Owen spent the rest of the day closeted away in his room staring up at the ceiling. Occasionally he reached over to his bedside table for the bottle of brandy he’d brought with him from London. But no matter how hard or how long he looked, the cracked white plaster did not have the answers he sought.

Nor did the brandy.

I love you Owen and I know you love me as well, you’re just too damned stubborn to admit it.

Scarlett was a good actress, but she wasn’t that good. Her words had rung with truth and he was no longer convinced of her guilt, earring or no earring. If he was completely honest with himself, he never had been.

Someone had murdered Lord Sherwood. Of that he remained certain.

But it hadn’t been Scarlett.

He’d come to Surrey seeking vengeance, not justice. By allowing bitterness and old hurts to drive his quest for the truth he had turned into a man he didn’t recognize. A man who was cruel. A man who was violent. A man who acted out of spite, not reason. The expression on Scarlett’s face when he’d slammed his fist against the door… The sudden paleness of her cheeks… The fear in her eyes… It was not something he would soon be able to forget.

Nor should you, he told himself grimly.

After what he had said and done he deserved to feel terrible. He had intentionally and maliciously hurt the only woman he had ever loved… and to what end? To right old wrongs? To make himself feel better? Because as it stood he’d never felt worse.

After a restless night spent tossing and turning Owen rose out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, and pulled on the same brown trousers and white linen shirt he’d worn the day before. Forgoing a waistcoat and cravat he slipped into a loose fitting overcoat that concealed the pistol he carried on his hip. A black topper to cover his tousled hair and he was ready to depart.

Felix was waiting for him downstairs, already tucking into a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs.

“Ye look like shit,” he commented around a mouthful of pork.

Ignoring him, Owen walked straight out of the tavern and turned left towards the stables. His gelding was already saddled and waiting for him, but it wasn’t a single horse he needed.

“Be a good lad and ready my carriage,” he told the livery boy. “There’s an extra shilling in it for you if you’re quick about it.”

It was an older carriage, the dark blue upholstery worn a bit threadbare in places, but it was a far cry above anything Owen could have afforded when Scarlett had spurned him in favor of a wealthy viscount.

The truth was his fortune had more than quadrupled over the past year after a few risky investments had paid out. No one – not Felix, not Grant, and certainly not Scarlett – knew how rich he really was. The one person who had an inkling was his sister Lydia and that was only because he’d just finished buying her a cozy cottage not too far from here. A cottage with six bedrooms, fifty acres of land, and an entire staff to wait on her hand and foot. After everything she had been through in her young life she deserved no less and it pleased him to be able to give her and his nephew whatever they desired.

“Yes sir!” The livery boy snapped to attention. “Right away, sir!”

Owen kept out of the way while a large bay mare was brought out and fitted with a harness. When the harness was attached to the carriage he gave the livery boy two shillings, for he remembered too well what it felt like to wear clothes that were too small and have an appetite that was too big.

His eyes as wide as the coins he’d just been given, the boy scampered away to show the other stable hands his good fortune while Owen climbed up into the carriage and snapped the reins. With single-minded determination he made his way towards Sherwood Manor.

 

Scarlett poked at her buttered toast with her fork, but she did not have much an appetite. At the other end of the table where she was doing her best to keep her children from swinging on the chandelier like the little monkeys they were pretending to be, Felicity sighed.

“You have to eat something,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”

Scarlett lifted a wry brow. “I doubt food is going to help. Wine, on the other hand…”

“It is only ten o’clock in the morning, darling. Surely you can manage to wait until eleven.” Lady Edgecombe sailed into the breakfast room already dressed for the day in an elaborate black beaded gown with a matching bonnet and – much to Scarlett’s amusement – a short lace veil. If there was one thing her mother took seriously, it was her fashion. She would never dream of letting a little thing like a death in the family stop her from looking her best.

“Maria and Henry, come along please,” Felicity said after a quick glance at Lady Edgecombe. “Let’s go outside and visit the horses.”

“But I don’t want to go outside,” Henry said plaintively.

“I don’t want to go outside either,” Maria echoed even as she dashed into the foyer as fast as her chubby little legs could carry her, leaving Felicity with the arduous task of getting Henry to do something he did not want to do.

“You know in my day children were never allowed to disobey their elders.” As she watched Felicity try to peel Henry’s little hands off the windowsill he was clinging to with the strength of ten grown men, Lady Edgecombe gave a disapproving sniff. “A bit more discipline and a little less coddling, I should think.”

“Mother,” Scarlett said warningly.

“What? I am merely trying to be helpful.”

“Felicity does not need your help. And she doesn’t need to leave. You do not need to leave,” she repeated loudly. Felicity gave her an appreciative smile over her shoulder, but continued trying to wrestle a very determined Henry away from the window.

“I think… it will… be better for… all involved if I take the children… elsewhere,” she gasped, red-faced and out of breath. When she finally managed to pry Henry off the sill she wasted no time in picking him up and hurrying out of the room, leaving Scarlett and her mother alone.

“What?” Lady Edgecombe said defensively when Scarlett glared at her. “I did not tell her she had to go.”

“No, but you might as well have. You’ve been making remarks since you arrived.”

“You know I do not care for children.”

Then why, Scarlett thought silently, did you have one?

“Be that as it may, this home is as much Felicity’s as it is mine. I would like you to respect that.”

“It is not going to belong to either one of you much longer.”

Scarlett sighed. “What are you implying, Mother?”

Spooning sugar into her coffee, Lady Edgecombe took a sip and spoke over the curved rim. “You know as well as I that this estate is soon to pass to Rodger’s closest living male heir. Then what will you do? Where will you go? Who will take care of you?”

She lifted her chin. “I am certain I will figure something out. And I do not need anyone to take care of me.”

“Oh darling.” Her mother’s gaze was vaguely pitying. “We’re women. Of course we need someone to take care of us. What would you have done all of these years if not for your husband? Rodger may not have been perfect – men never are – but he treated you fairly. You never lacked for new dresses, did you? Or jewels or furs or hats. And that splendid Kashmir shawl. Really, the man had impeccable taste.”

Was that what her mother thought made a good husband? How many things he purchased for his wife? Rodger hadn’t bought all of those dresses and jewels and furs and hats and that splendid Kashmir shawl – which had really been quite hideous – for her. He’d bought them so that when she walked beside him he looked good. She’d been an accessory; no different than a pair of leather gloves or a beaded reticule.

“Mother, are you happy?” she asked.

“Am I happy?” Lady Edgecombe replied, her nose wrinkling ever-so-slightly as if she found the question distasteful. “What a thing to say. You know, I did not want to bring this up my dear, but you have been acting very strangely since your husband passed. Lady Greenwald–”

“Lady Greenwald can eat a sock,” Scarlett interrupted. “You know she and her daughter Eleanor have never liked me.”

“They’re jealous of you,” Lady Edgecombe corrected. “There is a difference.”

Pushing aside her plate of untouched food, Scarlett stood up. Bright sunlight washed in through the line of windows that wrapped around the front of the breakfast room, causing her to squint as she walked over to the sideboard to pour herself a second cup of coffee. It looked to be a beautiful spring day outside, albeit a tad windy. Her hand – the bandage hidden beneath a linen glove so as to avoid any unwanted questions – was still a bit too sore to go riding, but a leisurely walk around the pond and through the woods would hopefully help clear her mind.

She’d barely been able to sleep last night. No matter which way she turned Owen’s spiteful words kept running through her mind on an endless loop. She doubted she would ever be able to forget the blazing hate in his eyes… or the miserable heartache in his voice when he’d apologized.

Lettie. Lettie, I’m sorry. You know I would never hurt you. Please…

Clenching her teeth, she steeled herself against the part of her that wanted to forgive him. He had already made a fool of her once. Was she really going to allow him to do it again? Contrary to what she’d believed after their kiss under the tree, Owen did not have any lingering feelings for her.

He did not have any feelings at all.

The sweet boy she’d fallen in love with was gone. The sooner she accepted that the better.

“I am going for a walk,” she announced, setting her cup of coffee aside after a hasty sip that burned the tip of her tongue. “Please do your best not to antagonize Felicity in my absence.” 

“But the morning sun–”

“I will wear a large hat.”

“See that you do,” Lady Edgecombe sniffed. “It is a well-known fact that the Duke of Tinsley cannot abide freckles.”

Were they back to this again?

“Mother, I am not going to marry the Duke of Tinsley.”

Lady Edgecombe’s brow furrowed. “Why ever not?”

“Oh, I do not know… maybe because I have never met him?” Scarlett’s thinly veiled sarcasm was not lost on her mother, nor was it very appreciated.

“Does this have anything to do that man?”

She stiffened. “What man?”

“The one you went to meet yesterday. Your ‘old friend’. Please, darling,” she tittered when Scarlett looked at her with surprise. “Did you really think I didn’t know about him? Mr. Owen Steel, Captain of the Bow Street Runners. A rather remarkable advancement given where he started.” Her smile thinned. “Then he always did set his sights rather high, didn’t he?” 

So great was Scarlett’s shock that had a feather chosen that precise moment to blow into the room it surely would have knocked her over. “You – you knew about Owen?”

“Know about him?” Lady Edgecombe lifted a brow. “I kept you from marrying him.”