A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 15 - Fifteen

The carriage came to a halt on the pristine gravel drive of Hamilton House. To Delaney Kingsley, the mansion did not look like a home. It looked like a fortress built to keep people out.

It was massive. It was built of pale stone that gleamed in the afternoon sun. It had more windows than a cathedral and columns that looked thick enough to hold up the sky. It was beautiful, imposing, and terrifying.

Delaney took a deep breath. She smoothed the skirt of her gray wool dress.

"It is just another day of business," she whispered to herself. "Let’s just be successful. And the man inside will be the road to that success. The road to the remaining forty thousand pounds."

She grabbed her leather bag, lifted her chin, and stepped out of the carriage.

She climbed the wide stone steps. Before she could even lift her hand to knock, the massive double doors swung open.

Mr. Simmons stood there. He was the perfect image of a British steward. His spine was straight, his face was blank, and his silver hair was combed to perfection.

"Good afternoon, Madame Coeur," Mr. Simmons said. He bowed deeply. "We have been expecting you."

"Thank you," Delaney said. She stepped into the foyer as the footman was unpacking her luggage.

If the outside was impressive, the inside was overwhelming. The floor was black and white marble, polished to a mirror shine. A crystal chandelier the size of a small carriage hung from the ceiling. Portraits of dead Hamilton ancestors stared down from the walls, judging her gray dress.

"If you will follow me, Miss," Simmons said politely. "Lady Margery is waiting in the drawing room."

Delaney followed him. Her boots clicked softly on the marble. She clutched her bag tighter. She felt like a mouse walking into a lion’s den. A very expensive lion’s den.

Simmons stopped at a set of double doors. He opened them and announced, "Madame Coeur, my lady."

Delaney walked in.

The drawing room was bathed in bright sunlight now, though Delaney noticed that one of the heavy velvet curtains looked a bit crooked, as if it had been pulled open in a hurry.

Aunt Margery was standing by the fireplace. She looked flustered. Her yellow dress was bright, but her smile was a little tight around the edges.

"Miss Kingsley!" Aunt Margery exclaimed. She hurried forward with her hands outstretched. "Welcome! Welcome to Hamilton House!"

She grabbed Delaney’s hands and squeezed them. It was a surprisingly warm welcome for a hired employee.

Delaney blinked, surprised. "Thank you, Lady Margery. It is... a very grand house."

"It is a mausoleum with better furniture,"

Margery joked nervously. She gestured to a silk sofa. "Please, have a seat, my dear. Make yourself comfortable."

Delaney sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed her bag on the floor. She looked around the room.

It was empty.

"And the Duke?" Delaney asked. "I understood that I was to meet the... patient... immediately."

Margery let out a high-pitched laugh. "The patient! Oh, that is funny. Yes, he is a patient, isn’t he? A very difficult one."

Margery glanced at the door, then back at Delaney.

"He will be here soon," Margery promised. "He is just... refreshing himself. He had a long night at his club. Discussing politics, I am sure."

Delaney noticed a heavy book—The History of the Roman Empire—sitting on the side table at a strange angle. She also noticed that Margery was sweating slightly.

"I see," Delaney said. "I am in no rush."

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Rowan was in a rush.

He stood in front of his mirror. He had spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing his face with cold water and soap. He had shaved the stubble from his jaw with a steady hand, despite the pounding headache that felt like a drummer was practicing inside his skull.

He looked at his reflection.

He looked better. The redness was gone from his eyes. His skin looked fresh. He had changed into a crisp white shirt, a dark waistcoat, and clean trousers. He pulled on his polished black boots.

He looked like the Duke again. But inside, he felt grumpy.

"I cannot believe I am doing this," Rowan muttered to his reflection. "A matchmaker. It is humiliating."

He picked up his hairbrush and ran it through his damp hair.

"What was Aunt Margery thinking?" he grumbled. "Bringing some spinster into my house to find me a wife. If this woman—this Madame Coeur—could not find a husband for herself, why does Margery think she can find one for me?"

He imagined what she would look like.

In his mind, Madame Coeur was a woman of about fifty. She probably wore lace caps. She probably smelled like mothballs and peppermint. She would giggle and try to set him up with women who had "great personalities" but looked like horses.

"I will give her five minutes," Rowan decided. "I will go downstairs. I will be polite. I will listen to her pitch. And then, I will fire her."

He nodded firmly.

"I will say, ’Madam, your services are not required. Here is five pounds for your trouble. Good day.’"

It was a solid plan.

Rowan walked out of his room. He marched down the long hallway. His headache thumped with every step, but he ignored it.

He reached the top of the stairs and descended. He passed the portraits of his ancestors. They all looked stern.

"Don’t worry, Grandfather," Rowan thought at the painting of the 4th Duke. "I won’t let Aunt Margery and that spinster matchmaker have their way."

He reached the drawing room doors. He paused. His hand hovered over the brass doorknob.

He took a deep breath. He composed his features. He put on his "Duke Face"—cool, detached, and slightly arrogant.

"Let’s get this over with," he whispered.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"I am here, Aunt," Rowan announced. His voice was deep and smooth, filling the room.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was his Aunt Margery. She looked relieved to see him, which was suspicious.

Then, he saw the guest.

She was sitting on the sofa. Her back was turned to him.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed.

She was small. She was wearing a dress of dull gray wool. It was a very boring dress. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a severe bun that looked tight enough to cause a headache.

Just as I thought, Rowan told himself. A strict little spinster.

"Rowan!" Margery cried out. "Finally! Come in, come in. Allow me to introduce you."

The woman on the sofa stood up.

She moved with a grace that surprised him. She didn’t struggle to rise like an old woman. She stood up smoothly, her posture perfect.

Slowly, she turned around to face him.

Rowan had his speech ready. ’Madam, it is a pleasure, but—’

The words died in his throat.

He froze.

His brain stopped working. His heart skipped a beat, then slammed against his ribs.

It was her.