Right Number, Wrong Girl

“Bluebell Cottage. I—”

“Oh, with Nora. Of course. Beautiful place.” She nodded. “Nancy, if you would be so kind as to have that delivered to Miss Hopkins later today, we will select the invitations and have them printed tonight and sent tomorrow. I trust you’re familiar with aristocratic seating plans for the dinner?” I didn’t have a chance to respond that I did not before she said, “Ah, no matter, I do believe there are some issues at the moment. Hugo will be able to assist you with keeping those who don’t get along separate from one another.”

Spectacular.

This got better.

“I will not mind my manners,” said an elderly female from outside the door. “I do not want this bloody party, George, and I shall not be a part of the organising.”

That would be the dowager duchess, then.

“Mother, please,” said an exasperated male voice I assumed to be George—the duke.

“Henry! Tell him!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” a new male voice retorted.

The duchess shot a look at someone behind me, and two seconds later, the door was opened to reveal an elderly woman and two men who bore a striking resemblance to Hugo—one a similar age, and one clearly older.

His father and brother, then.

Everyone stood up, and I quickly followed suit.

“His Grace, The Duke of Devon with Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Devon, and Lord Henry,” Rupert announced formally.

The dowager duchess shuffled in using a cane and looked at me. “Are you the party planner?”

No.

Not at all.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m—”

“I want to see the menu,” she demanded, cutting me off. “If I have to be involved with this, it might as well be something I bloody well care about.”

“Mother,” the duke said. “I do apologise, Miss Hopkins.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”

I was going to throw up. “It’s my pleasure, Your Grace, but I—”

“My son, Lord Henry.” He motioned, and the younger man stepped forward, giving me an appraising glance.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hopkins,” he said with a smile, shaking my hand.

I was never going to be able to tell the truth, was I?

“And yours, Lord Henry.” I withdrew my hand and looked down.

I’d never felt so awkward in my life.

All these people thought I was Camilla, and I couldn’t get a word in edgeways to tell them otherwise.

The only person in this room who knew my name was actually Sophie was Hugo.

The eldest son.

The heir.

And I doubted I was his favourite person after yesterday.