Daring Miss Danvers Read Free Page B

through it to the study across the hall. “I’m not certain. However, I do know he is quite overprotective. Especially now.”
    Concerned, Emma looked over at her friend. “Why now?”
    Penelope smiled, as if secretly, and then unfolded the scrap of white satin in her lap. It was in the shape of a gown. A very small one.
    “Oh, Penelope!” they cried as one, followed closely by, “A baby!” and “My goodness!” and the absolute certainty that she and Mr. Weatherstone deserved every happiness in the world.
    After admiring the christening gown, they settled in their seats again and took up their needlework. The maid knocked on the door and brought in a tray of tea, scones, and clotted cream.
    “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy beside Penelope’s chair. “Mr. Weatherstone said to thank you for the tea and especially the orange marmalade.”
    Penelope blushed. “Very good, Sally. Is Lord Rathburn still with him?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Now, Sally turned to Emma. “The Lady Danvers sent a message down for Maudette to return. And this is for you, Miss Danvers,” she said, handing over a folded missive before she quit the room.
    “Thank you,” Emma said, hiding the dread she felt before she even read the note. Then once she skimmed the words, she refolded it and tucked it into her reticule. With all eyes on her, she managed to keep her embarrassment in check. “My mother needs Maudette’s assistance with her latest”—she took a breath—“project.”
    As if overtaking the parlor wasn’t enough, now her mother had to take her chaperone and use her as a model. Fond though she was of Maudette, Emma did not want her bust on the table in the center hall.
    Like Delaney’s calamity last Season, the cut direct her father had received years ago was a topic they’d vowed not to discuss. During her second Season, she’d lamented that if a gentleman were to show interest enough after learning of her abysmal dowry and her father’s disgrace, surely after meeting her parents, the question of insanity running in her family would take highest priority.
    “Third Season or not,” she said as she stabbed her needle through the petal-soft leather. “If my parents continue like this, I will never marry.” The sense of urgency that had plagued her of late returned like the threat of a storm on the horizon. If she didn’t find a well-grounded husband soon, she feared her own brand of madness would overtake her.
    Her friends, the best in the world, she was sure, gathered around her with a chorus of “never fears.”
    Yet, even then, she had her doubts.
    L edger in hand, Rathburn walked to the study window, as if better light would somehow alter the figures on the page before him.
    Unfortunately, not. They were still the same. Still not enough.
    “As you’ve doubtless noted, the sum has nearly doubled from last quarter,” Ethan Weatherstone commented, jotting down an equation on a fresh sheet of parchment before handing it to him. “If everything goes as planned, this should be your profit next year.”
    He took the paper, impressed by the sum and having enough confidence in Weatherstone to count on its accuracy. In another year, he’d have all the money he needed. The only problem was, he didn’t have another year. He needed the money now.
    “That is fantastic news,” he said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.
    “But it does not improve your immediate circumstances,” Weatherstone said, understanding.
    Rathburn handed back the paper and the ledger. “Collingsford decided to alter our agreement. He wants the balance paid in full before he releases the funds to finish.” He gritted his teeth. “Somehow, he learned about my grandmother’s most recent refusal to release my inheritance. Now, with mere months to completion, all work has stopped.”
    “On Hawthorne Manor or the . . . other project?” Weatherstone asked, keeping his voice low. He was one of the few people who knew