“When Patrina was ruined, was I permitted to take part in that discussion?” Poppy asked the room at large, effectively silencing them. She turned to Prudence. “Or when your scandal hit, was I invited to take part on the discussion about your future with Christian?”
“It’s not the same,” Prudence muttered.
Poppy arched an eyebrow, until her elder sister dropped her gaze to her slippers. The only difference being that Poppy was the youngest of their clan of Tidemores and regardless of how old she might, in fact, be, she would forever, in their eyes, be the baby of the family. Sensing victory, she turned to Penelope. “And what of you, Penny? When you were caught in a compromising position with Ryker, where was I for that discussion that occurred between you and Jonathan and Mother?”
Penelope pressed her lips together, and mumbled something.
Poppy cupped a hand around her ear. “What was that?” she pressed. “I could not—”
“You were in the corridor…listening at the door.”
Folding her arms, Poppy nodded slowly. “I was outside the room. Now, all of a sudden, there’s some new code within the family that makes my public scandal a familial discussion?”
The dowager countess snorted. “All of a sudden you are concerned with your privacy?”
“Enough. Juliet is correct.” Her brother caught his wife’s fingers in his and Poppy lingered wistfully upon that small, but significant touch. One that spoke of devotion, a steadfast love and commitment to standing shoulder to shoulder beside her. I wanted that… She’d also given up on it. Her art was now enough…that decision went back far beyond the compromising situation she’d found herself in. “It would be wise if all of you return to the ballroom so that I can speak freely with Poppy about Rochford’s actions.”
Rochford’s actions? “I’ll not have anyone take ownership of my decisions or actions.” She might be ruined, but she was the mistress of her own fate, and would own every last one of her mistakes. “I am the one responsible for my situation.”
“Respectable gentleman do not sneak off with the intention of ruining a lady,” Patrina quietly put forward, as she accepted her husband’s hand and came to her feet “Rochford is the one to blame.”
As if taking that cue, Prudence jumped up. “Who would have imagined Rochford? He’s really not known for being a rogue or rake or cad.”
Welcoming that slight diversion—even if it was on the character of the man who’d compromised her—she pounced. “I know,” Poppy said on a rush. “He really seemed quite safe for my purposes.”
“Your…purposes?” Their mother strangled and choked on those words.
Poppy sighed. “Painting, Mother. I’ve already told you…I sought to paint him.” She hefted an imagined paintbrush and made several strokes through the air. He’d gotten no more than his jacket and shirt off and had been reaching for the waistband of his trousers before a collection of guests had come wandering in as if they’d been touring the Egyptian Rooms at the Royal Museum. “One should expect if I was to be ruined that I should at least have had the opportunity to see the gentleman in all his naked form.”
Jonathan reached for his glass in one fluid motion and downed the contents of it.
“See him in his…in his…?” Her mother’s eyes bulged from her face.
Poppy opened her mouth to reiterate the source of her discontent.
“Hold that thought if you’re wise,” Penelope whispered from the side of her mouth.
Poppy bristled. “It’s tru—”
“A horrid idea, bringing that up,” Penelope cut in. “Horrid.”
“That will be all,” Jonathan said tightly, as he set his glass down.
Oh, thank God. She hopped up.
“Not you,” her brother ordered, staying all hopes of Poppy’s flight.
He glanced around the room, brimming with their siblings and spouses.
“I am not leaving,” Penelope began. “I…” Her pronouncement faded as Poppy faced her.
“I’m fine, Penelope,” she said quietly. For the whole of her life, well-meaning though their intentions may have been, her siblings had all sought to baby Poppy. “Go.”
Penelope drew back as if she’d been gut-punched. A moment later, the large gathering stood, and filed from the room…each sister and her spouse unable to meet Poppy’s gaze—until only Penelope and her husband remained.
God love Ryker for being the only one to look her in the eye. He leaned down. “I can always have him killed,” he offered in his graveled faint Cockney; and but for the faintest glint in his eyes, anyone—Poppy herself included—would have believed his offer a true one.
Her lips twitched, and she repressed that smile. “I promise I shall think hard on it,” she said with false somberness.
Leaning up on tiptoe, she kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek.
A moment later, only Jonathan and her mother remained.
Poppy glanced to her mother and found the dowager countess’ displeased gaze could still raise abject terror in her breast. “There is no way I intend to leave this room.”
And, in the course of her twenty-one years, Poppy had gleaned the important skill of selecting one’s battles most carefully. Having dispelled with Jonathan’s help a room full of distressed siblings, facing the pair before her could only ever be a victory.
“Well?” her mother snapped. “Do you have nothing to say?”
Anything more than had already been said? “As Prudence pointed out, Rochford’s reputation as being a staid, proper gentleman quite precedes him.” Of course, he’d not truly been a gentleman. He’d been some cad who’d had no intention of doing anything other than maneuvering her into a scandal and earning some sizeable wager he’d placed at White’s. “How was I to know Rochford’s intentions were anything but honorable?”
“Your clue was when he met you alone and offered to take his clothes off,” Jonathan snapped. “That was the clue.”
Poppy shifted on her seat. Yes, well, he quite had a point there. Still, it bore pointing out… “I asked him to.”
Their mother dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth in a slow, agonized rhythm.
“You stepped into a trap,” Jonathan said flatly, and the disappointment in his gaze cut sharp in ways that pierced far more painfully than any spoken word.
A trap is precisely what it had been. With the handful of exchanges they’d had with one another, he’d spoken of his appreciation of art. “I know that now.” Unable to meet her brother’s eyes, Poppy glanced down at her lap. With the knowledge he had aptly displayed, she’d taken him as more than one of those “nodders”, as she’d come to think of the other gents in London. What an utter fool she’d been. Out of all this situation, what she regretted most was her failure to identify a bounder in her midst.
“This cannot be u-undone,” their mother whispered, her voice cracking.
No, it couldn’t. Alas, Poppy couldn’t muster even a feigned amount of the expected tears ladies in her circumstances were supposed to muster. It was an unfair world that permitted men freedoms over any choice while women were to always conduct themselves one way. Annoyance brought her head up. “It was only art,” Poppy said defensively. Albeit still unfinished art, as she didn’t even have the benefit of her nude model.
“It was you alone with a partially naked man,” Jonathan shot back, and their mother broke down crying again. He turned an impatient glare on the dowager countess. “As you’ve stated, there can be no changing what happened. Therefore, we need to determine what becomes of Poppy.”
What becomes of Poppy…? Her fingers made automatic fists. There it was again, the expectation that others make determinations about her fate.
Two sets of eyes swung to Poppy.
“Well, that has a rather ominous ring to it,” she said under her breath.
Her brother went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “There are two options—”
Their mother brightened.
“Not
marriage to Rochford,” Poppy and Jonathan said in time, and the dowager countess instantly deflated.
“Poppy either retreats to the countryside with you, Patrina, and Weston until the scandal abates. Or she remains here in London to confront the storm.”
She sat up straighter in her chair. “As I see it, there’s really only one suitable option.” And it certainly wasn’t making herself the burdensome third wheel, accompanying one of her sisters during her confinement.
Jonathan stood. “Precisely,” he agreed, gathering the decanter and the glass. With the articles in tow, he started for the sideboard. “It is settled. You’ll go with Mother.”
That had certainly not been the option she’d been thinking of. Poppy frowned. “I’m not Patrina.” Her sister would be journeying to the country for her confinement. The last thing Poppy wanted or would ever allow herself to be was the underfoot, unmarried aunt. “I’ll not be a burden on her at this time.”
Their mother scoffed. “Now you’d express a concern over her delicate condition?”
Poppy’s cheeks heated. It was a deserved criticism. And the fact that Jonathan made no rush to defend this time, indicated he quite agreed with their mother in this.
Jonathan started for his desk. “Then Juliet and I will accompany you to the country, until this blows over. We’ll depart for Yorkshire on the morn.” With that, he claimed a seat, removed several sheets of paper, and dipping a pen in the crystal inkwell, proceeded to write.
“Yorkshire?” she echoed dumbly. They’d leave London for Yorkshire, that far-flung property they rarely visited? Of course…he’s selected it because he’d have you in hiding.
“It is decided then,” their mother said, coming to her feet. “I’ll see Poppy’s belongings packed.”
“I’m not joining any of you,” she said simply.
That brought Jonathan’s head up from whatever business he’d previously directed his attention to.
“What do you mean you’re not joining any of us?” their mother demanded, and before Poppy could reply, the dowager countess quickly turned that question on her son. “What does she mean?”
“You are going, Poppy,” he said through his teeth.
“I’m not. If I retreat, the world will take that as an admission of my guilt. I’ve no reason to hide, Jonathan.” Her greatest mistake hadn’t been in her decision to paint a naked man, but rather, the man she’d selected as her subject. She turned her palms up. “I concede to my mistakes, but I’ll not allow any of you to go about hiding me like I am some dirty familial secret to be shamed for my actions.” With that, she marched for the door.
“Get back here this instant,” their mother cried. “You cannot be seen this evening. Or ever.”
“Ever seems a tad too long for my sins.” Poppy continued on her way.
“Poppy,” the dowager countess bit out.
Poppy reached for the door handle, and drew it open.
Penelope fell into the room, effectively ruining Poppy’s grand exit. With all the aplomb one who’d been caught shamelessly eavesdropping could manage, her elder sister rose.
“Really?” Poppy mouthed.
“You were listening in on my ruination discussion, too,” her sister whispered.
Yes, well, she had a fair point there.
“What is it, Penelope?” Jonathan asked impatiently as Penelope closed the door behind her.
Lifting her palm she glanced about the room. “I could not help but hear the current…debate.”
“Of course you couldn’t help but hear, you had your ear pressed to the panel,” Poppy drawled.
“And would like to put forward an…alternative solution to Poppy,” her sister went on over her.
Poppy paused. lingering her focus on two words of distinction: to Poppy. Not “for” Poppy. In a world where everyone, her own kin included, was content to make decisions for her, with her opinion on it more an afterthought, Penelope would give her the gift of that control. “Go on,” Poppy said solemnly.
“Prudence has all she can handle with three little ones about. As for Patrina, she will be focused on the delivery of her babe, and unless I’m mistaken in what I’d heard, Poppy has no wish to impose on that intimate time.”
Poppy nodded. She’d been unfairly bothersome to her sister. She owed her a debt that could not be repaid.
“She should have thought of that before Rochford,” their mother said, tears welling in her eyes yet again.
Jonathan came forward with a kerchief that the dowager countess promptly took, and dabbed at her eyes with.
“Yes, yes,” Penelope said impatiently. “And Jonathan shouldn’t have put an indecent offer to Juliet and Prudence shouldn’t have made a deal with a rogue, and I shouldn’t have been caught sneaking around the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s gardens. And yet, that happened, and it all worked out for the best…for all.”
“It also resulted in each of you marrying,” their mother’s needless reminder was muted by the rumpled kerchief she held to her face.
Poppy stiffened. “Surely you are not suggesting that I marry him.” She’d sooner meet the cad across the dueling field herself than to him for all time.
Penelope grimaced. “Egads, no. No. Never. Ever.” She slashed her palms back and forth for emphasis.
“What are you suggesting?” Jonathan demanded impatiently.
“I’m suggesting Poppy move in to the Paradise Hotel…with me and Ryker and Paisley. She’ll be away from prying eyes, and yet, not run off in shame.” Her elder sister glanced over. “And with the renovations underway, we would welcome help with the artistic design of the establishment.”
Poppy’s heart thumped in her chest. The loudest thing in a suddenly still room. What her sister presented…what she proposed represented not only an ability for Poppy to remain in London, not being run off like the Tidemores’ latest scandal to be hidden, but seeing to the artistic design. There she’d select and set the aesthetic, influencing the artwork that would remain. A mark left by her.
In the end, it was Jonathan who broke the silence. “If Poppy would like—”
“Surely you are not seriously considering this as an option, Jonathan,” their mother squawked.
“I would” Poppy said quickly. “I would like very much to join Penny.”
Their mother slapped the kerchief down. “Absolutely not. Why…why…anything can go wrong with Poppy there, Jonathan.” As if Poppy weren’t present before them, the dowager countess lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. “Anything.”
Poppy bristled. “I resent that.”
When her mother and brother glanced over with like expressions, she folded her arms defensively at her chest. “What?”
Clearing her throat, Penelope slid between Poppy and the two most disapproving of the Tidemore lot. “I personally vow that no scandal shall befall Poppy as long as she resides with me.”
“No further scandal,” Jonathan said tiredly, and then he leveled a sharp look at Poppy. “It is decided then. Poppy will reside at the Paradise.”
Poppy repressed a smile.
Why, it would seem her ruination hadn’t been so very terrible, after all.
Chapter 3
In making the decision to hand over the title of Earl of Maxwell without a fight, and losing all the properties and wealth that went with that respected title, Tristan Poplar, now the Baron Bolingbroke, came to appreciate that his ruin had been far worse than he’d anticipated.
Seated in the middle of the empty ballroom floor, with his youngest sister in a like repose across from him, Tristan took another long swig of brandy from his flask.
Except…
He lingered his gaze on the letters etched with the gleaming silver. TP Earl of Maxwell.
Turning the article over in his hands, he studied it, the value and quality previously unappreciated. Now, however, the silver represented wealth and prestige. Was the damned thing even his? Purchased with funds belonging to another man, the answer was decidedly…no
.
Tristan took another drink.
“It is not all bad,” Claire murmured.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Well…there is…or…and…”
As if on cue, a wail went up from somewhere outside the ballroom, followed by their mother’s diatribe, which came muffled and broken. “…you cannot…that does not belong to…put it in the pile with the other…”
She released a sigh. “Yes, Yes. Well, it is certainly not good. I’ll allow you that.” Claire plucked the flask from his hand and took an impressive swallow.
Yes, it was dire indeed when not even his eternal optimist of a sister could find a single bit of light in the entirely dark situation. He narrowed his eyes. A sister who had entirely too much ease downing liquor. “Where did you learn to drink spirits?”
Claire wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, and then handed back Tristan’s—nay, the new Lord Maxwell’s—flask. “Oh, hush. I’m twenty-two, a woman grown. There are far greater things to worry about than my drinking habits.”
And oddly, that proved true.
The Poplar name had been eviscerated and—with the late baron responsible for stealing not only a child but that boy’s rightful place in the world—rightfully so.
The previously inherited Maxwell title that had brought greater riches than ten other titles of the peerage combined—had reverted back to its correct owner.
Tristan had instead taken over the title of Baron Bolingbroke; a more apt title for him, there wasn’t. The reverted title that brought no wealth and, certainly now, no respect.
As such, there was only one thing a family could do when faced with such a change of circumstances and the destruction of one’s previously respectable standing in society—flee.
Brightening, Claire picked her head up. “I’ve never been to the wilds of Devon. So, there is that.”
“The optimist.” Tristan leaned over and ruffled the top of her curls.
She swatted at his hand. “You are the one who’s always been the optimist.”
“Yes,” he said wistfully. Even in Boney’s war, he’d seen a way out. He’d clung to hope, and fought back the demons of war that haunted him still, with memories of the friendships he’d forged, and the soldiers who’d gone on to live happy lives because of his actions in battle. “You are correct on that score.”
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 5
