her general discomfort in her own body, the contents of Althea’s last missive nagged at her. The note had been waiting for her when she returned from Kent, and all requests for more information had been ignored.

Connie,

Franklin and I decided it is time to take drastic measures.

Thank you for everything you’ve done thus far in this matchbreaking attempt.

You’ve been the best of friends to me. Girls before earls, forever!

(For me, anyway. You can keep your earl)

Althea

For once, Connie didn’t know her friend’s intentions, and Althea’s silence during the days since didn’t reassure her.

Why wouldn’t anyone write her back?

Planning for the meeting with her parents took most of yesterday, as the cousins haggled over details between customers. Caro and Baby Nate spent the whole day in the shop. There hadn’t been a free second to call on either Althea or Oliver. Not when the future of her home and income were at stake.

Normally, two days without contact with a man or a friend wouldn’t be remarkable.

That was before their night together, when Oliver asked her to trust him to end his engagement.

Now, Althea was doing God-only-knew-what, and Connie feared that might somehow undo Oliver’s efforts.

Because even though they both worked toward a common goal, no one was talking to anyone else.

Constance shared these concerns regarding Althea’s unknown scheme in that missive to Oliver. Even that hadn’t warranted an answer.

Pain pushed at her temples. Connie leaned on the table and tried to breathe deeply. The alternative was to cry from overwhelmed frustration. Everything is happening at once. The good things feel a little too huge, and the bad things are entirely out of my control. I hate this.

One question in her swarming sea of thoughts gave her pause. When it came to Althea’s vague message, did she worry more about Oliver’s work unraveling, or Althea’s plan failing? Surprisingly, the answer came immediately. Oliver.

At the end of the day, her friend had Wellsley and enough brash determination to run from the church if it came to that.

Whatever Oliver’s method, she suspected it had involved considerable time and effort to develop and execute.

If Althea’s impetuousness blew him off course somehow, Constance would be vexed on his behalf.

At what point was she allowed to storm into his house and demand an explanation to why he hadn’t answered her message?

The watch brooch pinned to her apron read six twenty-nine.

Damnit, Oliver. You have until eight o’clock to either write or show up.

Then I’m done waiting. I can’t stand here and do nothing.

As if summoned by her call for something to do, Caro charged through the door, sending the shop bell jingling merrily.

Constance attempted a welcoming smile, but she needn’t have bothered. Caro’s face was thunderous, with pinched lips and her chin drawn in a mutinous point. Without a word of greeting, her cousin slapped a sheet of heavy cardstock atop a book of lace patterns.

“Are there customers here?”

Connie shook her head. “It’s been quiet for the last quarter hour.”

“Good. Because that son of a—”

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me, ladies!” her father interrupted from the office, and Constance genuinely laughed for the first time all day.

Pink splashes of color warmed Caro’s cheeks. “Apologies! I love you, Uncle Owen!” she called.

The sound of his chuckle reached them on the sales floor, followed by the click of a closing door. Within moments, floorboards creaked overhead.

Caro continued, “As I was saying, that bastard Southwyn has a lot to answer for. Dorian is appalled and worried, but I’m absolutely murderous.”

“What’s happened?” Dread coiled like a spring, ready to explode in her chest. She eyed Caro’s paper as if it were a viper.

Sir William Thompson

requests the pleasure of your company at the marriage of his daughter

Althea

to

The Right Hon’ble. The Earl of Southwyn

Tuesday, June 18th, 1816

At eleven o’clock St. George’s Hanover Square

Tuesday. A choking sound rattled nearby, and it took a moment for Constance to realize she was the one making it. Oliver had asked her to trust him. Pinpoints of pain flared in her palms as fingernails dug into her flesh. This must be why Althea and Wellsley were escalating their own plan.

“Breathe, Connie. Inhale. Good girl. Now, slowly let it out. No, slowly. That’s right.” Caro’s voice sounded like it came from far away, through a tunnel. “Here, darling. Sit down. Inhale again. Now, gradually let it out. Bit by bit. Good, there’s color in your cheeks now.”

Caro’s worried face came into focus when Constance blinked. “He’s getting married in a little over a week.” But… he’d promised he wasn’t marrying Althea—that he’d handle it. And he’d been so adorably awkward and vulnerable while explaining the personal significance of Tuesdays.

Constance was no longer worried or sad. Indignation pulsed through her veins and angry ripples under her skin made small hairs on her arms stand on end. It wouldn’t surprise her if a wind came out of nowhere, and her skirts whirled around her legs like an evil witch in a fairy tale.

Oliver Vincent, Earl of bloody Southwyn, had better be prepared to explain himself.

Constance shoved to her feet, then wavered for a second when the world wobbled at the abrupt movement. “He said he had it sorted. He said he loved me .”

If the plan had been for him to bolt from the altar, he would have said as much. It wasn’t as if the topic hadn’t come up in their discussions already.

Caro looked ready to go to war on her behalf. “Shall I put up the closed sign?”

“Yes. I’ll tell my parents we’re leaving.” Constance pulled her cloak from the peg on the wall and shoved the nearest bonnet onto her head. Opening the door to the stairwell, she bellowed, “I have to close early. Caro and I need to go kill a man.”

There was a beat of silence before she heard her father say, “I knew there’d be a body someday.” Then meant for their ears, he yelled, “Don’t get caught. We love you.”

Her mother’s voice joined the conversation. “Would you girls like some biscuits to take with you? You shouldn’t commit violence on an empty stomach.”

On cue, her belly gurgled. “Um, yes please,” Constance called meekly, and smiled when her father’s chuckle drifted down the stairwell. A moment later, her mum appeared with a tin.

“Here you go, my love.” She kissed Connie’s cheek. “I don’t know what is happening, but if you find yourself in trouble, use your connection to Dorian. Having a duke in the family helps almost any legal situation.”

Mary Martin, pragmatist baker.

“Thank you, Mum. I love you.”