Page 14 of The Trouble with Inventing a Viscount (The Liars’ Club #3)

Honoria jolted up in bed, panic hammering beneath her breast.

It was a dream, she told herself. Only a dream.

Though, just in case, she touched her hands to her face and her arms, ensuring that her skin was still intact. And finding

it cool and damp with perspiration, instead of charred to a crisp, filled her with untold relief.

She never wanted to have a dream like that again. Ever.

It had begun ominously, with her standing in front of the chapel. She’d been garbed in a crimson dressing gown, the fitted

bodice cut so low that she feared her next inhale would cause her breasts to spill over. Apparently, her dream self had visited

Babette Fairfax’s modiste.

Even so, Honoria’s scandalous attire hadn’t stopped her from reaching out for the long, wrought iron door handle. The feel

of it was solid and smooth beneath her grip. But then it was wrenched away, the doors flinging open to reveal a chapel that

looked very much like Addlewick’s. With only one difference.

This one was red, all the way from the runner down the central aisle to the pews and even the walls. But not like red paint

or even a red sash. No, this color seemed to glow as if alive. A living, breathing red.

She didn’t want to go inside, but her feet left the ground, and she started to float toward the altar. That was when she saw Oscar, his lips curved in a smirk as the doors slammed shut behind her.

As she floated closer and closer, the air grew hotter.

Panicked, she suddenly realized that they were no longer in a church. They were inside an oven.

She called out to Oscar as the blaze encircled her. Her hem caught fire. Then her cuffs. And within seconds her clothes were

incinerated, leaving her naked.

The flames licked over her bare skin, simmering inside her. She called for Oscar again, but all he did was watch her with

hooded eyes. And she feared he was just going to stand there and let her burn.

Then he held out a hand. Blindly, she reached through the flames, hoping he would save her. Yet, when he pulled her through

the glowing red inferno and engulfed her in his smoldering embrace, she realized it was too late. The fire was consuming them

both.

That was when she woke up.

In the pink light of early morning, she threw back the coverlet and padded across the bedchamber toward the washstand.

She understood the symbolism. After all, she was an intelligent, modern nineteenth-century woman. And, clearly, she never

should have kissed Oscar.

It only compounded the issue by making this betrothal nonsense seem far too real... and far too inescapable.

The problem was, since she’d decided against murder, there was no foreseeable way to rid herself of him. No stopping her family

from pushing her toward the altar. And the last thing she wanted was to be married at all.

It seemed her only option was to tell her parents the truth.

“The truth,” she said grimly into the washbasin, her voice bleak and echoing against her wavering reflection. Cupping cool

water in both hands, she splashed it over her face.

Confession was the only way. Unfortunately, once word spread, there would be another scandal. It was inevitable, but she could only hope they would forgive her.

On a resigned sigh, she rang for Tally and dressed for the day.

***

Prepared to bare her sins over porridge and toast, she practiced her speech as she left her chamber.

In fact, she’d just reached the top of the stairs when the front door of Hartley Hall crept open and... Verity stole inside.

Alarmed by the return of the very same sister who’d been married little more than a sennight ago, Honoria started down the

stairs. But something made her hesitate.

It was clear by the way that Verity cast a surreptitious glance around the foyer, before taking pains to close the door quietly,

that she wanted her arrival to go unnoticed. Lowering her valise, she ran a hand over bedraggled hair that looked as though

her pins had been lost across several counties. And her puffy eyes appeared as though she hadn’t slept in days.

But where was her new husband?

Honoria started down again, just as a series of howls sounded from the opposite end of the house. Verity blanched, clearly

having forgotten about the Queen’s Council.

Barrister and Serjeant-at-Arms weren’t about to let her return go unnoticed. They came gamboling down the hall, voicing their

exuberant aroo s of welcome, then proceeded to circle her skirts while nuzzling beneath her hands in demand of returned affection. Once that

was settled, their attention abruptly turned to the tasty leather straps of her valise. And when Mr. Mosely appeared and tried

to rescue the bag, Serjie and Barry dashed off with it. Their butler sighed, then followed.

Mother rushed in from the hall. “Verity, my dear, what is it? Has something happened?”

“Nothing of the sort. I simply... forgot something,” she said, pretending as though her voice wasn’t ragged from crying.

But she’d never been very good on the stage.

Roxana Hartley, on the other hand, gave an exceptional performance at pretending to believe her. She offered a gentle smile

and smoothed the matted hair from her daughter’s cheek. “Ah. Whatever it is, it must be important as I’ve already sent most

of your things to the Longhurst estate. Is Magnus waiting in the carriage, then?”

“No. He”—Verity looked away quickly and swallowed—“he had business matters to attend and stayed at his estate.”

“I’m surprised he let you leave his side,” Mother said and laughed lightly. “When he stole you away to elope, he was so lovestruck

that I wasn’t sure if he would let you out of his sight for the next year. Though, I had hoped he would have whisked you off

on a honeymoon instead.”

“Well, with the silver mine he’s recently inherited, he had to settle up a few matters first.”

“Ah. Then, you likely have your hands full with an entire household of servants to manage...”

Verity shook her head. “His mother sees to everything. She is... particular, and the servants are used to her methods.”

“Yes, Geraldine was always quite particular,” Mother said wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Come, little finch. I’ll help

you find whatever it is that you’re looking for.”

When Verity’s eyes flicked to the stairway, Honoria managed to conceal her worried frown with a mask of delight. “Huzzah!

The prodigal sister has returned. Do not tell me you have actually missed our family dramatics and are eager to take part

in Thea’s next play?”

“If you have need of a potted ficus on your stage, you may call upon my skills,” Verity said, attempting a wry smirk. But

even that faltered, quivering around the edges.

Taking a page from Mother’s script, Honoria pretended not to notice.

Being introspective and reserved was simply Verity’s way, but it broke Honoria’s heart to see all the pain she held inside.

Her sister had spent so much of her life trying to maintain a level head, to keep the peace between siblings, and to bring

a sense of sanity to this rather eccentric household that she never learned to express herself.

Honoria had hoped that Magnus would have brought her out of her shell.

She knew her sister loved him dearly. But clearly, there was something terribly wrong. Something that not even love could

fix.

Then again, in Honoria’s experience, love was the very worst thing that could happen to anyone.

***

That morning, Oscar heard arguing through the open door of the dowager’s sitting room, the discordant rumbles clambering up

the staircase. The sharp, higher tones of feminine voices tried to drown out the low, unfamiliar baritone.

Standing, he closed the book of poetry and tucked it back into his inner coat pocket.

He’d been reading to Vandemere’s grandmother every day. Sometimes from his own book and other times from the books of verse

in the library.

He liked the collection. It made him feel... well, he didn’t want to say that reading them made him feel closer to his

own father. He barely remembered him. After all, he’d been five years old when his father had left without a backward glance.

Even so, he did recall how much the little book of poetry had meant to his mother and how adamant she’d been that Oscar should

keep it safe all throughout his life.

“That is all for today,” he said, lifting the dowager’s knobby hand to bow over it. But when he tried to pull away, she held on with a surprisingly strong grasp.

“Here,” she said with the H silent as though she had a cockney accent.

“Fear not, you haven’t gotten rid of me, yet,” he teased, believing she’d been asking him to stay. “I have other duties at

the moment. But I will come again tomorrow, Grandmama.”

He chose to call her that because... well... there was no reason not to. He had never had a grandmother. At least, none

that he’d known about. And since Vandemere hadn’t bothered to visit the one he had, someone might as well call her Grandmama.

After all these years, she deserved that at least.

Still holding on, she looked down at his hand and gradually forced out one word and then another. “Rrrring... mmmine.”

“I should like nothing more than to give this ring to you. However, I’m afraid I must keep it safe. I made a promise, you

see.”

At this, her mouth spread in a broad smile as if she approved. Or perhaps she knew that if he left it unguarded, it would

likely disappear like many of the paintings throughout the abbey had.

He suspected that the widows or someone had started to sell them off over the years. Of course, he didn’t know this for certain

because he hadn’t yet been granted access to the accounting ledgers. Apparently, Mr. Price had conveniently misplaced them

on the day that Oscar requested to look over the accounts.

Lost ledgers aside, however, Oscar imagined that keeping a large estate such as this would cost a pretty penny. And it was

really nothing more than curiosity that made him want to sneak a peek at the inner workings.

But that could wait. For now, he pressed a kiss to the older woman’s knuckles and promised to return later.

On his way out the door, her nurse stood from the chair in the corner, setting her needlework aside. “Her ladyship always liked those poems. And her health has much improved of late. I do believe it is because of your visits, my lord.”

He inclined his head and thanked her for her kind words. But as he left the room, he realized that, even in such a short time,

he looked forward to these visits, too. It brought him a semblance of peace in the midst of the animosity forever brewing

beneath this roof.

And speaking of animosity, he headed toward the raised voices.

He walked down one staircase and then another—still cringing at the sight of the cracked black lacquer on the railing—before

the cause of the ruckus came into view.

Alfreda and Millicent were confronting a bull moose of a man, their arms wide like they were trying to herd him back through

the open front doorway.

Algernon stood there, his hand on the door, looking completely oblivious as his cloudy gaze stared off in the wrong direction.

“I aim to see his lordship, and I ain’t leavin’ till I do,” the bull moose said with a curt nod and a beetled brow, his barrel

chest puffing out like a Watt steam engine ready to blow.

Alfreda put her foot down with a hard clap. “Mr. Brown, if you do not leave, I will be forced to send for my husband.”

Oscar nearly laughed. The henpecked Shellhorn wouldn’t know the first thing about confrontation. As for the matter of the

bull moose, it took no toiling of the pia mater between Oscar’s ears to discern that Mr. Brown was likely father to the two

ragamuffins fighting over an ice chip the day before.

“And furthermore,” Millicent added sharply, “laborers are seen to at the back of the abbey. Algernon, summon the footmen. Algernon!” When the butler merely stood there at his post, his hearing wholly undisturbed by the biting sound of harpies, she stalked off. “I’ll fetch them myself, then.”

Oscar bit back a grin as he surveyed the scene, walking down the last few steps. “It seems as though there’s a commotion afoot.”

Even though he spoke in a moderate tone, his voice not one-tenth the volume of Millicent’s, he distinctly saw the corner of

the butler’s mouth twitch. That sly devil.

Mr. Brown peeled off his hat. “Are you the viscount?”

“I am Vandemere,” he answered, taking no small amount of delight in seeing Alfreda’s glower. “How may I be of service, sir?”

“But that’s just it. You’ve already been. And a great service, my lord. The greatest, in fact. The missus and me owe you a

debt for saving our little Charlie.”

Embarrassed, Oscar wished he’d taken Mr. Brown aside and away from the hall. He wasn’t used to gratitude. Now, if a man had

charged through the door, accusing him of swindling him out of a fortune, that would have been something familiar. Then after

a heated repartee, bout of fisticuffs or even a duel, Oscar would have realized he’d overstayed his welcome in that particular

city, and in the morning, he would have been gone.

That was his life.

This was not.

This life belonged to Vandemere, wherever that truant was. And even though it had actually been Oscar who’d thrown himself

into this by his negligibly noble act yesterday, he’d never felt more the charlatan than he did now. “It was no trouble. Any

man would have done the same.”

He took a step and gestured to the door. Unfortunately, there was no moving Mr. Brown from his spot until he’d had his say.

“But it was. Folks still be talkin’ ’bout how you done tore down the street, risking life and limb to save me boy. I’m here

to offer me humble gratitude.”

When he bowed low, Oscar shifted uncomfortably. “Well then, it’s all settled. I appreciate that you came all this way and... er... I’m sending you off to your family with my finest wishes for your future felicitations.”

“Gratitude ain’t all I brought.” Mr. Brown flashed a broad, toothy grin of short, square teeth. “See, the gossips, they been

talkin’ about how you ain’t had any proper victuals since you’ve come home.” He paused to cast a disparaging glance at Alfreda

and at Millicent, who was striding up like an avenging willow tree draped in black with two of her minions in tow. “So I brung

all this for you.”

As soon as he spoke, in walked Mrs. Brown and her two miscreants, toting baskets brimming with breads, pies and pastries of

all sorts. Meanwhile, Algernon looked on, an amused grin on his rawboned countenance.

“Mr. Brown, I don’t quite know what to say.”

Oscar felt a peculiar, tight sensation in the environs of his chest. It made him feel closed in, his feet heavy on the floor

as if they were sprouting roots. He wasn’t sure what it was, though he suspected it was the green sludge at breakfast.

All he wanted to do in that moment was stride through the door and take in a big gulp of air. Or, better yet, get on his horse

and ride until his hat flew off in the wind and—

“Well, I know what to say.” Millicent flailed her arms in a shooing motion. “Be gone and take all this rubbish away at once.

Dunnelocke Abbey needs none of your charity. We have food aplenty. It is not the fault of these kitchens if it doesn’t suit

every palate.”

That snide tone was enough to chase away that uncomfortable constriction in Oscar’s chest. Drawing in a deep breath, he silently

thanked Vandemere’s dear sweet aunt .

Alfreda motioned impatiently to the footmen. But then a most surprising thing happened. The footmen hesitated, sharing a look

between themselves before directing their attention not to Alfreda... but to Oscar.

Before Alfreda could finish uttering “What are you waiting for?” Oscar cleared his throat.

“Rand. Perry,” he said to the liveried men. “See to it that these generous gifts are taken with care to the kitchens, the

contents unloaded and the baskets returned to my friends.”

They bowed and said in unison, “Aye, my lord.”

It wasn’t until the instant he saw Millicent and Alfreda stiffen that the my lord registered. And he realized this hadn’t been the first time that day either. The nurse had also addressed him with deference.

Apparently, there was a contagion running amok beneath this roof, starting with the servants.

He grinned at the aunts, filled with a sense of peevish delight.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said to the footmen. “Since Mr. and Mrs. Brown have been so generous, I believe it is only right

that they should have a jar of the rose honey that Lady Millicent is forever declaring to be the best in all of England.”

His grin only widened when Millicent fumed. She was rather particular and protective about her hives. “And please escort Mrs.

Brown through the rose garden and assist her with any cuttings she would like to take with her.”

The men nodded without hesitation.

Mrs. Brown beamed, her hand splaying over her bosom. “Oh, your lordship, you are too kind.”

When his kindness could bring misery to the pair of wasps glaring at him with stingers at the ready, yes indeed, he could

be kind.

He inclined his head to Mrs. Brown and shook her husband’s hand. The boys, in the midst of playing tug-of-war with their basket,

were given a look by their father. They summarily dropped the basket, stood up straight as arrows and bowed at the waist like

tin soldiers. And Oscar ruffled their heads, sending them off.

Once the hall was left with only the faint aroma of edible delights, he turned to the widows.

Alfreda crossed her arms beneath her black bombazine-bound bosom. “Mrs. Blandings will not be happy about this.”

“I should think not,” he agreed. “Doubtless, she will be embarrassed by the rumors that have been spreading about her cooking,

and she will blame it all on you.”

“How dare you invite them into my rose garden! And to share honey from my hives is unforgivable,” Millicent sneered. “You

have no authority here.”

“So you say. However, it seems that the servants have other ideas. Except for the ever-loyal Mr. Price, of course. According

to him, the accounting books have been misplaced. If that is true, I have to wonder what tasks keep him locked up in his office

for hours on end.” He pursed his lips, eyeing her with suggestive speculation. “You wouldn’t happen to be popping by for a

lengthy visit or a game of ribbon around the maypole, would you, Aunt Millie?”

She gasped. “Why, I never—”

“He’s only attempting to provoke you,” Alfreda interjected, her chin jutting forward. “Just leave him. He will soon have the

noose around his throat when the cleric arrives with the bona fide baptismal record in hand. He will tell us all we need to

know.”

At the news, Oscar’s countenance betrayed none of the disquiet suddenly churning in the pit of his stomach. He simply offered

a salute to the pair as they stalked away. “Well, Algernon, this is turning out to be a rather interesting day.”

“It is, indeed,” the butler said. “My lord.”