Page 53 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Be willing to go as far as it takes to get what you want
T o give credit where it was due, Roberts appeared genuinely baffled when he informed them that the earl was not at home. Of course, when faced with three incensed women and a duke demanding entry, it would be understandable if the man prevaricated a little.
Caro braced her hands on her hips. “Are you quite sure? Is he not receiving visitors, or has he physically left the premises?”
“Left the premises for the evening, Your Grace,” Roberts replied with a deferential nod.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” Hattie pressed.
The butler’s eyes shifted away. “As I am not his lordship’s personal secretary, I have no way of knowing, miss.”
A blatant lie. Servants were the eyes and ears of a house.
Rather than quibble, Constance stepped down to the pavement.
“Maybe we should ask the woman he’s marrying where to find him tonight.
” Was that anger and bitterness in her voice?
Undoubtably. To think, not long ago, she’d stood in her shop and thought the last few days had been overwhelming.
Every second since proved how much louder and out of control the world could feel. Constance clenched her fists and tried to breathe through the cloying sensation of everything being altogether too much to take in.
“We’ll determine our next step in the carriage,” Dorian suggested.
“I can’t believe there are actual invitations to this farce,” Hattie groused, settling back on the seat she’d vacated moments before.
“Wedding invitations are a step too far. We all agree on that,” Caro fumed.
“All right. What do we know? Althea’s message said to be in the Forsyths’ library,” Dorian said.
“She sent me a message several days ago saying she and Mr. Wellsley had concocted a plan. No specifics,” Connie said.
“And we know Althea will do anything to avoid marrying Southwyn.” Hattie leaned toward Constance and squinted in the dark. “Connie, love? I want you to take a deep lungful of air. You’re pale as a sheet and look like a spooked horse. Caro, Connie’s overwhelmed.”
Removing her cloak, Hattie handed it to Constance. “Wrap this tight around you if it will help. Close your eyes and ignore us. We will find our friends and get you where you need to be.”
Constance took the garment, because arguing that she was fine would be futile and a blatant falsehood. Huddled in the corner of the carriage with Hattie’s cloak covering her head, she closed her eyes and focused on the rumble of carriage wheels beneath her.
Several minutes passed before Connie felt slightly more in control of herself. From far away, snippets of conversation reached her.
Caro said, “Dorian and I planned to attend the Forsyths’ soiree this evening anyway.
In light of the invitation, I think it would be cruel to send everyone back to the shop and ask you to wait for word.
Althea wants Dorian somewhere at nine thirty?
She’ll get all of us.” Then, her cousin called, presumably to their coachman. “Home, please.”
“All of us? I can’t go to a fancy ton event.” Hattie didn’t sound pleased. “I’ll be thrown out onto the street.”
Constance smiled in her dark cocoon. Caro would never let anything happen to Hattie.
“I’d like to see them try,” Dorian growled.
Neither would Dorian, Connie thought. As for her, this wouldn’t be the first ton event she sneaked into. Tonight, she’d have the added protection of a duke and duchess.
“We have plenty of time to tack up the hem on a gown for Connie, and I know I have a few that will fit you, Hattie,” Caro said, sounding genuinely excited. “It will be just like those nights when we’d sit and alter clothes for Connie’s many, many, many outings with men.”
Constance nearly laughed when Hattie added a dry “so many men.”
That’s when she knew she could emerge from her cloak cocoon. As usual, her cousins were Connie’s anchor in any situation. Slowly removing the woolen buffer from the world she’d needed for a short time, she handed Hattie her cloak with a quiet “thank you.”
Without the layers of sharp sensations, her mind was clear enough to make sense of her thoughts once more.
Doubts crept in. What if Oliver had changed his mind, or realized he couldn’t keep the promises he’d made to her?
An ache in her jaw told her she’d been clenching her teeth. Connie rubbed at the pain and tried to follow those thoughts to a conclusion.
If Oliver wanted to marry Althea after all, he’d need to tell her himself. She deserved that much. Not to learn about it from an—admittedly beautiful—wedding invitation.
That wasn’t even meant for her.
In a week, she’d have read about their marriage in the Times , assuming Althea hadn’t told her first.
Why hadn’t Althea specifically mentioned the invitations in her missive? Or that her mother had secured a date at the church? Why had she written to Dorian requesting his presence tonight, instead of Constance?
Checking her watch brooch, Connie sighed. Each question would have an answer in a little over two hours. Not soon enough.
Waiting was awful.
Arriving at an event in a timely manner made for a boring evening.
Especially when you’d never planned to show up in the first place.
Oliver prowled through the game room, filled with tables, chairs, and cards with betting tokens laid out for the guests.
He explored hallways to see which rooms were open, downed two flutes of champagne as he wandered the conversation area and assessed every new face entering through the door, searching for Dorian.
Glancing at his pocket watch, Oliver stifled a groan.
How had it only been three-quarters of an hour? Hell and damnation. I’m supposed to be kissing Constance right now.
If he remembered correctly, Althea and Wellsley planned their scene for 9:30. Surely he’d find Dorian before then and still have time to track down Constance—provided Caro knew his intended’s whereabouts.
Circling back to the game room, Oliver dodged a flower swinging free from its moorings. The Forsyths clearly underwent some expense for the decor this evening. Garlands and ribbons draped off everything.
Would this be his last annual Forsyth soiree?
If Constance married him, would they live quietly away from society, or would they face the lions together?
He rather hoped they’d stare down the ton, if only to see Constance work her charm on everyone, then watch them fall under her thrall.
Like it or not, by this time next year, the best of them would adore her too.
Imagining her by his side next year, flashing that dimple at people she counted as friends, made him smile to himself.
London nobility didn’t stand a chance against that dimple.
Mr. Wellsley entered the room and hurried over when he spotted Oliver.
“Southwyn? Didn’t expect you to be here.
Is everything, uh, going well this evening?
” Wellsley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Oliver nearly laughed.
England’s army had not lost a master of espionage when it failed to snatch Franklin Wellsley into its ranks.
“I’m trying to find her. She’s with her cousin, the Duchess of Holland. Since the Hollands are attending tonight, here I am. Hopefully, they’ll help me track her down before eleven, and all will be well.”
“They’ll be here. Althea thought we needed someone high-ranking to witness everything and dispel any doubters.
Who better than a duke? She sent a message telling them when and where to meet.
” Worry pinched his face. “But if you’re here now, who’s going to be you know where , you know when , with you know what ? ”
“My coachman returned home and will be in place with the right equipage at the agreed-upon time.” Anticipating the next question, Oliver hastened to add, “When Dorian arrives and I find out where Constance is, I’ll take a hack. All will be well. You focus on your part.”
Over Wellsley’s shoulder, Oliver spied Lord Bixby arriving with his sisters. Catching his eye, Oliver gave Bixby a nod, which the man returned with a raised eyebrow, as if to ask “are you certain?” Oliver nodded once more. Yes. He was sure.
Bixby and his sisters melted into the crowd.
Before Oliver could look away from where they’d stood, another party entered the room.
Constance stood in the doorway, flanked by her cousins and Dorian, who’d positioned themselves like her royal guard.
Air rushed from his lungs. She was just so… everything. She was everything.
Everything except supposed to be here . “At least this simplifies the schedule.”
Wellsley followed his gaze.
“Good, His Grace is here with… oh. Miss Martin? Now? When you haven’t—”
“Quite. The woman between Constance and Her Grace is their cousin, Miss Hattie McCrae. Remember that name and face. They’re inseparable. If they’ve accepted Althea into their pack as an honorary cousin, you do not want to cross Miss McCrae.”
“That’s good, right? That Althea has such close friends?”
“It’s wonderful, unless you land on the wrong side of them. Those women would kill for each other.”
Wellsley nodded seriously, and Oliver suspected if there’d been paper at hand, he’d be taking earnest notes. “Since you’re all here, will you be in the library?”
“Assuming I’m not busy pleading my case with Constance, yes. I’ll play my part.”
“Plead your case? Do you think you’ll need to beg?”
Oliver grunted. “Perhaps. When I visited Martin House, there’d been some kind of uproar earlier. Her father wished me luck. Said I should be prepared to either grovel or run. You might witness the wrath of the cousins firsthand.”
Wellsley winced in sympathy. “What did you do, Southwyn?”
“Damned if I know.”