Three
“You look like you have not slept a wink.”
Eliza did not jump though she ought to have. The breakfast room was empty, save for herself and the aspidistra drooping in the far window. Still, Lady Hartwell’s voice could pierce four feet of oak and three of composure, and Eliza’s composure was not in peak condition.
She looked up from her untouched toast. Lady Hartwell—hair still in last night’s plaits, wrapper over her dress, slippers at war with the rug—regarded Eliza with the sort of pointed concern one reserved for a poorly-wrapped wound.
“Eliza,” she said, folding herself into a chair, “if you persist in this charade of strength, I shall be forced to fetch the laudanum. And you know how I feel about laudanum.”
Eliza summoned a smile though it felt unfamiliar at the edges. “Good morning, Lady Hartwell.”
“If it were a good morning, you would be pouring my tea and not giving it the look of a hangman’s noose.” Lady Hartwell reached for the pot and did it herself, sloshing two sugars in as she spoke. “I did not think we would have to entertain such melodrama in my lifetime. I expected that privilege to be reserved for my grandchildren.”
“We may avoid melodrama altogether if we act quickly,” Eliza suggested.
“Ha!” Lady Hartwell’s laugh was sharp as a cough. “Only if every newsmonger in London dies of spontaneous penmanship. It will be in print before the ink dries.”
Eliza gripped her cup so hard the handle left a mark. “I would rather not discuss it over breakfast.”
“Then when?” Lady Hartwell slathered jam onto her toast. “By luncheon, your engagement will be the only topic worth whispering about from Mayfair to Cheapside.”
Eliza’s fingers twitched around the rim. “If you require a statement, I will compose it myself. I do not wish to inconvenience you.”
“Do not be absurd.” Lady Hartwell cut her toast as if it had personally offended her. “You are family. And if you were not, I would still want to know how my nephew managed to trap a woman with a functioning mind.” She chewed once, twice. “I hope he did not coerce you.”
Eliza straightened. “Not precisely.”
A raised eyebrow. “Not precisely. So, he did coerce you but in a fashionable way?”
Eliza did not answer. Instead, she watched the sunlight try and fail to illuminate the gray sky outside. Lady Hartwell watched her watch it.
“You are not ruined, Eliza,” Lady Hartwell said, lowering her voice. “You are, at worst, inconvenienced.”
“I do not feel inconvenienced,” Eliza replied.
Lady Hartwell snorted. “I suppose you would prefer honesty. Very well. If my nephew compromised your reputation, he will restore it, even if I must drag him to the altar myself.” She softened though only a little. “But I did not raise you to believe that marriage is the only solution to scandal.”
Eliza wanted to say something—wanted, in fact, to say everything—but the words stuck. “He is doing the right thing,” she managed.
Lady Hartwell gave her a look as sharp as vinegar. “You did not answer the question I did not ask.”
Eliza pressed her palms flat to the table. “I do not want pity.”
“Nor do I offer it,” Lady Hartwell said. “But I do wish to know if I must disembowel a Vestiere before luncheon.”
A laugh wanted to surface, but Eliza forced it down. “You need not.”
Lady Hartwell set her toast aside. “I do not care for the look in your eyes, Eliza. I have seen men stare into the abyss with more conviction.”
“It is not the abyss,” Eliza said. “Only the rest of my life.”
For a moment, Lady Hartwell was quiet. She reached across the table and set her hand, gnarled with years but strong as iron, over Eliza’s. “You are not alone, you impossible girl.”
Eliza looked at her, saw the lines that hardship had etched, and felt a kind of gratitude that was equal parts ache and balm. “I know.”
“Good.” Lady Hartwell drew back. “Now, we must draft a plan. If you wish to go through with it, we will do so with dignity. If not, I know a barrister who is both discreet and vindictive.”
Eliza allowed herself a genuine smile, small though it was. “I suppose we wait for the world to react.”