Page 39 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

T he moment Georgie stepped through the Montforts’ front door, she knew she’d made a tactical error in wearing anything white.

Chaos reigned.

An excitable spaniel puppy shot between her ankles, barking as though defending a fortress. A footman staggered by balancing a teetering tower of hat boxes. And from somewhere upstairs came the distinct, off-key strains of a harpsichord being played at more of a gallop than a stroll.

“Oh, you came!” Poppy appeared at the top of the stairs, her red hair slightly askew, her bright-blue gown charmingly wrinkled, and her expression a mix of harried and hopeful.

Georgie smiled faintly despite herself. “I said I would.”

When Poppy reached the bottom, she blew a curl out of her eyes and gestured wildly. “Mother is holding a luncheon. For herself. On a Thursday. No one does luncheons on Thursdays. No one. ”

Indeed, Georgie could hear a raucous chorus of laughter from the back of the house, punctuated by the sound of shattering porcelain.

“What can I do?” Georgiana asked gently.

Poppy clutched her arm like a drowning woman seizing a plank of wood. “Help me decide if it’s more urgent to remove the punch bowl before she bathes in it, or to hide the harpist before she decides to dance atop him. Either way, I cannot do both at once.”

Georgie chuckled softly and spent the next hour alternately soothing servants, retying sashes on drunken guests, and somehow convincing Lady Viva not to perform an interpretive dance on the dining table.

By the time she managed to extract herself, she was smiling, genuinely smiling, as she squeezed Poppy’s hand and promised to come again soon.

“Bring your husband next time!” Poppy called after her as she descended the front steps.

But the moment Georgie settled back into the carriage, her smile faded.

Because she wasn’t alone.

A figure sat in the far corner of the seat, shrouded in the shadows despite the wan winter sunlight.

“Good afternoon…Lady Pembroke,” came the low, rasping voice.

Her head jerked up, her blood turning cold.

Lord Henderville.

The marquess himself.

Sitting in her carriage…waiting.

Her mouth went dry as she stared at him, his thin lips curling into something that was neither a smile nor a snarl, something in between.

“What are you doing here?” she managed, her voice sharper than she intended.

When she started to rise, to fling open the door and flee, he lifted a gloved hand, palm out.

“I suggest you sit down, my lady,” he said silkily. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

Her legs felt suddenly heavy, but she lowered herself onto the seat once more, her back ramrod straight, her hands knotted in her lap.

He leaned forward then, his faded eyes glinting.

“I won’t waste your time,” he said, his tone low and full of quiet menace. “You’re enjoying your little fairy tale, I see. The pretty new wife. The lovely new wardrobe. The doting husband.”

Her heart thudded painfully, but she lifted her chin regardless. “Your business with me is over,” she said icily. “You’ll kindly remove yourself from my carriage.”

But he only chuckled. “On the contrary, my business has only just begun.”

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper, which he let fall into her lap.

She didn’t dare touch it yet.

“I know things about your husband,” he said softly. “Things that would ruin him. Destroy him, if they came to light. Political…financial…and otherwise.”

Her stomach turned to ice. “You’re lying,” she breathed.

“Am I?” He leaned forward until she could smell the faint scent of cloves and old brandy on his rancid breath.

“Do you think the Marquess of Pembroke is so very spotless? Untouchable? Do you think he has nothing to lose?”

Her fingers curled into fists in her skirts.

“If you wish to keep your husband’s name from the scandal sheets—and from Parliament’s inquiry board—you’ll arrange a meeting between us. One where he will…reconsider what he owes me. What you both owe me.”

Her mouth opened and closed. “You…” she began, but no words came.

He smiled thinly, clearly savoring her shock. “I rather think he’d prefer you deliver my message,” he said softly. “Do let him know I’ll be in touch.”

Then he reached out and drew a gnarled finger down her cheek. She pulled away sharply and he chuckled. Then he leaned back into the corner, rapped twice on the carriage roof, and the door swung open as if by magic.

Henderville stepped out with chilling calm, straightening his coat and hat before slowly disappearing into the street, leaving behind only the faint smell of his cologne and the heavy weight of fear in her chest.

Georgie sat frozen for a long moment, the paper still untouched in her lap. Her heart thudded wildly as she stared at the door, her mind reeling, her breath shallow.

When she finally gathered herself enough to lift the paper, her hands trembled. She didn’t unfold it yet.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she clenched her jaw, forced her spine straight, and whispered under her breath, “I won’t let you hurt him.”

But even as she said it, her fingers shook.