She could not stay for all of dinner. She was just feeling sick. How could Clara sit there and laugh and talk sweetly with Edmund, when barely two hours ago she had been in Lord Jones's arms? When she had admitted she still loved and desired the man she had once been engaged to marry? When she would almost certainly repeat her behaviour?

All Lucy wanted was to tell Edmund. To let him know that Clara was being dishonest and disloyal. But how could she? She had no place ruining three lives. And she did not even know Edmund. Perhaps he was the sort of man who married for status and power, and did not care about what she did so long as she furthered his interests?

Lucy could not just sit and watch the charade take place, whatever the case. Apologizing, she stood up and left the room. They could sit and laugh and pretend all was well in the world. She would have no part in it.

She made her way towards the gardens. It would be a much more pleasant thing to do than stay inside. Perhaps a little fresh air would do her some good, too. And maybe there would still be a few flowers which had not yet perished.

But as she neared the conservatory doors, she felt a tug on her wrist. Clara had caught up with her and was holding onto her, refusing to let go. “Let's go back to lunch,” she said.

Lucy shook her head. “I feel ill. I would much rather walk outside a while.”

“You really should not,” Clara insisted. “Things happen out there that you would rather not see. Stay with us and talk.” There was a slight desperation in Clara's voice, a slight tension in the hand which gripped Lucy's wrist.

Lucy pulled her wrist free. “Just let me be,” she said. “I have had enough of you, and Lord Jones, and everyone who is in any way like you. You sicken me. Now, if you excuse me, I shall go for a walk in peace.”

She marched through the conservatory and out into the top of the garden. The cool fresh air hit her and she felt instantly more alive. The sun was shining lightly through the thick clouds, in long golden strands reaching from heaven to earth, as though it were just another type of rain.

A few flowers must still have been strong, as with the damp rainwater their scent had been driven up into the air and the garden smelled so romantically sweet, Lucy felt almost lost in it. This was what she needed to help her relax.

Looking down over the garden, Lucy then realised what Clara had not wanted her to see. Lord Andrew Jones was there. And he was not alone. He was walking beside a lady. Lucy wondered who it could possibly be, especially considering that Clara was still behind her, up and indoors. She began to slowly step down the garden, wanting to get just close enough to see, but not so close as to draw attention to herself.

She needn't have been so careful. The two were completely lost in conversation, speaking quietly and gently to one another, laughing a little here and there. Then Lucy caught a glimpse of the woman's face. It was Princess Elisaveta. She had her hand on Lord Jones's arm as they walked and talked in the garden, surrounded by the last flowers of summer, bathed in rays of sunlight.

Lucy tried to calm herself down. They were friends. It meant nothing. After all, what would a princess want with a Baron? Even a European princess was much closer to a Duchess than anything resembling Lord Jones, or even Lucy herself. She smiled and nodded to herself. They were just two friends going on a walk together.

But the laughter bothered her. There was an intimate, almost conspiratorial quality to it. And those whispering voices... Lucy needed to know what they were saying. What was so funny, so secret, so exciting. She was about to interrupt them and join the conversation, stepping a little closer, opening her mouth to call out to them.

Then Lord Jones kissed Princess Elisaveta on the cheek. The Princess kissed his cheek back. It was nothing big. Nothing overt. Nothing sensual. But it made Lucy boil with rage. She had loved this man. She had respected him. And he had turned out to be the very sort of man she despised, the sort of man she had once assumed Duke Perry to be. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that she still loved and respected the man she thought he was.

She yearned for him, for the Lord Jones that did not exist, that had never existed. She wanted to be by his side, to taste his lips, to talk to him about all that was wrong with the world. And she could not. Because he was what was wrong with the world.

Lucy turned around on her heels and, as swiftly and silently as she had crept out and down the garden, she crept back into the conservatory, shutting the door behind her. Clara Neal was waiting there for her. Lucy made eye contact with Clara, glared at her to make sure she knew she was not welcome, then stomped her feet on the mat to loosen any dirt. Clara shrugged. Lucy began to make her way past Clara to get back to the dining room, pushing Clara's shoulder with her own as she tried to get out. Clara did not move.

“I told you that you would not want to see that,” Clara said, shaking her head.

“Well I have now,” Lucy replied.

“This is part of the reason why I could not marry him, Lucy. He was away in India so much... I just knew that he would be laying with other women while he was out there. It is just what men do when left to their own devices. And now we have our proof. A princess too, lucky sod.” Clara walked over to the conservatory window, brushing shoulders harshly with Lucy. “I bet he'll reconsider his angle on marriage now, won't he? Now he has a chance of becoming royalty. By association, of course. But nevertheless, she is a worthy wife.”

Lucy shook her head. “He's committed to never marrying.”

“Or maybe committed to never marrying you?” Clara asked. “He was going to marry me. He was only against marriage because he had not recovered. But there's nothing like status to make a man recover from rejection. You were just not good enough.”

“Clara, do not continue talking of such unpleasant matters,” Lucy warned.

“But I'm right, am I not? Come to think of it, isn't this the second time you've lost a man to status? Duke Perry was engaged to you before the Duchy, to Duchess Antoinette after. Makes you think, does it not? How many more men will play the same mean tricks on you?” Clara continued.

Lucy felt her anger rising and rising. She did not blame Duke Perry. She had moved beyond that. And she was not going to sit there and let someone say all men would turn against her. Of course not all men were two-faced, wicked, womanising beasts. It just so happened that this one was. Of all the men she had suspected, all the men she had turned down, one had turned out to be what she feared. And it just so happened he was the one she had put her faith in.

“It's a good thing you're becoming a nun, really,” Clara mused, moving away from the window and walking back up to Lucy. “I don't really think any man would take you for who you are. I mean... with how you look, and that attitude, what self-respecting man would want you? You're basically a man yourself. Or a brute, pure and simple.”

Lucy growled. So Clara thought she was masculine, did she? Clara thought she was a brute? Very well, she shall be a brute.

Lifting her hand and closing the last step between them, Lucy brought the palm of her hand down hard across Clara's face. A satisfying slap rang out against the glass walls of the conservatory. Clara let out a stunned squeaking sound and lifted her hand to her face. Lucy glared at her, as the red mark spread across Clara's cheek.

“I cannot believe you did that,” Clara said. “You really are an uncivilized brute, aren't you?”

Lucy shrugged. She spied a glass of red wine which Clara had abandoned on the conservatory table and picked it up. She took a slight sip of it, standing between Clara and the doorway.

“That is my drink,” Clara said.

Lucy shrugged again and with a flick of her wrist ejected the remaining wine right into Clara's face. The red droplets streaked her makeup, hung in her golden hair, and stained the white accents on her dress. Clara let out another indignant sound.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “All I did was tell the truth.”

Lucy sighed wearily. She did not care what Clara thought she was doing. She did not care if Clara jumped off a bridge. Come to think of it, she wasn't surprised that Clara and Lord Jones were still in love. They were cut from the same cloth.

“I'm going home,” Lucy said bluntly, turning around and walking out of the conservatory.

She didn't bother going back to the dining room. If she had forgotten anything, her mother or Antoinette would be sure to find it. Lady Fitzgerald would probably be indignant that she had not said her proper farewells and collected her things and excused herself to everyone there. But Lucy did not care anymore. She just wanted to go home, somewhere safe and warm and pleasant where she could relax and probably cry for half an hour.

Lucy knew that she needed to get away from them. From Lord Jones, from Clara, from everything. They would probably get away of their own accord if only she gave them enough time. But it was not enough. She needed to hide away and wait. Or to go to that convent. Or just to go back to boarding school. It would involve a significant step down the social ladder, but it would be much better to be a teacher somewhere in the Devon countryside than a victim among high society.

Arriving home, she made her way upstairs and, not having found a servant to help her, proceeded to half rip herself out of her dress, discarding it on the ground, ribbons and several buttons torn, before getting into her night clothes. It was early in the day. But she was taking ill. She lay face down on the bed and began to cry.

She wasn't even sure what she was crying about. She just knew that she needed to.

* * *

She must have fallen asleep because she was awoken by the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. She sat up and ruffled her hair. “Who is it?” she asked.

“It is your mother, thank goodness you are here,” Lady Fitzgerald said, pushing the door open and walking in. “Why are you undressed?”

Lucy shrugged. “I am feeling very unwell, so I came home to rest.”

“You are feeling unwell? You have not had the news I just had back at the reception,” Lady Fitzgerald said, marching over to the bed and collapsing into the chair beside it, sitting on top of Lucy's torn dress.

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy asked, hopeful for some exciting news.

“I have heard some things and I... I believe it would be for the better that you move to the convent now,” her mother said.

Lucy nodded. “I am in some agreement on that, though probably not for the same reasons,” she replied. “What have you heard?”

“It is too awful... it does not bear repeating,” Lady Fitzgerald said.

“If you do not tell me then how am I supposed to know what you are referring to?” Lucy said with a slight laugh.

Lady Fitzgerald glared. “Oh, I trust you know exactly what I am referring to.”

“Does it... Does it concern me personally?” Lucy asked.

“Of course it does. I would not be making this choice if it were not about what you have done,” Lady Fitzgerald replied.

“I am still not much the wiser,” Lucy said, shaking her head. Could her mother not just tell her? Wouldn't it be much simpler? She collapsed back in the bed. “If you will not tell me what this is about, I would like to sleep. I am very ill.”

“Nonsense. You are not ill. Clara told me all about it,” Lady Fitzgerald insisted.

“Wait, Clara told you?” Lucy asked, turning her head sharply to the side. “She told you everything?”

Lady Fitzgerald wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. “Yes, she did. And I must say it is awful. All of that happening in Lord Jones's house. It's a disgrace, is what it is. I can hardly believe it...”

“And she told you everything?” Lucy asked again, still incredulous.

“Every last bit. I asked her to spare me some of the details but she insisted it was important for me to know,” Lady Fitzgerald said. “I suppose she was right, but that does not make it any easier to hear.”

“Well, that's a relief, to be fair,” Lucy replied. “I would not have liked to have told you myself. But I do not see what it has to do with me or the convent.”

“If you think I'm going to let you stay here and live under my roof, just so that you can go about acting like some cheap hussy, you are out of your mind,” Lady Fitzgerald said indignantly. “I cannot believe you are being so relaxed about this.”

“Well, it is not my fault what Clara and Lord Jones do,” Lucy replied.

“I am not talking about Clara, I am talking about you and Lord Jones, sinning under his very roof, escaping so you can commit such indecencies in private.” Lady Fitzgerald rubbed her temples. “I cannot believe my own daughter is doing such things.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, completely confused. “I never did any such thing. In fact—”

“Do not lie to me,” her mother spat back. “You keep lying to me. Like I will never find out, like it doesn't matter what you say. After all, I am only your mother. Well I have had enough of your insolence and your rebellion. You might think you are outsmarting me, but you shall not. At least I can trust decent young women like Clara to look out for the virtue you will not protect.”

Lucy now realised what had happened. In order to protect herself and exact her revenge, Clara had levied the same accusation against her. She was not sure exactly how this had been phrased, but from the sound of it Clara had accused Lucy of much more than she herself had done with Lord Jones.

Lucy shook her head. “Please do not believe that, mother. It is all lies. Clara wants to defame me.”

“Why would an upstanding young woman like Clara, with a fiancé and all her life ahead of her, waste her time insulting a girl like you?” Lady Fitzgerald countered. “She says that when she tried to persuade you not to spend any more time with Lord Jones you cast wine in her face, like some sort of petulant child.”

“I did nothing indecent, you have to believe me,” Lucy said. She wanted so desperately to tell her mother the truth. But it was not right. But... Clara had been willing to ruin her life over this. So why was she still barred from ruining Clara's? No, an eye for an eye made perfect sense in this case.

“I cannot believe my daughter is such a hussy,” her mother said, tears flowing from her eyes freely now.

“But it was not me who did that!” Lucy exclaimed. “It was Clara. I caught her kissing Lord Jones, not the other way around!”

Lady Fitzgerald looked personally insulted by the accusation. “Lucy! Clara is a decent young lady. And if you will speak ill of her when all she has done is try to save you, then... I am not sure a convent is the right choice for you. I am not sure where you belong,” Lady Fitzgerald replied. “I cannot sit here with you. I would like you to stay in your room for the remainder of the day and think about what you have done.