The walls were covered with red-flecked brocade. Huge sconces sprouted from the wall beside the fireplace, gleaming with a combination of brass and gold, candles thrusting in all directions. The fireplace itself could hardly be seen due to a screen set with an embroidery of cabbage roses and edged in a confection of frothing gold scrolls. The furniture had all been gilded to match.
“Mother?” Poppy asked, smiling at the butler to dismiss him.
Her mother rose from the depths of a brocaded sofa with all the elegance of Marie Antoinette herself on a Court Reception day. A positive forest of feathers bristled above her towering hair; her shoulders were bare though it was morning, and her dress was as formal as the rest of the room. In short, she looked like the portrait of a duchess.
“My daughter,” Lady Flora said, holding out her hand.
Poppy curtsied and kissed it.
Lady Flora backed onto the sofa and sat down. In truth, she would probably only fit on the sofa, given the size of her side-panniers. Poppy sat across from her and waited.
Sure enough, there was a shriek. It wasn’t a trilled exclamation of female alarm either. It was something like the full-throated bellow of alarm that Poppy had read certain monkeys uttered.
“Your hair!”
“I cut it.”
Her mother touched her own hair, the horror on her face transferring perhaps into some sort of dread that someone had taken a scissors to her without her notice. “Why—why—you stupid girl, why would you do such a thing? You look like a common shrimp seller! Don’t tell me that Luce had a hand in this!”
“I terminated Luce’s employment.”
“You terminated Luce! Luce! One of the finest French maids in En gland?”
She actually gaped. Poppy suppressed a smile. “She had been gluing feathers into my hair, Mama, and then cutting them out. I couldn’t allow that to continue.”
“How she achieved her effects is none of your concern! You should merely admire the effects. And Luce would faint to see you now; at least you were à la mode when she was with you!”
“My hair had to be cut off to remove the snarls.” Poppy eyed the towering series of curls atop her mother’s head. “Do you have any idea how many snarls might be inside your hair, Mama?”
“You sound like a common street girl,” her mother said, ignoring the question. “And you look like one too. A good French hairdresser isn’t found on the street corner. You’re going to have to find one immediately, before anyone sees you. I did want to tell you that I am gratified by the way that you have not advertised your stay with the Duchess of Beaumont. I have managed to keep it from the majority of my acquaintances.”
Obviously, her mother was not acquainted with the sort of person who attended the Royal Society lectures. “You said you wished to speak to me, Mama?”
“It is time for you to come home. I am holding a soirée tomorrow to celebrate your return to your rightful position. I have reformed your house—and your husband. The young fool has a mistress now and should bother you no further.”
The odd pinch at Poppy’s heart only lasted a moment. He wouldn’t lie to her. “Fletch doesn’t have a mistress, Mama.”
“For God’s sake, don’t insult both of us by lowering your speech to your hair,” her mother said. “Fletch! Fletch! He sounds like the unfledged baby that he is. I have addressed him as Your Grace, and I’ll warrant you that he liked it. Men always do. I summoned you, Poppy, because it is time to stop being so foolish and take over your rightful place as the Duchess of Fletcher.”
“But I thought you were enjoying it,” Poppy said.