Page 17 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“A week from now,” Jasper said. “It gives us time. Not merely to prepare, but toframe.”
She nodded once. “Very well. I shall inform the officials that we would be delighted to receive them as honoured guests at our upcoming salon. We shall not shrink from observation—but we shall decide the manner in which we are observed.”
By the time Lady Thalia Greaves stepped into the entrance hall to greet the officials, her composure was immaculate. Jasper stood just to her right, his presence quiet but unmistakably firm.
Two men awaited her beneath the high arched entry: one in the dark, respectable garb of a parish board clerk, the other bearing the polished manner of a magistrate’s deputy—each holding the sort of expressions that suggested duty had already conformed to expectation.
“My lady,” the deputy began with a formal bow. “We are here on behalf of the local magistrate’s office and parish board to conduct a preliminary inspection of the premises, as authorised under the provisions governing licensed boarding houses and institutions of communal residence.”
Thalia inclined her head with cool civility. “You are, of course, welcome in principle. We are a household governed by clear rules and honest intentions, andwe do not fear fair examination. However—” she let that word rest gently in the air, “—you have arrived at a most inopportune moment.”
The clerk’s brows knit together. “Inopportune, my lady?”
She gestured lightly toward the corridor behind her, where purposeful footsteps and the clink of moving furnishings echoed faintly. “We are in the midst of preparations for a forthcoming cultural gathering—a formal salon, hosted here in one week’s time, at which residents and contributors alike shall demonstrate the artistic merit, civility, and moral order that define Seacliff Retreat.”
The deputy looked unconvinced. “I must remind you, my lady, that our office holds the authority to conduct surprise visits.”
“You need not remind me,” Thalia said, gently but firmly. “And I do not refuse your right to inspect—only request that such scrutiny be carried out under conditions that reflect the truth of our home, not its temporary disorder.”
At this, Jasper stepped forward, his voice courteous but clear. “Surely it is in everyone’s interest that the inspection be conducted in an atmosphere of clarity and fairness. At present, with furniture displaced, musicians rehearsing, and artists arranging their displays, I fear you would see only chaos where there is, in truth, structure.”
The deputy’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing them both. “You propose we return after the event?”
“We propose you attend the event,” Thalia replied. “As guests. You may observe our community in full expression—its inhabitants, its conduct, its purpose—all laid plainly before you. We hide nothing. But we insist that our truth be seen in context, not confusion.”
There was a pause.
Then the clerk spoke, more thoughtfully this time. “A salon, you say?”
“A celebration of music, painting, theatre, and conversation,” she replied. “All pursued within the bounds of propriety, and offered freely to the community. I believe you will find it both enlightening and... clarifying.”
The men exchanged a glance.
“You may expect our attendance,” the deputy said at last, though with a note of cautious reserve.
“Excellent,” Thalia replied, with the faintest curve of a smile. “We shall prepare accordingly.”
With a final nod and murmured farewells, the officials took their leave.
Only once the great door closed behind them did Thalia exhale, her shoulders lowering by the smallest degree.
“You handled that with perfect precision, Lady Greaves,” Jasper murmured beside her.
Her smile was brief, but not without warmth. “It is not precision I fear lacking, Lord Jasper. It is time.”
“Then let us waste none of it.”
Chapter Seven
“If we are to host a salon that not only showcases the exceptional calibre of artistic work produced at Seacliff Retreat but also affirms our reputation for propriety and cultural refinement, then we must approach its planning with the sort of meticulous care that leaves no room for reproach—even from our most determined critics.”
Lady Thalia Greaves stood before the assembled residents in the restored drawing room, her dark eyes alight with the fierce composure that had carried her through prior storms. Her voice, measured and poised, struck a balance between inspiration and pragmatism: confidence in their collective ability, tempered by full awareness of the scrutiny their efforts would attract. This was not merely a performance—it was a defence.
From his post near the windows, Lord Jasper watched in silence. His expression betrayed the complicated alloy of admiration, regret, and unresolved guilt that had marked his manner since the morning’s revelations. And yet, though wounded by his own actions, he had remained—uninvited but not unwelcome, and plainly determined to be of use, however belatedly.
“Our success,” Thalia continued, “will depend not only on the quality of our performances, but on our ability to present creative pursuits as fully compatible with respectability and moral order. Every detail of the evening must reflect our highest standards, while giving full voice to the talents that make this community so deserving of recognition.”
Miss Ivy Fairweather nodded eagerly. Her dark eyes shone with anticipation, though her excitement was tempered by nerves; her slender hands moved rapidly in graceful sign, articulating both her excitement and her anxiety in equal measure.
