Page 43 of The Wallflower Ruse

Mother sniffed. “Typical folly. By what I hear, Mr. Hale was a completely unacceptable revenue officer at the time. It was sheer luck that he proved to be the heir of an earl.”

“My true love is a poet!” Lucinda said with her best attempt at a fatuous smile.

“Restive said something about an infatuation,” Mother said. “You must put this poet from your mind.”

“How can I? He’s perfect. Just like Papa, he writes Latin epigrams, as well as poems in English, of course. Charming sonnets about nymphs and shepherds, flowers and sunsets and...” She heaved what she hoped passed for a besotted sigh. “He composed a poem for me and read it at Mrs. Haraldson’s.”

Mother sniffed.

“His given name is Melrose. How strange; I never liked that name before, but now I adore it. Melrose Pearce, and I shall soon be Lucinda Pearce.”

“I’d never heard of him before today,” Mother said, “so he must be a nobody. No doubt he is as useless as your father. I daresay he wears worn breeches and a neckerchief, just like an impoverished artist. Completely ineligible.”

“On the contrary,” Lucinda said. “Mr. Pearce dresses in the best of taste—has the most beautiful waistcoats I have ever seen—and is accepted everywhere. His ancestry dates back to the Conquest. Everyone describes him as an extremely handsome, well-mannered gentleman. I am the luckiest woman in the world.”

“Good God,” Mother said. “You’re as crack-brained as Susannah. If you fell into anything at first sight, it was lust, which is all very well, but not until you have given Restive an heir.”

“Surely you don’t condone adultery, Lady Belair?” Cecil asked gently.

Mother had the grace to blush. “Well, no, naturally not, but one must be realistic about such things.” She glowered. “Are you acquainted with this Pearce person?”

“We’ve met,” Cecil said. “He’s a good sort and a tolerable poet. Gentle, kindly, unassuming.”

“In other words, useless.”

“Not to me, Mother,” Lucinda said. “I told you I would wait for the right man—and Melrose Pearce is he.”

Mother threw up her hands. “As if I didn’t have enough troubles, now I have to put a stop to this folly.” She left.

“That should keep her busy for a while,” Dorothea said, when they heard the front door close behind her. “I hope she won’t frighten Mr. Pearce away. We need him until tomorrow night.”

“Oh dear,” Lucinda said. “I shouldn’t have said I meant to marry him, but I couldn’t think of any other way to counteract Restive’s stupid, stupid statements.”

Cecil looked from one lady to the other, brows raised. Dorothea obliged with a brief explanation. “Good Lord,” Cecil said. “How very unlike him.”

“How dare he!” Lucinda cried. “He fed my mother all that nonsense about me, knowing she would return here immediately! All I could think of—apart from visiting some ghastly revenge upon Restive—was how to get rid of her, and it suddenly occurred to me that Mr. Pearce was the perfect excuse.” She paused. “I’m sorry if I spoiled your plans.”

“We haven’t quite made plans yet. We’re waiting to see what Davis learns. He and Restive will improvise, if necessary—as you just did.”

A kindly way to put it, Lucinda thought. What she’d done was closer to panic than improvisation. She had to find a way to fix things.

“Calm down,” Cecil said, crossing the room to pour her an inch of brandy. “Restive and Davis are resourceful fellows.”

“What I wonder is, did Restive do it on purpose or not?” Dorothea asked.

“Do what?” Cecil asked, and then, “Oh. Lady Belair. It does seem strange. He usually just sends them away with a flea in their ear.”

“Of course he did it on purpose,” Lucinda retorted.

“As far as the words he used, yes,” Cecil said. “He’s good at thinking up the right lines to say, so to speak. He probably enjoyed the process while it was happening. But...did he pause to consider the consequences?”

“He knew it would infuriate me,” Lucinda said.

“He knew it would infuriate your mother,” Dorothea countered. “He knew you would be annoyed at him, but if he thought about it for more than a few seconds, he assumed you’d get over it.”

“Yes, it’s no worse than anything else he has said or done,” Lucinda said. “But in the meantime, I long to throw something at him, except that mother has tantrums at the slightest provocation, so I have sworn never to do so.”

“I suspect he didn’t want to give your mother the same old blather he usually gives matchmaking mamas,” Dorothea said. “Not that he cares a fig for her, but it would have amounted to an insult to you. You’re not on the prowl for a husband, and it would be unfair and unkind to respond as if you were.”

Lucinda gave that the two seconds’ consideration it deserved. “How very thoughtful of him, but need he spout a lot of foolishness about me?”

“None of it was foolishness, Lucinda. You are indeed possessed of a great many desirable qualities.” She glanced at her husband and away again. “However, he could have taken a different tack—so why did he choose this one?”