Page 74 of My Best Friend's Earl
The sound of his chuckle reached them on the sales floor, followed by the click of a closing door. Within moments, floorboards creaked overhead.
Caro continued, “As I was saying, that bastard Southwyn has a lot to answer for. Dorian is appalled and worried, but I’m absolutely murderous.”
“What’s happened?” Dread coiled like a spring, ready to explode in her chest. She eyed Caro’s paper as if it were a viper.
Sir William Thompson
requests the pleasure of your company at the marriage of his daughter
Althea
to
The Right Hon’ble. The Earl of Southwyn
Tuesday, June 18th, 1816
At eleven o’clock St. George’s Hanover Square
Tuesday. A choking sound rattled nearby, and it took a moment for Constance to realize she was the one making it.Oliver had asked her to trust him. Pinpoints of pain flared in her palms as fingernails dug into her flesh. This must be why Althea and Wellsley were escalating their own plan.
“Breathe, Connie. Inhale. Good girl. Now, slowly let it out. No, slowly. That’s right.” Caro’s voice sounded like it came from far away, through a tunnel. “Here, darling. Sit down. Inhale again. Now, gradually let it out. Bit by bit. Good, there’s color in your cheeks now.”
Caro’s worried face came into focus when Constance blinked. “He’s getting married in a little over a week.” But… he’d promised he wasn’t marrying Althea—that he’d handle it. And he’d been so adorably awkward and vulnerable while explaining the personal significance of Tuesdays.
Constance was no longer worried or sad. Indignation pulsed through her veins and angry ripples under her skin made small hairs on her arms stand on end. It wouldn’t surprise her if a wind came out of nowhere, and her skirts whirled around her legs like an evil witch in a fairy tale.
Oliver Vincent, Earl of bloody Southwyn, had better be prepared to explain himself.
Constance shoved to her feet, then wavered for a second when the world wobbled at the abrupt movement. “He said he had it sorted.He said he loved me.”
If the plan had been for him to bolt from the altar, he would have said as much. It wasn’t as if the topic hadn’t come up in their discussions already.
Caro looked ready to go to war on her behalf. “Shall I put up the closed sign?”
“Yes. I’ll tell my parents we’re leaving.” Constance pulled her cloak from the peg on the wall and shoved the nearest bonnet onto her head. Opening the door to the stairwell, she bellowed, “I have to close early. Caro and I need to go kill a man.”
There was a beat of silence before she heard her father say, “I knew there’d be a body someday.” Then meant for their ears, he yelled, “Don’t get caught. We love you.”
Her mother’s voice joined the conversation. “Would you girls like some biscuits to take with you? You shouldn’t commit violence on an empty stomach.”
On cue, her belly gurgled. “Um, yes please,” Constance called meekly, and smiled when her father’s chuckle drifted down the stairwell. A moment later, her mum appeared with a tin.
“Here you go, my love.” She kissed Connie’s cheek. “I don’t know what is happening, but if you find yourself in trouble, use your connection to Dorian. Having a duke in the family helps almost any legal situation.”
Mary Martin, pragmatist baker.
“Thank you, Mum. I love you.”
As Constance turned to leave, a small rectangle caught her eye. She groaned, sending up a futile prayer for sanity. “Bloody hell.” She snatched the paper off the counter—the note she’d written Oliver, then apparently forgot to send—and stormed toward the front door. Holding up the tin, she announced, “We have biscuits. And I think I forgot to eat today.”
Caro cheered. “Aunt Mary is my hero. Eat in the carriage, then we will go ruin Oliver’s day. Where’s Hattie?”
“Visiting Widow Fellsworth. She should finish soon.”
Outside, Connie jiggled the key in the door, willing the lock to do its damned job.
Caro paced in front of the window. “Hurry up!”
