“You ought to consider yourself fortunate to have Waters and Sons linen gracing your tables,” the draper said coldly, reinforcing Rafe’s concerns.
“We will accept the linens you’ve already agreed to provide, Mr. Waters,” he said smoothly, hoping to avoid further argument between Pen and the linen draper.
By God, he already had an aching head.
Which, he supposed, was only mildly better than an aching cock. At least this distraction, vexing as it was, had served to distract him from thoughts of Persephone and what could have happened in the library.
“We most certainly will not!” Pen snapped, outraged. “Mr. Waters, you can take your pompous airs and your plain tablecloths and stuff them up your—”
“That is enough, Penelope!” he barked, interrupting her tirade before she could finish. “Please excuse my sister, sir. Our order remains the same.”
Flashing his most charming grin, he hastened to escort Mr. Waters from the room before Pen caused any more trouble with her antics. He exchanged a few more pleasantries and reassurances with the draper before returning to find his sister in tears.
Ah, hell. He could not abide by women turning on the waterworks. It made him devilishly uncomfortable.
“What is amiss, Pen?” he demanded, crossing the room in hasty strides.
He did not think he had ever seen Pen weep before. First her ridiculous requests, then her outrage with Mr. Waters, and now she was sobbing? Just what the floating hell was wrong with her this bleeding morning?
“How dare you undermine me?” she demanded through her tears. “He had the number of tablecloths wrong, and I fail to understand why he cannot provide the embroidery. He asked me where Mr. Sutton was when he arrived.”
A fresh wave of tears punctuated her words.
He reached into his coat and extracted a handkerchief, offering it to her. “You need to calm yourself, Pen. The tables will be filled regardless of whether or not there is a bit of thread stitched in a palace on them.”
She snatched the mouchoir from him and dabbed frantically at her cheeks. “Men are nothing but a great bloody lot of arrogant loggerheads!”
Ah.
“Is this about Lord Aidan Weir, Pen?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She sniffled. “It’s his brother the haughty arse who…”
Rafe’s suspicions rose. “His brother? Which one?”
If he had to issue a warning to another member of the Weir family, he would. And gladly, too. Just what the devil had Pen been doing?
Pen shook her head. “It hardly matters now. I’ll not be seeing Lord Lindsey again.”
Lindsey? The viscount was the most notorious stickler of fashionable society.
He frowned, wondering how Pen would have crossed paths with the man. “That is for the best, sister.”
“Of course it is,” she agreed, smiling with unnatural cheer. “But never mind his high and mighty lordship. We have a gaming hell to open.”
“Indeed we do, and we’d both do well to keep our minds on The Sinner’s Palace II where they belong,” he said, as much for his own sake as hers.
* * *
“This is a most unusual matter, and I hesitate to even bring it to your attention,” Mr. Jasper Sutton said, pity lacing his voice and countenance both.
Persephone’s heart ceased to beat.
At least, that was what it felt like, so swift and fierce was her alarm.
Her spine stiffened and she sat up straighter in her seat. At first, she had believed the unexpected interview with her employer was so he might inquire, as he periodically did, after the improvements of his daughters in their lessons. When she had initially met the girls, they had been learning to read for the first time, but in the weeks she had known them, they had surpassed her greatest hopes. They were naturally intelligent and blessed with a stubborn determination that stood them in great stead.
However, it was apparent he had not called her here to discuss Anne and Elizabeth.