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“It’s clear that he slipped and toppled into the pond!” the countess shouted quite desperately, her wide blue eyes growing wide enough for Sophie to wonder if it were possible for them to pop right out of their sockets. A vision flashed, of her mother groping around on the perfectly manicured grass for her eyeballs, odd hat toppling from her head, unable to bear its own weight. What a scene. It was her turn to snicker.
There she had stood in the pebbled drive of the Fox and Falcon, watching the Marquess of Eversley, portrait of superciliousness, march away from her, somehow impeccable even while missing a boot.
“No.” King’s response was clipped. He could carry his own imposter wife himself, dammit.
“Happiness. That’s what books smell like. Happiness.
