Falmouth whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed a non-existent fingerprint from the ruby glass of the ink well. “Iris is old enough—”
Hattie slapped both palms onto the blotter hard enough to make the earl start. “Precisely. Iris is the eldest. She is also the smartest, the kindest, the most likely to find matches for her sisters, and the least likely to make a ninnyhammer of herself before a duke.”
Falmouth tucked away his handkerchief, folding it deliberately and precisely in a display of controlling behavior that made Hattie want to strangle him with his own linen. But then, Falmouth wasn’t very bright. He needed his posturing and drama because they afforded him time to think.
“Clonmere won’t notice Iris. She’s perfectly positioned to do reconnaissance for her sisters, and as you say, she’s loyal. If Clonmere can be matched with Lily, Holly, or Hyacinth, Iris will see it done.”
And typical of his lordship, that one conclusion—Iris will get the job done if anybody could—was as far as his limited intelligence and even more limited paternal sentiment could take him.
“And if Iris cannot effect that miracle? If even her good offices, abetted by my own, can’t present a trio of pretty, timid, empty-headed, ornaments as potential duchesses? What then?”
Falmouth sat back. “Clonmere will honor his father’s promise. He must choose one of the three. He’s not a boy, and his mother is determined he shall wed. I’m presenting him with the solution to a problem, you see. His Grace need not sort through every hat box on Mayfair’s shelves, he need only consider three.”
Dear God, the race would soon die out if this was an example of its leading lights. “A woman is not a piece of millinery, Falmouth.”
Falmouth took out a pen knife—silver handle engraved with his cost of arms—and began slicing at the tip of his quill.
“A woman is not a source of income either, Harriet.” He treated her to a pointed look, which was intended to produce shame and guilt—for having served in his household without pay for years out of simple loyalty to his daughters.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Iris has means, while her sisters don’t. You can’t afford for Iris to waltz off with the duke, because you’ve failed to set aside enough for her sisters.”
An interesting shade of red crept up Falmouth’s neck, and the knife slipped.
“Damn and blast. Now look what you’ve made me do.” He wrapped his free hand around the blood welling from his finger, though the cut was tiny. “Blood won’t wash out. How many times has Crevins told me that? This is your fault, with your foolish female—”
Hattie passed him her handkerchief. “Let the wound bleed for a moment to reduce the probability of infection, then apply steady, direct pressure. You’ll live, Falmouth, more’s the pity.”
He sent her a sullen boy’s rebellious look and wrapped his injured finger with her handkerchief. “If you’ve nothing more to say, please leave before you cause further mishaps. I’m a busy man, and I’ll thank you to trust me to do what’s best for my daughters.”
He was a pathetic man, doing for his daughters what was necessary to maintain his standing before his peers.
“Is Peter gambling again?”
In the space of a breath, Falmouth went from aging, pouty boy, to elderly and overwhelmed father. “Every heir sows wild oats.”
“He’s beggaring you with his stupidity, just as you probably beggared your papa. Set him on a budget, my lord, and enforce the figure the first time he exceeds it. If your own father had done the same with you, you could afford to dower all of your daughters handsomely.”
Falmouth peered at the wound, which was, of course, still seeping blood. “Get out.”
“Steady, direct pressure, Falmouth. The more often you peek, the longer it will bleed.” She barely refrained from adding,
The longer Falmouth remained without a countess to manage him, the more arrogant and unpleasant he became.
“I’m leaving,” Harriet said. “I thought you should know that. At the end of this Season, I’ll be removing to my sister’s household in Surrey. Iris will be welcome to join us.”
This announcement was the result of long consideration. If Iris was on hand to limit her sisters’ commercial excesses, keep the staff running smoothly, and mind the earl’s household budget, his lordship would never bear the consequences of his own folly.
“Fine. Abandon the girls when they need you most, turn your back on my years of generosity. I wish you the joy of your dotage.”
Harriet had never liked Falmouth. He was a willfully immature man, and determined to stay that way. His concerns, needs, and wants weren’t his first considerations, they were his
