A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 29 - Twenty Nine

Two days had passed since the Great Matchmaking Argument.

Two days of tea. Two days of biscuits. Two days of Rowan Hamilton sitting on his velvet sofa, wearing his "trustworthy blue coat," and systematically destroying Delaney’s hopes and dreams.

The notebook was filling up with crossed-out names.

Miss Winter? Rejected. She laughed too loudly.

Lady Helen? Rejected. She read too much novels.

Miss Sarah? Rejected. She wore too much perfume.

It was a massacre.

Delaney was convinced—absolutely convinced—that he was doing it on purpose. He was sabotaging her. He was rejecting perfectly good women just to prove that no one was like his mysterious woman.

Delaney sat on a stone bench in the rose garden. She needed air. She needed quiet. If she had to listen to Rowan politely explain to another mother why her daughter wasn’t "quite right," she was going to scream. And screaming was not very professional for a woman earning sixty thousand pounds.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The afternoon sun was warm. A bee buzzed lazily around a pink rosebush.

"Calm," she whispered to herself. "Calm yourself Delaney. You are doing great so far. It’s the idiot who is plotting to get Lady Margery to fire you."

She took a deep breath, trying to find her center.

Knock, knock.

The sound of the heavy brass knocker on the front door echoed through the courtyard.

Delaney opened one eye.

From her spot on the bench, she had a clear view of the main entrance. A horse was tethered to the post. It was a fine horse, white and groomed to perfection.

Standing at the door was a messenger.

He was not a normal messenger. He was not a dusty boy from the city. He was a footman dressed in uniform that cost more than Delaney’s entire wardrobe. He wore a coat of emerald green with gold braiding. His stockings were silk. He held a letter in his hand as if it were a holy relic.

Mr. Simmons opened the door.

Delaney sat up straighter. Her matchmaker instincts flared to life.

She watched as the messenger bowed—a very stiff, very formal bow—and handed the letter to Simmons on a silver tray. Even from twenty feet away, the paper looked thick and creamy. It looked important.

Simmons nodded solemnly. The messenger bowed again, mounted his expensive white horse, and trotted away with his nose in the air.

Delaney stared at the closed door.

"Don’t," she whispered to herself. She gripped the edge of the stone bench. "Don’t do it, Delaney. It is none of your business. You are an employee. You are here to find a wife, not to spy on his mail."

She forced herself to lean back. She forced herself to look at the roses.

But that uniform...

Green and gold. That was the Farrington colors. The Farringtons were one of the oldest, richest, and most powerful families in England. They didn’t send letters unless something major was happening.

Delaney bit her lip.

"Don’t meddle," she scolded herself. "Curiosity killed the cat."

She stood up. She paced a small circle around the bench.

"But satisfaction brought it back," she countered.

She couldn’t help it. If the Farringtons were writing to the Duke, it could be relevant to the search. Maybe they had a daughter. Maybe they knew someone. It was research. It was her job.

"It is strictly professional interest," she lied to herself.

She picked up her skirts and hurried toward the house. She slipped through the side door and into the cool, marble hallway. She saw the back of Mr. Simmons’s coat as he turned the corner toward the Duke’s study.

Delaney moved quietly. She was good at being quiet. Years of being a servant in her uncle’s house had taught her how to walk without making a sound. She shadowed the butler, keeping a safe distance.

Simmons stopped at the heavy oak door of the study. He knocked twice.

"Enter," Rowan’s voice called out from inside. It sounded deep and tired.

Simmons opened the door and stepped inside. He left the door open just a crack—perhaps an inch.

Delaney tiptoed to the door. She looked left. She looked right. The hallway was empty.

She pressed her back against the wall next to the doorframe. She leaned her head back, sliding her ear toward the crack. She held her breath.

"Good day, Your Grace," Simmons said.

"And a good day to you too, Simmons," Rowan replied.

Delaney could hear the scratching of a pen. He was working. He didn’t even look up.

"This just arrived now," Simmons said. There was the soft clink of the silver tray being placed on the desk.

"Who is it from?" Rowan asked. He sounded bored. He sounded like a man who wanted to be left alone with his ledgers.

"From the Farringtons," Simmons announced.

The name carried weight, even in his calm voice.

The scratching of the pen stopped abruptly.

There was a pause. A heavy silence filled the room.

"The Farringtons," Rowan repeated. His voice had changed. It was sharper now. Wary. "Can you read it to me, please?"

"Certainly, Your Grace," Simmons replied.

There was the sound of a seal breaking—the crack of wax. Then the rustle of expensive paper.

Simmons cleared his throat.

"To His Grace, the Duke of Ford," Simmons read. "Lord and Lady Farrington request the honor of your presence at a ball to be held in honor of their daughter, Lady Celine Farrington, upon her return from Paris."

Delaney’s eyes widened.

Lady Celine.

She knew that name. Lady Celine was the "Diamond" of three seasons ago. She was beautiful, she was rich, and she had vanished to France to "finish her education." Now she was back. And the Farringtons were throwing a ball to reintroduce her to society.

This was it. This was the perfect opportunity. A ball meant hundreds of eligible women. It meant seeing candidates in their natural habitat, not in a stuffy drawing room.

Simmons continued reading. "The Ball will take place two nights from now. We look forward to welcoming our oldest friends."

Delaney waited for Rowan’s reaction. She expected him to say, ’Excellent! We shall go!’

Instead, she heard a heavy sigh. It was the sigh of a man carrying the weight of the world.

"Two nights from now," Rowan muttered. "Ridiculous."

There was the sound of a chair scraping back. Rowan stood up. Delaney could hear his boots pacing on the wooden floor.

"I don’t have time for such things," Rowan said. He sounded irritated. "I am a busy man, Simmons. I have the harvest reports to review. I have the roof repairs to authorize. And I have that... that woman dragging me to tea parties every afternoon."

Delaney stiffened and frowned. That woman? Was that how he referred to her?

"I have lots of things to do," Rowan continued, his voice getting closer to the door. "And I need my sleep. I cannot spend until 3:00 AM watching people dance badly and drink cheap champagne."

"But Your Grace," Simmons ventured gently. "The Farringtons are old family friends. Lady Celine..."

"Is a perfectly nice girl who went to Paris," Rowan interrupted. "I am sure she is lovely. I am sure she will find a husband. But it will not be me."

Delaney wanted to scream. He is dismissing the Diamond of the Season without even seeing her! What is wrong with him?

"Politely decline the invitation, Simmons," Rowan ordered. "Send a gift. Send flowers. Tell them I have... gout. Or a fever. Tell them I am indisposed."

"Your Grace..." 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

"Just handle it," Rowan said.

Delaney heard his footsteps. They were loud. They were fast. He was coming toward the door.

Delaney’s brain froze. She was leaning against the doorframe. She was unbalanced. She was eavesdropping.

Move, her brain screamed. Run!

But her feet were rooted to the spot.

"Tell them..." Rowan said, his voice right on the other side of the wood.

He grabbed the handle.

He turned it.

He pulled the door open with a sharp, decisive motion.

"Ah!"

Delaney lost her support. Gravity took over.

She didn’t stumble gracefully. She didn’t catch herself. She tipped sideways like a felled tree.

She fell into the study.