Page 33 of Enticing Odds
“No, I dislike yellow flowers, I’m afraid. Far too sunny. I find it distrustful in a plant,” Mrs. Brenchley said with authority.
Rather than inquire after that bizarre line of thinking, Cressida hummed in assent. Then, deftly presenting it as aspontaneous thought and not a plot of revenge that had been weeks in the making, she gasped, and reached out to grab the younger woman’s arm.
Mrs. Brenchley started, but Cressida did not relinquish her hold.
“Oh! Only I’ve just realized… I’ve nearly the same shade of daylilies in my conservatory just now. They’re going offgorgeously. And they propagate easily. Would you not take one for your own?”
“Lady Caplin, please, do not trouble yourself on my account.” The wariness on Mrs. Brenchley’s face faded into a tempered smile.
“Nonsense,” Cressida said, lacing her arm through Mrs. Brenchley’s. “It’s not a trouble at all. Why, you must ride in my carriage, and send your man home. It shall be the work of a minute, potting it.”
Mrs. Brenchley hesitated, but allowed herself to be led away from the drawing room.
“Very well, then,” she sniffed, affecting an air of importance. “I’m awfully busy, you know, but I’ll do it as a kindness to you.”
Cressida bit back a retort and managed to hold her composure. Soon. A little more patience, and she would have the detestable woman under her thumb for good.
It was only with that knowledge that Cressida was able to endure the ensuing pleasantries about how far superior Mrs. Brenchley’s carriage was in its considerations for comfort, and wait until they had slowly eased off into traffic before grinning wickedly and unleashing hercoup de grâce.
“Mrs. Brenchley, your husband’s brother… oh, what is his name?” Cressida furrowed her brows, feigning ignorance. “I cannot for the life of me recall…”
Mrs. Brenchley looked sour for the briefest of moments, but recovered, her words dripping with contempt.
“Lord Dropmore, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Cressida smoothed out her skirts, taking her time. “He has a son, does he not?”
“Viscount Wormleigh is my—our nephew, my lady,” Mrs. Brenchley replied with a nervous smile.
“And he is at Harrow?”
“Of course. He finds it very well. I believe one of your boys attends—”
“Miserable weather we’re having this summer,” Cressida interrupted, reaching up to pull back one of the curtains as if she were truly more interested in what was transpiring outside the carriage than within.
There was a long pause, and she couldn’t help but smile smugly at the window.Good. Let the harpy squirm.Cressida always played to win.
“Yes,” Mrs. Brenchley finally said, her voice flat. “Far too wet.”
They rode on in silence, until Cressida reckoned they were only a few minutes from their arrival at Rowbotham House.
“Do you recall that shooting party this past September? At Orford Park?”
“Why, that was nearly a year ago,” Mrs. Brenchley tittered, clearly relieved that the silence had lifted. “The house was in terrible shape. And the cook! Horrible fare. Whatever do you bring that up for?”
Cressida grinned out the window. She could just make out the ghost of her reflection in the pane.
“Oh, only that I heard the most fanciful thing about the Marquess of Silwood the other day. He was in attendance there, was he not?”
“I… I believe so, my lady, if I recall correctly.”
Cressida turned and placed two elegant fingers upon her chin, as if she were in deep thought and not toying with her prey.
“That’s right,” she mused, drawing the words out before raising a brow. “Idorecall. He often paid you court in the evenings.”
“We spoke only of our shared love of novels, my lady. To suggest anything beyond—”
Cressida leveled a murderous glare upon her. Mrs. Brenchley froze mid-sentence, her mouth open.
