by Lynn Messina
After listening to their chatter, which continued for several minutes, Vinnie asked if anyone cared to know how her presentation went.
Emma gave her sister’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze and said, “We know it went beautifully and that you were a triumph.”
Confused, Vinnie opened her eyes. “Did Alex give you a report?”
Emma shook her head.
“Then how do you know that?” Vinnie asked.
“Because we know you,” Emma said simply, humbling Vinnie with her unequivocal faith. “Now you just sit back and regain your energy. Don’t forget there’s a sausage pie here with your name on it, assuming we can keep Roger’s grubby hands off it.”
“You mean hand,” her brother said, raising his lone surviving arm. He had lost the other one in a riding accident caused by the traitorous Sir Windbourne. Although he found many tasks difficult to perform without the appendage and had moments when he was cross and blue-deviled, he was, for the most part, grateful to be alive and good-natured about his condition.
“Duly noted,” Emma said, “but don’t think gaining my sympathy will obtain you the sausage roll, for I am resolute.”
“As am I,” Sarah said.
Laughing at the absurdity, for her brother frequently made elaborate plays for sympathy to no avail, Vinnie sat back, per her sister’s orders, and took another bite of the ham pie. Although the pastry was large and filling, her appetite was too ferocious to be appeased by only one and she decided that she would have the sausage pie, as well. She also stole a stalk of asparagus from Emma’s plate, and not thirty seconds later, received her own portion of pickled vegetables from Sarah.
“Do not mistake our savoir faire for indifference,” Emma said. “We are all on pins and needles to hear about your evening and are making a supreme effort to let you revive before pestering you with hundreds of questions. I, personally, have twenty-five recorded in a notebook to ensure I don’t forget a single one. Additionally, I know the dowager is just as eager to hear how your presentation went, although she would claim only mild interest if pressed.”
Vinnie appreciated their forbearance and realized that the meat pies had in fact proved restorative, for she felt some of her excitement return. By the time the party was settled in the Grosvenor Square drawing room, she had recovered her strength entirely and was able to give an energetic, comprehensive account of the event, starting with a detailed description of the great rotunda, with its swoon-inducing dome and dependable podium, which, in her retelling, was cast as her staunchest ally in the room. She told them about Mr. Berry’s protocols and Trent’s kind introduction and the moment—the perfectly wonderful, groundbreaking moment—when Lord Peter Waldegrave raised his hand to request a copy of her pamphlet. Emma squealed with delight and Sarah clapped her hands and even the dowager smiled with approval.
And the leaf of spinach! How could she tell them all about the presentation without remembering to mention the leaf of spinach that was still hanging above Mr. Townshend’s left ear when he came to begrudgingly congratulate her for a “not entirely uninformative” lecture. “It must reveal a flaw in your character,” Vinnie observed earnestly, “when none of your friends or colleagues will tell you about the vegetation in your coiffure.”
The narration went on for hours, supplemented by a cold collation of lamb cutlets and peas, and by the time Sarah and Roger took their leave at one o’clock, Vinnie was once again exhausted. The day, with its endless cycles of highs and lows, had finally taken its toll, and she could barely keep her head up as Emma walked her to her room. She was so tired, she could not tell if the kiss the dowager had bestowed on her cheek, along with the words well done, was real or imagined, and when Emma changed her into her nightgown, she provided so little assistance, her sister accused her of being like a jelly tower from one of Mrs. Raffald’s cookery books.
It was only after Emma had tucked the blanket around her, blew out the candles and closed the door gently behind her that Vinnie realized she hadn’t said a word about Huntly. Somehow, in all the excitement about her presentation, she’d failed to tell Emma about the other hugely important event that had occurred, and thinking that was an oversight too great to let stand, she resolved to tell her about it right then. Over and over again, she thought about getting up, but she could not make her legs move, and as she drifted into sleep a few moments later, she wondered how two such remarkable things could have happened in a single night.
Chapter Thirteen
The Duke of Trent did not think it was coy to insist upon waiting for the subject of the previous night’s vote to appear before discussing the results of the aforementioned ballot, no matter how often his wife leveled the charge at him.
“I appreciate that you don’t want to tell me the results,” Emma said fairly, “so why don’t we do this: You point your thumb up to the ceiling if it’s positive or down to the floor if it’s negative, like the crowd deciding the fate of a gladiator in ancient Rome.”
Feeling this sly evasion did not warrant a response, Trent took a sip of tea and asked Tupper if the eggs were done yet.
“I’ll check with the kitchens immediately, your grace,” the footman said.
Emma examined her husband thoughtfully for a few minutes, trying to decipher from his movements and temperament which way the vote had gone but both were too placid and consistent to provide insights. “All right, then. Perhaps a pointed thumb up or down is too much of a commitment for you or perhaps you feel that gladiator fights are too barbaric for the breakfast table. I understand entirely, so I have another proposition. If the vote was positive, you will pass me the butter. If it was negative, you will not pass me the butter. Now, will you or won’t you pass me the butter?”
Before the duke could even not not respond to his wife’s ridiculous suggestion, Tupper, who had just that moment returned to report on the eggs, heard the duchess’s request for butter and passed the dish to her himself. Feeling pleased with his own level of service, the footman leaned back on his heels and told his grace to expect the eggs directly.
“Very good,” Trent said, smiling at how thoroughly and unintentionally Emma’s scheme had been thwarted.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you are being so coy about this,” Emma said exasperated. “Vinnie would want me to know as soon as possible.”
This line of reasoning had no more success than any of her previous arguments. “I cannot attest to Vinnie’s preferences, only my own, and that is that Vinnie should hear the results of the vote first,” he said firmly, glancing up when Jepson entered with the platter of eggs.
Deciding to attack the problem from another angle, Emma pushed back her chair to stand up, and the duke, who knew exactly her intentions, sternly told her not to wake up her sister.
“Standing outside someone’s door isn’t waking her up,” she muttered as Tupper insisted on helping her push her chair back in. She thanked him with an absent smile and assented to Jepson’s offer of eggs.
“It is when you throw a ball against her door,” Trent said.
Emma rolled her eyes at the absurd suggestion. “I wasn’t going to throw a ball.”
“A shoe, then,” her husband said.
Emma conceded the truth of this comment with a shrug.
Vinnie, who had not needed a shoe or a ball to be thrown against her door to rouse her from bed, only the memory of her confession to Huntly, found something very comforting about arriving to the breakfast table amid a heated debate between her sister and Trent. It made the day seem as unextraordinary as any other. In fact, however, it was the most significant day of her entire life, for now or in a few minutes or a few hours—definitely sometime before supper—she would discover how the Marquess of Huntly felt about her.
If only she hadn’t jumped yesterday when that booming voice announced the imminent start of the program, if only she had kept her eyes trained on his, then she would know what lay on the other side of his astonished look: horror or joy.
; In the giddy aftermath of her presentation, she had felt certain it would be joy, for she could think of no other way to interpret the look he had given her—that searing, intense, heart-in-his-eyes look that arrowed straight to her heart. Surely, that said more than any hastily conceived sentence ever could. In the cold light of day, however, as she struggled to hold on to that look, and as she tried to understand why he had suddenly disappeared and as each minute ticked by without word from him, she became less and less certain.
A man needed time to think, she told herself reasonably, and her announcement had contained some rather remarkable information, which would require a man to think even more. It wasn’t merely that she’d revealed herself to be a killer, a fact that would no doubt require some adjustment on the part of a suitor, but she also divulged that their whole relationship had been a lie. For the entire time Huntly had known her, she had professed to being a woman in mourning, and he had treated her as one. Now he had to amend that image of her. No doubt he was reviewing every conversation they had had in light of this new development to figure out if it had any bearing on the way he felt.
It was not unreasonable for Huntly to discover that it did have some bearing on the way he felt. If that happened, she would not blame him.
But even as she thought those words to herself, she knew she would blame him. It wasn’t fair or reasonable, but a woman with a broken heart was allowed to carry a grudge.
Well aware that none of these thoughts were helpful—and that thinking them would not help pass the time—Vinnie strode into the breakfast parlor with a bright smile on her face. To her surprise, the smile was actually sincere, for as soon as she saw Alex, she realized she had not thanked him yet for saving her last night, as his comment about the leaf of spinach in Townshend’s hair had done nothing less.
Seeing the grin, Trent stood up and wrapped her in a hug. “Watching last night, I could not have been any prouder,” he said, tightening his arms, “and yet somehow, this morning, greeting you as a fellow member, I’m prouder still.”
Emma shrieked in excitement, leaped to her feet and pulled her sister into a hug so enthusiastic it knocked them both to the ground. For Vinnie, the idea of being accepted was so outside the realm of possibility that she couldn’t understand what was happening. Splayed on the rug, she stared up at Trent, imploring him with her eyes to make sense of it.
Her sister, having little patience with stunned shock, immediately called for Tupper to bring a bottle of champagne to the table for a proper celebration.
Since Emma seemed content to sit on the floor all day, Trent helped his struggling sister-in-law to her feet and said it plainly: “You have been accepted into the British Horticultural Society. You did it, Vinnie.”
As if unable to believe it, she shook her head and accepted the chair Alex held out of her. “How is that possible?” she asked.
Trent grinned as he offered a hand to his wife, who echoed the question. “Your Amazing Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose,” he said.
“My what?” Vinnie asked.
“Your hose,” he said again, “the one you’ve been working on for months. That hose is how you gained entry. Everyone was very impressed with your drainage systems and by sunset today, dozens of your pamphlets will be distributed to estate managers all across the country, but it was your hose that did it.”
As delighted as she was by her manual’s success, she couldn’t fathom what her imperfect invention had to do with anything. “But I didn’t talk about my hose.”
“True,” conceded Trent, “but I did.”
This announcement did little to clarify matters for her. “I appreciate that you are enthusiastic about the project, but it seems unlikely to me that the other members of the society care by what device water is delivered to their plants.”
“They don’t,” he agreed. “But the members of the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge care greatly and are working on their own elasticized hose. When I informed my fellow members of that fact and assured them that yours was only days away from completion, they decided it was well worth having a woman among their ranks if they could lord her invention over the rival organization. Indeed, the fact that the elasticized hose was invented by a female is the best part of the prospective lording, for it means a lone woman could do better and faster what all the great minds of the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge could not.”
Vinnie found this all too remarkable to digest and stared at Trent in wonder.
“How did you know the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge was developing its own hose?” Emma asked.
Trent blinked at her several times in imitation of his wife’s own famous innocent look. “I might have commissioned a dossier from Mr. Squibbs.”
Delighted, Emma squealed again and reached across the table for her husband’s hand. “Last night, when I heard about the spinach in Townshend’s hair, I could not have been any prouder,” she said, “and somehow, this morning, hearing that you commissioned your own report, I’m prouder still.”
“Thank you, imp,” he said sincerely. “That means a lot.”
Overwhelmed, Vinnie said softly, “You did this for me?”
Trent shook his head. “No, for me.”
Before she could give voice to her full gratitude, Tupper returned with a bottle of champagne and filled three glasses. “Could you please locate her grace and inform her we are raising a celebratory glass if she would like to join us. And please don’t forget to open another bottle for everyone downstairs,” Emma said generously. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Trent. “Would it be too much to give the servants the day off?”
“Just a little,” the duke said.
While they waited for the dowager, Emma asked, “What was the final tally?”
“Twenty-one to five.”
Emma immediately insisted on hearing the names of the naysayers, but Trent swore he was not at liberty to say. “It’s against protocol, but even so I wouldn’t divulge the information. The men have a right to their own opinion, and I won’t have you torturing them because it disagrees with yours.”
As this statement was too close to the truth, Emma didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, she said, “Torture is such a strong word.”
Although the specifics of Mr. Berry’s explanation escaped her, Vinnie had a vague recollection that five votes required a revote and asked Trent about it.
The duke smiled. “You are referring to the recount protocol, and, yes, we had several recounts as the no votes tried to convince at least one yes vote to change his mind. At one point, the no coalition actually accomplished that, but the vote swung back in the other direction during the confirmation recount protocol. Trust me, Vinnie, you don’t want to hear the specifics, for they are extremely tedious. The voting went on until three in the morning. I was never so glad of anything as when Mr. Berry invoked the sudden death recount protocol.”
Emma, who couldn’t bear the thought of being kept completely in the dark, said, “Just tell me this at least: Did Huntly vote yes?”
At the mention of the marquess, Vinnie felt the blood drain from her face and the champagne glass slide out of her suddenly boneless fingers, causing a spill. Trent immediately grabbed a cloth from the sideboard to soak it up while Emma rushed to her sister’s side.
“Are you all right?” she asked, pressing one hand against Vinnie’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. You are probably still exhausted from all the excitement.”
Vinnie took exception to the implication that she was overwrought or that her nerves were frail and assured Emma she was fine. Her sister leaned back, examining her thoughtfully, but before she could make further comment, the dowager arrived to lament Vinnie’s success with so much good cheer that one could only assume she didn’t mean it.
After breakfast, Emma tried to convince the newest member of the British Horticultural Society to go shopping for stationery that boldly declared that accompli
shment. “Perhaps with a lovely floral border. Or is that too obvious? Oh, I know, let’s pick out new curtains for the society’s reading room. That will terrify your new associates.”
Vinnie smiled at the suggestion but didn’t think terrifying her new associates was the best way to start off her tenure. More to the point, she didn’t want to leave the house in case the marquess called. She didn’t explain that to Emma—suddenly, the thought of confessing her confession, of saying the words out loud, was intolerable—and instead employed several reasonable excuses to get out of the outing. When her sister denied them all, she resorted to citing her frail nerves, a pretext Emma accepted with insulting speed.
Once in her room, Vinnie tried to occupy her mind with various activities. She picked up the gothic novel her sister had lent her months ago, but when the young man who was really a young lady turned out to be an emissary of Satan, she threw it across the room in disgust. Next, she took out a clean sheet of white paper and wrote “A Horticulturalist’s Advanced Guide to the Implementation of Drainage Systems” along the top. For months, she’d been meaning to record her thoughts for a follow-up manual, but now that she had a quill in hand, she couldn’t recall a single idea. She scratched out the pamphlet’s title and wrote, “Miss Lavinia Harlow, Member, British Horticultural Society.” After staring at her name for ten minutes, she realized that wasn’t a satisfying activity, crumpled up the sheet and threw it across the room, where it landed several feet short of the offending novel.
Nothing held her attention, and after three hours of intermittently pacing the floor with increasingly agitated steps—now it was one o’clock, now it was two—she could no longer bear the silence of her bedroom. She fled to the conservatory to modify her latest formulation for her invention. It was not merely that she craved the distraction of an engrossing project, which the watering hose usually was, but that the task itself made her feel closer to Huntly. Just the simple act of reviewing the formula that she’d gotten on their trip to Brill & Company’s factory gave her the sense that he was nearby and that he was thinking of her.
