CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“By all means, ignore my advice. Perhaps you would also care to poison your tea and toss your bank notes in the fireplace and invite Sir Barnabus Malby to your next fete. So long as you are practicing idiocy, I see no reason not to strive for perfection.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon said lady’s insistence that a certain feline companion will learn proper behavior eventually.
Thunder cracked and roared as Sebastian Reaver stalked through the antechamber and threw open the door to his office, letting it bounce on its hinges and swing closed behind him.
“Bloody, bleeding hell.” He’d picked up the epithet from Drayton. At times, it was particularly useful. Now, for example.
“Ill tidings, I take it.”
Reaver stiffened halfway to his desk. “Dunston. I expected you a week ago.”
The lean man sat in the darkest end of the room, one leg crossed over the other, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. Reaver noted the shine of rainwater on his boots.
“Hmm. A matter of urgent necessity required my attention.”
Reaver frowned and moved to light the lamp on the shelf behind his desk. “How did you get in here without Shaw noticing?”
Dunston’s slow grin was an answer in itself. “I’ve methods you cannot comprehend, old chap.”
Grunting, Reaver yanked his chair away from the desk and sank into it, rubbing his hands over his face. “If you’ve come hoping to find the Investor’s head on a pike, I regret to say neither of us is so fortunate.”
“I’ve come to change our luck, you might say.”
Sitting back, Reaver rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. He examined Dunston’s posture, still and nonchalant. His expression, flat and deadly. Clearly, the man had been provoked.
Outside his window, the rain began pelting in earnest. A white flash lit the room.
Reaver had been waiting for the Investor to make a mistake. It appeared he finally had. The blackguard had gone after Dunston’s wife. Judging from the look in Dunston’s eyes, that error would carry a heavy price.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Tell me more about these poisonings.”
Giving the other man a long look, Reaver leaned forward and opened his second drawer, lifting out the cylinder case and setting it atop his desk with a clack. He pointed to it and said, “This is what I have. A bloody case. And a bloody lot of sketches showing poisonous plants.”
“But you suspect the Investor’s new scheme involves these very poisons, if I recall.”
“Every death follows a pattern. Wealthy nob with greedy, murderous kin eager to lay their hands upon his purse. He dies peacefully in his sleep. Few question it, for who bothers to wonder why an old man dies?”
“You did.”
He rocked back in his chair. “Aye. The baron was a nob, but a decent sort.”
Dunston sighed. “A poison no one would question—apart from you, of course. One that gives the appearance of a natural death. Sold to wealthy families for, presumably, a fat sum.”
Reaver nodded and described what he’d managed to gather thus far. Knowing the Investor was either titled or wealthy and would have needed some knowledge of plants, he’d questioned every member of the London Horticultural Society. One elderly, gout-ridden baronet had sniffed disdainfully and informed Reaver the plants depicted in the sketches were hardly of any note, as they were common throughout England, either growing wild or cultivated in gardens.
He bloody well could have figured that one out on his own.
Next, he had attempted to trace the origins of the cylinder case. While ornate, the thing was not connected to any aristocratic family that he could find.
“You examined crests and insignia, I presume,” Dunston murmured.
“Aye. Nothing similar that makes any sense. Spotted a few dragons here and there, but nobody of a proper age or location or disposition to be the Investor.”
“Mmm. What of the maker?”
Reaver leaned forward again to tip the cylinder on its side, exposing the small mark on the bottom. The cylinder rolled to and fro as he sat back again in disgust. “Man with that mark says he’s never seen the case, nor does he do such fine work.”
Dunston’s brows rose. “And you believe him?”
Rolling his shoulders, Reaver sighed. “Hard not to believe a man when he’s pissed himself and begged you to kill him.”
Dunston pushed to his feet and moved to pick up the case. He turned it this way and that, holding it up to the meager lamplight. A minute passed before he set it down and sighed.
“Aye,” muttered Reaver. “Precisely.”
Pacing in front of the desk, the earl began firing questions. “Anything on the ward?”
“Nothing. It appears Chalmers acted as her solicitor for a brief time following Syder’s death, transferring funds and such, but the trail dies into bloody oblivion thereafter. Little wonder. The girl is in grave peril, should the Investor ever find her.”
Dunston nodded. “What of the poison? Have you located the supplier?”
“Apothecary choked to death from the inside out while we spoke to him.”
Halting, Dunston raised a brow. “Rather alarming.”
Reaver grunted his agreement, preferring not to discuss it. “Before his death, he admitted preparing the formulations. After a fashion.” He swallowed at the recollection. “I gathered his papers and showed them and the sketches to a physician I trust. He believes there were at least four formulations, all incorporating laudanum. The Investor attacked us because we were too close. The apothecary would have given us a name had he not …”
“Yes. Inside out and all that.” Dunston braced his elbow on his opposite wrist and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The sketches denote the components of various poisons. But the case must also have some significance. Otherwise, Chalmers would not have bothered to send it.”
“Pity Chalmers ain’t here to explain himself.”
Dunston huffed his agreement and resumed pacing. He paused by the window, apparently watching the flash of lightning and the angry spray of rain. Or, perhaps he was enchanted by the ormolu clock on the adjacent shelf.
Reaver didn’t know why he’d kept the frilly thing—he preferred an object to be nothing more than what it was—except that it reminded him of the day he’d opened his club.
“Perhaps Chalmers did explain himself,” Dunston murmured. “Only I misheard him.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a watch.
Reaver frowned. “Explain.”
Dunston turned the watch this way and that, opening the outer case and running a finger around the rim. “The night I was to meet him, he had no papers on his person, nothing of any real value. Only a handkerchief, some snuff.” He presented the open watch to Reaver, holding it out in his palm. “And this.”
“Most men in London have a watch.”
“My thoughts precisely. Additionally, this watch is of lesser quality than one might expect of a solicitor. Gilt brass hunter’s case. Inferior etching. A poor replica of finer pieces.”
“The watch of a man who has run out of blunt, in other words.”
“Mmm. Easily dismissed.” Dunston came toward the light, lowering the watch into the direct glare of the lamp. “But the movement is a repeater. Expensive. Masterfully crafted, some parts gilded, even. I assumed Chalmers had sold the original case to replenish his purse after Syder’s funds evaporated.”
Reaver leaned forward to examine the timepiece. Dunston was right. The two components were not well matched. “Is the case marked?”
Dunston withdrew his dagger from the sheath beneath his coat and used the tip to open the back of the case. Inside, the case was inscribed with an S, denoting a familiar London maker known for imitating more expensive watches. Of interest, however, was the mark on the back of the movement—a double-F contained inside a W. It looked like the one on the cylinder case if the W were enclosed and more stylized. Inconveniently, the maker had neglected to inscribe his full name. Perhaps he had done so on the original case.
Tilting his head to get a better look, Reaver grunted. The mark, having been protected from wear, retained detail that changed its appearance considerably from the one on the cylinder—the one Reaver had mistakenly attributed to the craven jeweler he’d questioned last week. “It will take time to track this,” he said. “But knowing the craftsman is a watchmaker of some skill should narrow our field.”
“Find him, Reaver. I want every man you have on the task.” The edge in Dunston’s voice brought Reaver’s head up. Dark eyes flashed with a fiery glint.
Dunston was an affable sort, sometimes cold, sometimes droll. But now, he resembled one of Reaver’s fighters in a match that neared victory. This was bloodlust, pure and simple.
“Calm yourself, man. The Investor’s apothecary is dead. That should slow him down for—”
“We haven’t time to waste.”
“Bloody hell. Acting in haste has already resulted in Drayton being shot, Shaw being poisoned, and an innocent jeweler wetting himself and wailing for his mother. I’ve no desire to break anybody else’s fingers when we cannot be certain—”
The dagger appeared at his throat so suddenly, he hadn’t time to blink. “My wife is in danger while we dally, old chap. A sense of urgency would be wise.”
Reaver did not tolerate threats, particularly those issued at the point of a knife. But the man known as Sabre was far from ordinary. And that man had been goaded one time too many.
Holding himself motionless, Reaver opted for reason over force. “We will find the maker. It will take some time, but none will be wasted, I assure you.” Slowly, he reached for the tip of the knife, pressing it away from his neck with a finger while taking care not to alarm its volatile owner. “Meanwhile, you could help by leaving my skin intact, eh?”
The dagger was tossed in the air and sheathed with a snick. “Apologies.” The word was flat, but his tone sincere. Dunston ran a hand through his hair. “Having Maureen in danger has turned me into a madman, it seems.”
Reaver raised a brow.
Upon seeing his expression, Dunston chuckled wryly. “You may not understand now, my good man. But one day, you will.”
His response was another grunt. To Reaver’s mind, that was more than the daft prediction deserved.
Dunston clapped him on the shoulder with the same hand that had held a knife to his throat moments earlier. “You’ll see. If you are very fortunate, you’ll see I speak the truth. Some women are worth going mad for.”
*~*~*
Two weeks after Henry’s departure, Maureen lost her grip on her temper.
“Stroud! Lord Dunston instructed you to remain at my side, but I doubt very much that he intended you to follow me to and from the privy.” She brushed at her skirts and glared at the hawk-nosed, bespectacled valet who straightened from his position beside the privy door.
“I do beg your pardon, my lady. His lordship was most explicit.”
She sighed in exasperation and stalked the length of the garden toward the kitchen door. “Is the cart ready? We need much more flour than last time.”
“Indeed, my lady.”
The morning Henry left for London, Maureen had spent an hour weeping like a ninny. But it hadn’t taken long for her to tire of the hot face and swollen eyes and hollowed, aching chest. An hour more of gathering her thoughts and penning a letter to Jane had resulted in general dissatisfaction with her circumstances.
She had little to do at the hunting lodge, apart from fret and miss Henry. The two maids and two footmen from Yardleigh Manor seemed determined to prove themselves more efficient than a staff twice the size. She’d even ceased preparing dinner each night, as it was far too much bother for only her. And, in any case, the reward of cooking was the delight of those eating her food. Despite the staff’s softening censure toward her eccentricities, they did not appear to relish the dishes she prepared as she might have hoped. Rather, they ate largely in silence and left the table quickly.
As for other distractions, the footmen from Dunston House positioned themselves like watchmen around the cottage. If she dared go for a ride or a walk, Stroud and at least two footmen followed. Such vigilance diminished her enjoyment considerably.
This was why—four interminable, misery-filled days after Henry’s departure—she had elected to take command of the kitchen once again, but this time for a different purpose.
“I shall begin baking for the girls at the academy,” she’d declared in answer to Martha’s querulous inquiry about why Maureen was donning an apron.
Martha had opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but Maureen had merely reiterated that she intended to deliver treats to Yardleigh Manor upon their next trip for supplies, and that was that.
The next morning, Maureen patiently peered out the diamond-paned window of the east parlor, and when the footmen hitched up the cart for said journey, she took up the basket filled with her strawberry tarts and Chelsea buns, and ventured outside. Stroud protested. So did two of the Dunston House footmen. She raised her chin, ignored the queasy feeling in her belly, and declared, “I am going, gentlemen. You may come along if you like. But I am going.”
They all came along—Stroud and the Dunston House footmen. Her Palace Guard, as she’d begun to think of them, surrounded the cart on three sides with Stroud seated beside her on the cart’s bench, managing the reins and casting her furtive, questioning glances.
Upon their arrival at Yardleigh, she entered the massive kitchens, uncertain of her welcome. However, Cook was a steady sort, round and friendly. She reminded Maureen of Mrs. Dunn, which made her miss her family, though not as deeply as she missed Henry.
Despite her melancholy, she soon fell into an easy rapport with Yardleigh’s cook and several of the kitchen maids, who agreed to distribute Maureen’s creations to the girls of St. Catherine’s Academy. One of the maids fetched Sarah, who likewise expressed delight at Maureen’s idea.
“They will be over the moon,” exclaimed a halo-haired Sarah, sighing as she took another bite of a Chelsea bun.
“I promise to keep my distance,” Maureen assured her. “My visits will be confined to the kitchens. I wouldn’t wish to endanger anyone, especially you or your students.”
Sarah’s mouth quirked wryly as she licked cinnamon and sugary glaze from her fingers. “I doubt such precautions are necessary. Yardleigh is rather isolated.” She nodded to where Stroud stood beside the door to the rear courtyard. “And adequately protected.”
Maureen’s answer halted when she glimpsed dark curls and round blue eyes peeking around the edge of the archway behind Sarah. Biddy spotted the basket upon the table and came forward to investigate. Offering the girl first a Chelsea bun then a strawberry tart, she felt a surge of delight at seeing Biddy’s greedy gleam and waggling little fingers. She gave her two tarts, which swiftly disappeared.
So had begun a daily ritual. Maureen, accompanied by her Palace Guard, delivered a basket of treats to Yardleigh’s kitchens each morning. While the cart was loaded with new supplies, she visited with Sarah and Cook and Biddy. Between the visits and the planning and the baking, she managed to confine the clawing worry and longing for Henry to the background of her thoughts.
Except at night. Then, it rushed in upon her like dark water.
This morning, after the incident outside the privy, Maureen was bristling with unaccustomed irritation, gripping the handle of her basket, and struggling to remember why using it to bash Stroud’s head was a bad idea. She glanced his way as he resettled his spectacles on the bump at the top of his nose. Minutes later, as they strolled into the kitchens at Yardleigh, she slammed the basket onto the table and tugged at her gloves with snapping motions.
Stirring something in a copper pot, Cook glanced over her shoulder. “Another delivery, eh, m’lady? Biddy will be right pleased. Girl does love her strawberries.”
Maureen forced her irritation aside and huffed a chuckle, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet. “She does, indeed. Where is little Biddy? She is usually here to greet me.”
“Ah, she’s like to still be at her chess lesson. Miss Gray’s been teachin’ her every morning of late.”
Miss Gray was one of the older girls whom Biddy had befriended. According to Biddy, she kept to herself, watching everyone but speaking little and laughing less. Sarah had clarified that, in the year Miss Gray had been at the school, she had struggled to engage with other girls her age.
“She is brilliant,” Sarah had said, shaking her head in wonder. “Any subject, be it dance or music, sewing or household budgets, she masters effortlessly. Where she finds difficulty is in relating to others beyond the most fundamental politeness. Her affinity with Bridget is the first improvement we’ve seen, really.”
Maureen’s heart had immediately twisted, thinking of all the years Jane had struggled with shyness, immobilized and silenced in the presence of strangers. Maureen had asked Biddy more about Miss Gray, to which Biddy—licking tiny fingers after finishing a strawberry tart—had replied simply, “She is odd.”
After admonishing the little girl to cease wiping her sticky hands on her Sunday dress, Maureen had pressed her to elaborate. “Odd how?”
Biddy had shrugged. “She thinks Lord Colin is a hero.” Round blue eyes rolled dramatically, accompanied by a heaving sigh. “That is silly. I like when he plays the pianoforte. And when he teaches us about dancing and such. But she says he is a valley knight.”
Maureen had puzzled over why a knight’s location should make any difference until she’d realized Biddy had misinterpreted “valiant.”
“Everybody knows he is just a duke’s brother,” Biddy had continued. “That is why they call him Lord Colin. Knights are called sir. Lady Colin has been teaching us about it. Proper titles are very important.”
Miss Gray’s fascination with Colin Lacey was more understandable to Maureen, perhaps because she’d once been sixteen and susceptible to handsome features, golden hair, and sky-hued eyes. It told her that the girl, rather than being odd, was normal but quite shy, as Jane had been. Maureen had seen Biddy’s long-suffering eye-roll numerous times in her sisters. Miss Gray must have bent the little girl’s ears at some length about “valiant knights.”
Now, as Maureen smoothed her hair and gazed curiously toward the pot Cook was stirring, she wondered if Biddy would manage to coax Miss Gray to come to the kitchens at last. Sarah and Maureen had agreed that Maureen’s experience with Jane’s shyness might be of some benefit to the girl.
Sarah entered through the brick archway, her pixie face smiling a greeting. “More tarts, I hope. Bridget has taken to hoarding them. I don’t know what she is promising the other girls for their share, but it cannot be good.”
Maureen chuckled and removed the cover from the basket. “Even better. I have a surprise for her.”
Sarah came alongside Maureen to peek into the basket. “Oh! She will adore it. Simply adore it.” Beaming, Sarah squeezed Maureen’s arm. “What a marvelous talent you have. So thoughtful. Thank you.”
Maureen waved away the praise, feeling the Huxley Flush rise. “It is my pleasure. A welcome diversion, you might say.”
Sarah’s warm, honey-gold eyes softened with sympathy. She gave Maureen’s arm another squeeze. “You miss him.”
Blinking away sudden tears, Maureen swallowed and cleared her throat. “Yes. I do.” Her eyes landed upon Stroud, who was now chatting with Cook, gesturing toward the larder and explaining the need for more bacon. Maureen sighed, her temper swelling again.
Sarah followed her gaze. “Has Mr. Stroud done something to vex you?”
“He is …” Maureen gritted her teeth and attempted to be reasonable. “He is only doing his job. I realize that. But he is always near. He even stands outside the privy whilst I …”
Brows arching and mouth quirking, Sarah replied, “Gracious me.”
“Yes. At first all this vigilance was … but now I am …” She released a heavy sigh, lowered her voice, and turned her back to Stroud. “I am furious, Sarah. So bloody furious I want to scream.”
With a sympathetic nod, Sarah guided her through the archway, down a corridor, and into a small room with a rough-hewn table and several mismatched chairs. Maureen plopped down into one of them and covered her hot cheeks. “I am sorry.”
“Why should you be?” Sarah pulled back a chair of her own and sat, folding her hands neatly on the table’s surface.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Maureen clenched her fists several times and tried to regain some control. “It is not Stroud’s fault, but if I see him adjust his spectacles one more time, I shall brain him with the baking basket.”
“Are you certain Stroud is the man you are furious with?”
Her eyes flew open. She breathed and breathed and breathed, but it didn’t help. She pictured a calm pond with a lovely gazebo and plenty of ducklings, as she’d taken to doing on nights when the fury took hold of her and kept her awake, but that didn’t help either. The Huxley Flush worsened, tingling in her skin.
“No.” Tears—helpless, blasted tears—caused Sarah’s pixie face and halo hair to swim in her vision. “I am furious with Henry.”
“For?” Sarah prompted gently.
“Leaving.” The word was hoarse and contorted.
“And?”
“Lying to me.”
“Mmm. For how long?”
“Years.” Tears streamed now. She swiped them away. “Bloody years. How could he do that, Sarah? How could he not trust me enough to tell me the truth? How could he pretend not to want me? Pretend that I was alone in my feelings for him? Watch me mourn the loss and search for another to marry?”
Rather than reply, Sarah simply listened, steady and calm.
“He lied to me about who he is,” she whispered. “And yet I love him. The real Henry. Even knowing … everything he’s done. I love him. I miss him until I ache. Until I cannot bear it another moment.”
For a while, they sat together in the silence, the creak of the house’s floorboards above their heads and the distant bustle and chatter of the servants the only intrusion. Then, Sarah sighed. “You should be furious, you know. He had his reasons, there can be no doubt of it, but sometimes even the best reasons are insufficient.”
“At least I understand now why Harrison refused to speak to him for so long.”
Sarah smiled. “Blackmore is protective of Colin.”
Maureen frowned. “How is it that you and Colin have forgiven Henry? It seems to me you would have the best reason of all for resenting his intervention in your lives.”
Sarah folded her arms across her middle, each hand resting on the inside of the opposite elbow. As usual, one of her fingers began a rhythmic tapping on her sleeve. “Oddly enough, I never blamed him for Colin’s involvement with Syder. Colin has made it abundantly clear joining the cause to defeat that monster was his choice. Dunston gave him an opportunity, one he badly needed at the time.”
“But you did not choose it.” Her gaze settled on Sarah’s neck, where a thin, pale line marred her flesh.
A warm hand covered hers. Sarah’s expression was mixed with patience. Grief. Understanding. Love.
“I chose Colin. I would do the same a thousand times.”
“You might have died.”
Sarah nodded. “I might have done. So might have Colin. He was tortured, you know. Syder wanted Dunston’s name very badly.”
“T-tortured?”
“Mmm. I found him lying on the side of the road. It was a chance thing, as it was not the route we’d originally intended.”
“You saved him.”
Smiling, Sarah replied, “We saved each other.” Her smile faded as she squeezed Maureen’s hand and lowered her eyes before tracing her scar with a finger. “My memories of the moment Syder gave me this are … limited. I remember only pain and then nothing. Later, Colin told me a bit about what happened. Dunston, too, at my insistence.” Golden eyes lifted to meet hers. “Your Henry remembers it all too well, Maureen. Colin believed Syder had murdered me. He went … mad. Killed the butcher with a knife. Nothing could stop him. Do you know what Dunston told me?”
Maureen shook her head.
“He said, ‘Colin is a better man than I. For, if my wife’s throat had been cut while I watched, I would have slaughtered the entire world.’”
She swallowed a sudden lump. Now that she knew the full Henry Thorpe, she believed every word. He was a good man, but a dangerous one.
“In any event, matters ended rather well, all things considered. I have only the slight scar. Dunston’s surgeon and physician are both excellent. I was mostly healed in less than a month. We enjoyed a lovely Christmas that year with your sister and Blackmore.”
Maureen blinked. “This was … two Christmases ago.”
“Yes. Is that significant?”
The tenth letter. Henry had sent it shortly after he’d witnessed Colin’s wife being abducted and nearly murdered by the monster he’d been chasing. A monster who was supposed to give him the Investor’s name so that Henry could, at long last, end the threat to him and to anyone he loved. Instead, the trail had gone cold yet again.
“He—he wanted to marry me, I think.” Maureen murmured the words more to herself than to Sarah. “He loved me, even then.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt in the slightest. The man left all of his guards here with you, including Stroud.”
Her stomach lurched. Her lungs tightened. “If he is hurt, or k-killed, I don’t know what I shall …”
“Do not forget, you are also furious with him. It is all right, you know. To love a man and also see his faults, ask him to do better. If marriage teaches you anything, it teaches you that we are all constructed of faults—cracks and fissures in rather interesting shapes.” She leaned closer. “With the occasional spot of grace to make things bearable.” Chuckling, she shook her head. “You love him. He loves you. At times, you will be furious. Or enchanted. Or frightened for him. Or in need of his arms around you. The love remains, so long as you remember to leave room for both the faults and the grace.”
“I wonder at your strength,” Maureen whispered. “Henry believes me to be naïve. Too soft for such an ugly, brutal world. Perhaps he is right.”
“Gracious me. What a lot of nonsense.” Sarah clicked her tongue. “Strength is not instilled at infancy. It is built over time as we face hardships and either flail about or find a way through. You didn’t always know how to bake strawberry tarts, did you?”
She shook her head.
“There you have it. We learn, Maureen. We decide what we want, what we believe to be right, and we strive for it. If we become resilient along the way, so much the better. Never believe your softness is a fault. I daresay it takes a good deal of courage to remain soft in a world determined to drum it out of you.”
The knot in her chest loosened. Not much. Just enough so that she could tease her friend. “You should be an instructor, with all that wisdom.”
Sarah laughed, her eyes dancing. “If only more of my pupils were similarly appreciative, rather than obstinate and willful like Bridget, I should be most pleased.”
Maureen’s eyes flared. “Oh! I suppose I should return to the kitchens. Biddy may have come down. And Stroud will be wondering where I’ve gone.”
When they entered the kitchens, they discovered Stroud still arguing with Cook, apparently unaware of Maureen’s brief disappearance. They also found Biddy investigating the contents of the baking basket. Maureen felt a glow rise in her chest as the little girl gasped and giggled and twirled in delight, clutching the doll-shaped loaf of bread dressed in frilly linen napkins and wearing a bonnet constructed from an old reticule.
Biddy’s thick-lashed blue eyes locked upon her. “Lady Dunston! It is perfect! Wherever did you find it?”
“I made her, Biddy. She is yours.”
The little girl hugged the bread baby tighter, then extended the silly thing out to her companion, a slender young woman with raven-black hair arranged in a lovely spiral of curls along the back of her head. The older girl was peering into the basket but turned when Biddy nudged her hip with the bread baby’s leg.
The light caught first on the shoulder of her gown—a rose-petal pink muslin day dress with white embroidery—then on the curve of her jaw, sloping to a delicately pointed chin. As the girl faced Sarah and Maureen, however, all her features blurred into inconsequence. All but one. The light centered on a pair of eyes so eerily familiar, she would swear she was staring at a specter.
Maureen blinked. Lost her breath.
At her side, she heard Sarah greet the girl as though nothing was wrong. “Ah, Miss Gray. How good of you to join us.”
With a strangely still, opaque expression, the girl nodded. Maureen should have reciprocated. She should be approaching the young woman, attempting to speak with her.
But she could not. For, she’d only ever seen a pair of eyes that particular shade on one other person—Phineas Brand, the Earl of Holstoke.
*~*~*