Page 77 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

“Have you . . . have you mentioned this to any of your sisters?”

A frown of confusion dug into the space between her dark brows. “Why would I? It’s Miss Coop—er, I mean, well . . .” The title of princess didn’t rise naturally to anyone’s lips, it seemed. “It’s her money,” Harry finished, as if that settled the matter.

It was. And his dear Constantia wanted to share it with him.

He sat down behind his desk, staring for a long moment at those hated ledgers, before slipping two sheets of foolscap from the center drawer and dipping his quill. Dear Lady Stalbridge, he began. Much of the story would have to come later; it was Constantia’s to tell. But the countess deserved some explanation, some reassurance. After what he suspected had been weeks of worry following his last letter to her, she deserved some share of the joy.

And when that was written, he started in on the second sheet. Unless he saw it in Alistair’s own hand, Miles would never, never believe what had transpired. Remarkable, really, how similarly their lives had turned out, in spite of their many differences. Each of them had fallen in love with one of Mrs. Goode’s Misses, in spite of that young lady’s rather unflattering depiction of him—in words, in Miles’s case, rather than pictures.

Perhaps a guide to misconduct wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

As he sanded and sealed the paper, Alistair smiled rather impishly to himself. He had mentioned nothing of it in his brief note, of course—a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell—but Alistair felt certain he finally had one up on his friend. Miles, for all his wild times and rakish ways, had never taken a princess to his bed.

Then, stomach rumbling, he handed off the letters to Wellend for posting and went to breakfast. Harry, who was focused on her translations, promised to join him in a little while.

In the family sitting room, which also served as the breakfast parlor, he found Edwina, Danny, and Aunt Josephine.

“Ryland,” said his aunt, her voice as sharp and bitter as the coffee in her cup. He gave her an answering nod. “You look a wreck,” she went on as he filled a plate with eggs and sausage and toast. “But I suppose one can’t wonder at it. I doubt any of us slept well after that ridiculous drama last night. Well, let’s put it behind us this morning, shall we?” she said. As he sat down across from her at the large round table, his back to the door, she withdrew a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of eligible young ladies in and around Bristol who—”

“Alistair won’t be needing that,” Eddie said quietly.

Reflexively, Aunt Josephine curled her fingers around her lorgnette, which was lying beside her plate. “I beg your pardon, Edwina?”

It was Danny’s turn to chime in. “My brother won’t be needing your list.” She smiled knowingly at him around her teacup as she lifted it to her lips and drank. “He’s marrying a princess.”

“Princess,” Aunt Josephine scoffed. “Your brother may be dull, but he’s sharp enough to know a swindle when he hears one.”

Alistair enjoyed a few mouthfuls of his breakfast before replying, determined not to let his aunt spoil another perfectly good meal. “A German envoy, a royal proclamation, crown jewels—rather elaborate for a swindle, don’t you think?”

“So she managed to hire some . . . refugee”—she fairly spat out the word, then paused for a shudder of distaste—“from the Continent, had him tell a tall tale, and then flash around a sheet of parchment and a pair of earbobs made of paste. I should have thought that you of all people would recognize it for what it is: utter madness.” She tapped one bony finger against her temple. “Perhaps it’s something in the paint that twists their minds.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Constantia said from just inside the doorway.

Her voice struck his aunt like a bucket of cold water on a hot summer day, and she began immediately to sputter.

Ignoring her, Alistair rose and welcomed his beloved into the room with outstretched hands. The kiss he’d first intended for her cheek was quickly diverted to her soft lips instead.

She looked remarkably beautiful to him in the morning light, clad in the same simple woolen dress in which she’d come to him last night, rather the worse for wear for having lain in a heap on the floor of his bedchamber for hours. Her hair was a tumbled mass of curls, though somewhat smoother and glossier than usual, thanks to his sisters’ efforts the evening before.

“I suppose you’ve come down this morning expecting to be paid for that travesty of a portrait?” Aunt Josephine sneered.

“You may keep your money, Lady Posenby,” Constantia answered calmly. “And that painting, too, for all I care.” She darted a mischievous glance his way that told him she preferred a certain, er, less formal drawing she’d made. Then she twined her fingers with his and gripped his upper arm with her other hand. “I have everything I really need.”

“You don’t mean—? Surely you’re not suggesting—?” Aunt Josephine scrambled to her feet, making the dishes on the table rattle. “Ryland, you can’t possibly mean to marry that woman.”

“I do.” He looked down into Constantia’s eyes and covered her hand with his. “In fact, I’ve already spoken to the rector this morning. I hope that meets with your approval, Princess?”

For answer, the corners of Constantia’s mouth curved in an ever so slightly crooked smile.

“I will not stay and be a part of this travesty,” declared Aunt Josephine, snatching her lorgnette and her list from the table. “I intend to leave for Bath this very hour. Come, Danielle.”

“No,” he said, not lifting his eyes from his bride’s. “Go if you wish, by all means, Aunt. But Danny’s staying here.”

Danny flew from her seat to embrace him, and her new sister too. In half a moment, Eddie had joined them. With a snarl, Aunt Josephine stormed from the room, and snarled again when she met Harry and Herr Schenk on the threshold.

The pair of them entered—the big German had to duck his head—and looked about, rather bewildered. “Alles in Ordnung?” the envoy asked, after greeting Constantia with a deferential bow.

That question required no translation. “Order? Never,” Alistair answered with a laugh. Extracting himself, he took the other man by the arm and led him toward the sideboard. “Harry, how do you say breakfast?”