The next morning, the sun rose over London with a cheerful brightness that felt entirely inappropriate for Delaney's mood. She felt like a maid being dragged out of bed to work.
She stood in front of her small, cracked mirror. It was time to start the day.
She did not reach for silk or lace. She had none of those. She reached for the gray wool. It was the same dress she had draped on the chair, cleaned and pressed with aggressive precision. She buttoned it all the way to her chin. It was scratchy, it was hot, and it was entirely unappealing.
Perfect.
Next came the hair. Delaney gathered her thick, dark curls—her one true vanity—and wrestled them into submission. She twisted, pinned, and tucked until every strand was trapped in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Not a single wisp was allowed to escape.
She looked like a librarian who had banned laughter from her library. She looked strict like she mean business.
She picked up her leather bag. It contained her notebook, a fresh bottle of ink, and her sharpest quill.
"You are Madame Coeur," she told her reflection sternly. "You are calm. You are professional. You are patient."
She walked out of her front door just as a sleek black carriage pulled up to the curb. It bore the Bellwood crest, not the Hamilton lion. That was clever. The Duke's aunt was keeping this discreet.
The footman opened the door. Delaney climbed in, ignoring Mrs. Miller, who was peeking through her curtains next door with her mouth open.
The ride took thirty minutes. The carriage moved smoothly, unlike the hired hacks Delaney usually took. It smelled of leather and lavender. Delaney sat with her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, watching the city pass by.
They left the crowded, noisy streets of Chelsea. They passed the fashionable shops of Bond Street. Finally, they arrived in Mayfair.
The carriage turned through a set of wrought-iron gates and rolled up a gravel drive. But this was not Hamilton House. It was a smaller, softer estate, surrounded by gardens that were bursting with color.
The carriage stopped. The footman opened the door and offered his hand.
"Lady Margery is in the garden, Miss," he said.
Delaney stepped out. The air here was sweeter than in the city. A butler, an older man with a kind face, was waiting for her.
"This way, please," he said.
He led her down a winding stone path. They passed rose bushes that were groomed to within an inch of their lives. They passed a fountain where stone cherubs spat water into a basin.
Finally, they reached a white gazebo. It sat on a small hill, overlooking a pond.
Inside the gazebo, a woman was waiting.
Lady Margery Bellwood was exactly as the newspapers described her: formidable. She wore a dress of deep purple silk. She had gray curls that were perfectly arranged, and she held a teacup like it was part of her. She had left the peace of the countryside for one reason only: to ensure the Hamilton line did not end with her stubborn nephew.
The butler bowed. "Madame Coeur, my lady."
Lady Margery looked up. She squinted slightly against the sunlight.
"Thank you, Jenkins," she said. She gestured to the empty chair opposite her. "Have a seat, my dear."
Delaney nodded respectfully. "Thank you, my lady."
She sat down. She sat on the edge of the cushion, keeping her posture rigid. She placed her bag on the floor next to her boots.
Lady Margery did not speak immediately. She simply stared. Her eyes, which were sharp and intelligent, swept over Delaney from the top of her severe bun to the hem of her gray dress.
She looked surprised. In fact, she looked shocked.
"I must say," Lady Margery said, setting her cup down with a clink. "I didn't expect you to be young."
Delaney smiled. It was her professional smile—small, polite, and revealing nothing.
"This is not the first time I have heard that, my lady," Delaney said. "And it certainly won't be the last."
"I expected..." Margery waved her hand vaguely. "Well, I expected a spinster. Someone in her fifties. Perhaps with a wart. Or a cat."
"I have no cats," Delaney said smoothly. "And I try to avoid warts. They are bad for business."
Margery let out a bark of laughter. It was a loud, genuine sound.
"You are too kind. You can address me as Miss Kingsley, Lady..." Delaney paused, waiting for the introduction.
"Oh, good lord, where are my manners?" Margery laughed again, shaking her head. "I have been so focused on my nephew's stubbornness that I have forgotten how to be civilized. I am Lady Margery Bellwood. Wife of Lord Bellwood. You can just call me Lady Margery."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Margery," Delaney said.
"Likewise," Margery replied. She picked up the teapot. "Tea? It is Darjeeling. Very good for the nerves."
"Please," Delaney said.
Margery poured a cup and handed it to her. Delaney took it. The china was so fine it was almost translucent.
Margery took a sip of her own tea. Her face turned serious. The laughter vanished, replaced by the look of a woman discussing matters of life and death.
"I believe my letter has explained everything to you," Margery said. "Rowan—my nephew—is impossible. He is charming, yes. He is handsome, yes. But he is stubborn as a mule. He has rejected every debutante in London."
"I have heard rumors," Delaney admitted.
"He needs a wife," Margery said firmly. "He needs an heir. And I am tired of waiting. So, we will talk about payment and every other thing. I want results, Miss Kingsley."
Delaney nodded. She took a sip of tea to steady her hands. "I understand. I usually charge a consultation fee, followed by a percentage of the dowry upon success. However, given the... difficulty of the client, I assume we can come to an arrangement."
Her mind screamed at her " I should have at most a thousand pounds from this."
"Oh, I don't want to talk about percentages," Margery said, waving her hand dismissively. "That involves math. I hate math. I prefer flat rates."
She looked Delaney in the eye.
"How does fifty thousand pounds sound?"
Delaney had just taken a large swallow of hot tea.
At the words fifty thousand, her throat simply closed up.
Gack!
Delaney choked. The tea went down the wrong pipe. She coughed violently, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes watered. Her calm, professional mask shattered completely.
"Pardon?" she wheezed, grabbing her handkerchief. She dabbed at her mouth, trying to stop the coughing fit. "I... I beg your pardon?"