A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 17 - Seventeen

Lady Margery turned toward the hallway door.

"Simmons!" she called out sharply.

The double doors opened instantly. Mr. Simmons stepped inside. He looked entirely unruffled, his face a mask of professional calmness, as if he hadn’t just been standing on the other side listening to his master shout.

He bowed low. "Yes, my lady?"

Margery gestured her hand toward Delaney. "Please show Madame Coeur to her room. She will be staying in the Blue Guest Suite. It is in the West Wing. It has the best light for reading, and I suspect she has a lot of reading to do."

Simmons turned to Delaney. His expression was polite, professional, and completely blank. He extended his arm in a graceful gesture toward the door. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

"This way, Madame Coeur," he said.

Delaney paused. She tightened her grip on her worn leather bag. She was used to being Madame Coeur. She was used to being a shadow, a secret, a name whispered in back rooms. But in this house, living among these people, she could not just be a title. She needed to be a person. A cousin. A pretend cousin to curb the scandals.

"Miss Kingsley," Delaney corrected him gently. She offered him a small smile.

"Please, Mr. Simmons. Call me Miss Kingsley."

Simmons blinked. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a warm, crinkling sensation around his eyes. He seemed to appreciate the gesture.

"Very well, Miss Kingsley," he said, testing the name. "If you would be so kind as to follow me."

Delaney turned to follow him. She took two steps toward the door.

"Miss Kingsley?"

The voice halted her in her tracks. It was sharp, commanding, but not unkind.

Delaney stopped. She turned around slowly. "Yes, my lady?"

Aunt Margery was standing in the center of the drawing room. The sunlight from the window caught the dust motes dancing around her yellow dress. She looked serious now.

"I’ll be leaving soon," Margery said. "I must return to my own estate. My husband, Lord Bellwood, cannot stay on his own without me, and I have been away too long. The country air calls to me."

Delaney nodded respectfully. "I understand."

"I’ll check out your progress weekly," Margery continued. She raised a finger. "Every Wednesday. I will come for tea. To see how well things are going, of course."

She lowered her voice, leaning in slightly, her blue eyes sharp.

"And, of course, to keep the gossips at arm’s length. If the ton sees me visiting, they will believe the story that you are my distant cousin helping with my correspondence. It adds... legitimacy. It protects you."

Delaney felt a wave of gratitude. Margery was eccentric—she had hit her nephew with a history book, after all—but she was also protective. She was shielding Delaney from the brutal judgment of London society.

"Do take care of yourself," Margery added softly. Her eyes softened. "Rowan barks loudly, but he rarely bites. However, this house is big, and London is cruel. If you are having any trouble—any trouble at all—feel free to write to me. Or inform me during my weekly inspection."

"Inspection," Delaney repeated. A small smile touched her lips. "I shall make sure my uniform is pressed and my answers are ready, My Lady."

Margery let out a bark of laughter. "Good girl. You have spirit. You will need it."

"Of course, my lady," Delaney said. "Thank you. For everything."

"Ok then, carry on," Margery said briskly. She gestured with her hand, shooing them away like a farmer chasing geese. "Go, go. Before Rowan comes back down and decides to argue about the color of the sky."

Delaney turned and followed Mr. Simmons out of the room.

They walked into the grand foyer. The marble floor seemed to stretch on for miles. It was a beautiful house, Delaney had to admit. But it was also cold. It felt like a museum where you weren’t allowed to touch anything.

"The Blue Guest Suite is on the second floor, Miss Kingsley," Simmons explained as he led her toward the massive staircase.

The staircase was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. The banister was made of polished mahogany, smooth and cool under Delaney’s gloved hand.

As they climbed, Delaney looked at the portraits lining the wall. There were dozens of Hamiltons. There were men in armor holding swords. There were men in white wigs holding scrolls. There were men in red military coats holding muskets.

They all had the same nose. They all had the same golden hair.

And they all looked incredibly bored.

"It runs in the family," Delaney thought dryly. "Generations of bored, handsome men."

They reached the second-floor landing. A long hallway stretched out in both directions, covered in a thick Persian runner that muffled their footsteps.

"The Duke’s quarters are in the East Wing," Simmons said, pointing to the right. "You are in the West Wing. It offers a bit more... privacy."

"Distance," Delaney translated. He wants me as far away as possible. He probably hopes we don’t get to meet each other so many times a day.

"That is very thoughtful," Delaney said politely.

Simmons stopped in front of a white door with a polished brass handle. He fished a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked it with a solid click.

"Here we are," he said.

He pushed the door open and stepped aside to let her enter.

Delaney walked in.

She stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

The room was not just a room. It was bigger than her entire ground floor in Chelsea.

The walls were covered in pale blue silk wallpaper that shimmered in the afternoon light. The floor was polished wood, dark and rich, covered by a rug that looked soft enough to sleep on. In the center of the room stood a massive four-poster bed. It was draped in crisp white linen and blue velvet curtains.

There was a fireplace with a white marble mantelpiece, currently filled with fresh flowers. There was a sitting area with two plush armchairs and a small writing desk.

It was luxurious. It was elegant. It was breathtaking.

"Oh my!" She gasped internally.