A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 43 - Forty Three

The morning sun spilled into the upper corridors of Farrington House, painting the pale yellow wallpaper with streaks of gold. It was a Tuesday, a day that usually promised nothing more exciting than embroidery circles and perhaps a walk in Hyde Park if the weather held.

But for Lady Celine Farrington, this Tuesday was the beginning of everything.

She picked up her skirts—a scandalous breach of decorum for a young lady, even in her own hallway—and ran. Her feet, clad in soft morning slippers, made little pat-pat-pat sounds against the plush runner rug.

She reached the door to her mother’s private solar and burst through it without knocking.

"Mama!"

Lady Farrington was seated at her writing desk, a formidable structure of mahogany and brass. she was reviewing the weekly menus with the housekeeper. At the sudden intrusion, she looked up, her quill freezing in mid-air. Her expression was one of mild reproof, the look of a general whose strategy meeting had been interrupted.

"Celine," Lady Farrington said, her voice cool and measured. "We do not run in the house. You are a lady, not a racehorse."

"I know, Mama, I am sorry," Celine gasped.

She was breathless, her chest heaving, her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. But her eyes were shining with a light that could outshine the sun. "But look! You must look!"

She hurried forward and thrust a small, rectangular object onto the leather surface of the desk, right on top of the list of potential soups.

It was a calling card.

It was heavy, expensive cardstock, cream-colored and embossed. The edges were gilded with real gold leaf.

Lady Farrington picked it up. She adjusted her spectacles. She read the name engraved in sharp, masculine script:

His Grace, The Duke Of Ford.

The air in the room seemed to shift. The housekeeper, sensing the magnitude of the moment, quietly curtsied and backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

Lady Farrington set the card down. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. It was not a warm smile; it was the smile of a chess player who has just seen her opponent move exactly where she wanted him.

"He is here," Lady Farrington said softly. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Eleven o’clock exactly. To the minute."

"He is waiting in the drawing room," Celine gushed, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. "The butler just brought the card up. Mr. Gerald said he arrived in his town carriage. And Mama... he did not come alone."

Lady Farrington raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Did he bring Lord Weston? Or perhaps his aunt?"

"No," Celine said, shaking her head, causing her golden curls to bounce. "He came with his cousin. A Miss Kingsley."

Lady Farrington frowned. She tapped a finger against her chin. "Miss Kingsley? I do not recall a Miss Kingsley in the immediate Hamilton line. She must be from the northern branch. The poor relations."

"She seems nice," Celine said, because Celine thought everyone was nice. "She was at the ball last night. She wore teal. Today she is in blue. Mr. Gerald said they are sitting together in the drawing room."

"A chaperone," Lady Farrington concluded. "He brings a family member to ensure propriety. That is excellent, Celine. A rake comes alone to steal a kiss. A gentleman comes with his cousin to propose marriage."

Celine let out a small squeal of delight. She grabbed her mother’s hands.

"I am so happy, Mama," she whispered. "He danced with me first last night. And now he is here, the very next morning. Do you think... do you think he likes me?"

Lady Farrington looked at her daughter. Celine was everything a mother could hope for. She was blonde, blue-eyed, docile, and arguably the most beautiful girl to debut in three seasons. She was a perfect vessel for the Farrington ambition.

"Of course he likes you," Lady Farrington said firmly. "You are the Diamond. You are perfect. Now, look at you."

She gestured to Celine’s morning dress—a simple white muslin that was suitable for breakfast but entirely insufficient for a future Duchess.

"You cannot go down there looking like this," Lady Farrington declared. She stood up, the purple silk of her gown rustling like armor. "Ring for your maid. We have work to do."

Celine nodded frantically. She turned to her own maid, who was hovering by the dressing room door.

"Help me get dressed," Celine ordered breathlessly. "The blue silk, I think. The one with the French lace. It matches his eyes."

"Go," Lady Farrington commanded. "I will go down to the drawing room. I wish to... assess the situation before you make your entrance. Do not take too long, Celine. We want him eager, not annoyed."

"Yes, Mama!"

Celine vanished into her dressing room, a whirlwind of joy and golden hair.

Lady Farrington stood alone in the solar for a moment. She smoothed her cuffs. She checked her reflection in the mirror.

"The Duke of Ford," she whispered to herself.

It was the prize every mother in London was hunting. And today, the fox had walked right into her den.

The ground floor of Farrington House was quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. The house was designed to impress, with marble floors and portraits of stern ancestors staring down from the walls.

Lady Farrington descended the main staircase. She moved softly. For a woman of her stature, she could be surprisingly light on her feet when she wanted to be.

She did not go straight to the drawing room. She paused in the hallway.

The heavy double doors of the main drawing room were cracked open slightly, allowing a sliver of light to spill onto the rug. It was a common practice, meant to show that nothing untoward was happening inside, but for Lady Farrington, it was a peephole.

She approached the door silently. She stopped just outside the frame, hidden by a large potted palm. She leaned forward, pressing her eye to the gap between the doors.

She looked inside.

The drawing room was bathed in morning light. The fire had been lit, casting a warm glow over the velvet sofas and the Persian rugs.

There, sitting on the main settee, was the Duke.

He looked every inch the "Golden Duke." He sat with a rigid posture, his legs crossed at the ankle, his hands resting on his knees. He was wearing a dark blue morning coat that fit his broad shoulders as if it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. His hair was perfectly styled. He was devastatingly handsome.

But he did not look happy.

Lady Farrington narrowed her eyes. He looked... tense. He was staring at the fireplace as if he expected the logs to jump out and attack him. His jaw was set tight.

And sitting opposite him, in a high-backed wing chair, was the cousin.

Miss Kingsley.

Lady Farrington shifted her gaze to the woman.

Yesterday, at the ball, the woman had been a blur of teal in the shadows. Today, in the unforgiving light of morning, Lady Farrington got her first good look

The woman was wearing blue. Not the pale, innocent blue that Celine wore, but a darker, more serious cornflower blue. The dress was modest, high-necked, and clearly well-made, but it lacked the frills and flounces that were currently in fashion.

Miss Kingsley sat with her back straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She held a small leather notebook, which was odd. Who brought a notebook to a morning call?

Lady Farrington studied her face.

It was a striking face. It wasn’t the soft, round prettiness of Celine. It was sharper. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight and aristocratic. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a style that was practical rather than alluring, though a few curls had escaped to frame her neck.

There was a stillness about her that Lady Farrington found unsettling. She wasn’t fidgeting. She wasn’t looking around the room admiring the furniture. She was just... waiting.

"Why is she here?" Lady Farrington murmured to herself, her voice barely a breath.

It was strange. A man like Hamilton usually had an entourage of sycophants, or perhaps a boisterous male friend. Bringing a female cousin—one who looked like she would rather be at a funeral—was a variable Lady Farrington hadn’t calculated.

She looked at the woman’s profile again.

A vague sense of unease prickled at the back of Lady Farrington’s neck. She felt as though she had seen those eyes before. Or perhaps that stubborn set of the chin.

"She looks familiar," Lady Farrington thought, squinting. "Oddly familiar."

She searched her mental catalog of the ton. Was she a debutante from a few seasons ago who had failed to launch? Was she a governess she had once interviewed?

No. The name Kingsley meant nothing to her in this context. There had been a Baron Kingsley years ago, a disgraced man who died in prison, but surely the Duke of Hamilton wouldn’t be parading around the daughter of a criminal. That was impossible.

Lady Farrington dismissed the thought. This woman was likely just a poor relation from the country. A spinster cousin that the family had taken in out of charity. She was a nobody. A piece of furniture.

"She is dreary," Lady Farrington decided with a sniff. "She sucks the light right out of the room."

Inside the drawing room, the silence was deafening.