Two hours later, Lucy stood alone, slightly removed from the crowds around the bonfire. The highest flames had subsided, leaving a crackling pile, but the embers wouldn’t die until after dawn. Some of the villagers would stay awake until then, dancing and overindulging in food and drink. The decoration of the mausoleum was always solemn, but the gathering after often turned into a party — one of the last nights of entertainment before the hard work of harvest began.

She’d already finished the contents of the flask that Emma had given her. There hadn’t been much in it, especially after she’d poured some out on her cousin Julian’s grave — just enough to warm her from the inside and take the edge off her grief. It had also blunted the worst of her rage, which was for the best. If she hadn’t been enraged, she never would have treated Max as she had.

He was somewhere in the crowd — a crowd that was eager to talk to him now that she’d indicated he was the next earl. Guests and villagers alike would want to take his measure.

She should probably feel sorry for doing that. She hadn’t planned to do that — it was pure instinct. She needed to press forward, and to take an action that would lead to clarity in their situation.

But he hadn’t given her clarity after she’d done it. He’d hesitated, and she’d panicked — and if she wasn’t so desperate to keep Maidenstone, she might have told him never to speak to her again.

Claxton appeared, holding the glass of wine she’d asked a footman for. She frowned. “John could have brought that.”

Claxton handed her the glass. “You’ve never asked for wine before. John thought I should know.”

“You don’t need to watch out for me,” she said, taking a sip. The wine was stronger than the ratafia she usually drank, with none of the sugar to mask the alcohol. It felt dangerous — almost more dangerous than the whisky Emma had given her.

She’d never had whisky while she was in London. But wine made her think of kissing, and sex, and sins she might not be forgiven for.

Claxton was unmoved. “May I escort you back to the abbey?”

She gestured toward the bonfire with her wineglass. “I’m expected to stay at least another hour.”

He watched her sip her wine again. She thought he would leave then — Claxton always knew his place.

But he surprised her. “Is Mr. Vale really the earl?”

She shrugged. “His documents indicate that it’s a possibility.”

“What does your heart tell you, Miss Lucy?”

“My heart?” Lucy laughed. “That hardly matters at the moment.”

“Begging your pardon, but your grandfather wouldn’t agree,” Claxton said.

If any other servant had said that, she would have reprimanded him. But Claxton had served her family since before she was born. His father had been the butler before him; his family had as many graves in the Salcombe parish graveyard as the Briarleys had in their plot at Maidenstone. He had stood at the front of the line of mourners next to the cemetery gate earlier, exactly where he stood every year, throwing flowers at her feet.

Claxton would sympathize with her no matter what happened. But if Max was officially named the earl, Claxton would owe his primary loyalty to Max, not to her.

Lucy looked down into her wineglass. She was quickly losing pleasure in the feeling of rebellion that came from drinking it. Her head was less clear than she would have liked. She should have remained focused, rather than drinking in a fit of pique.

But it wasn’t pique. It was fear — fear that she was making the same mistake with Max that she’d made with Chapman. Fear that, for all her efforts, she couldn’t give Julia the happiness she wanted her daughter to have.

Julia should have been there tonight, even though she was too young to understand the ritual. Last year, as Lucy’s grandfather had lay dying in his room, the night of the mausoleum decoration had only been bearable because she had brought Julia with her. The only sound as the flowers had rained down on the path had been Julia’s giggles. Lucy had smelled the sweet baby scent of Julia’s hair instead of the cloying memory of roses, and, for a moment, she’d known that everything would be all right.

But Julia was at the cottage with Mrs. Pearce. They’d agreed that the nursemaid couldn’t bring her — Julia would see her mother and demand to be held, and everything that Lucy had done to protect her from her bastardy would be destroyed in a heartbeat.

Everything could still be destroyed in a heartbeat. Lucy needed to keep her wits about her.

She handed her glass to the butler. But before she could tell him to take it away, she was distracted by murmurs rippling through the crowd. She looked up, watching people shift around the dying fire.

A couple walked toward her. The man’s hand was on the small of the woman’s back in a protective gesture as they wove through the revelers. The woman’s stride was as confident as it had always been, even when she didn’t deserve such confidence — even when she was ruined, and no one respectable would speak to her.

Octavia.

Lucy took her wineglass back from Claxton.

They watched, wordlessly, as Octavia approached. Lord Rafael was with her. The pair had run away the morning before Max’s arrival, and they couldn’t possibly be married yet — there hadn’t been time for them to secure a special license, or to reach the Scottish border and the fast weddings that were possible there.

The way they moved, though, told anyone with eyesight that they were joined to each other.

It was scandalous that they had run off. It was even more scandalous that they had returned. The crowd’s whispers turned gleeful. The tenants and servants might be happy for Octavia, but the aristocratic guests could turn malicious in a heartbeat.

Octavia had apologized to Lucy before leaving. But one apology wasn’t enough to stop the sudden surge of rage.

Every year of their childhoods, they had walked hand in hand to the mausoleum. They had laid flowers there together. And they’d fashioned bouquets together for their parents, every year…until the year Octavia had run away to London and become a mistress.

Lucy had laid flowers for their parents alone that year, just before her pregnant belly had become too big to hide.

Her hand fluttered to her stomach, as though she still carried a child — as though her sudden nausea was morning sickness instead of grief. She took a sip of wine, trying to calm herself. It was so hard to remain calm around Octavia and all the wounds they’d caused each other.

“You’re late,” Lucy said when Octavia reached her.

Octavia shrugged. A month earlier, such a nonchalant reaction would have inflamed Lucy’s temper — but tonight, she recognized the bravado covering the uncertainty. “I didn’t plan to return until Rafe and I were married. But I thought you might want an ally.”

“I’ve decorated the mausoleum without you before,” Lucy said as Claxton stepped back into the shadows.

“Not for that,” Octavia said. “Ferguson sent word that someone is trying to claim Maidenstone. We came as soon as we read the note.”

Trust Ferguson to meddle. Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t need to interrupt your pleasure for my sake.”

Octavia and Rafe exchanged a glance.

“Is the man still alive?” Rafe asked. “Or did you toss him off a cliff?”

“I wouldn’t kill the legitimate heir.”

Octavia raised her eyebrows. “Julian was the legitimate heir before the duel you caused, if I recall.”

Before Octavia had left the party, Lucy had told her a little about why she had been so upset when she’d caught Chapman kissing Octavia and why she had told Julian about it — but she hadn’t told her about her pregnancy. Octavia had apologized for it, but one apology wasn’t enough to override four years of bad feelings. “If I recall, his death was your fault as much as mine.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Octavia’s face was almost more familiar to Lucy than her own, and Lucy’s temper didn’t completely blind her to the little changes the years had made. Octavia was more solemn now — more concerned. She wasn’t the girl she’d been when they were seventeen and planning their debuts.

That girl would have escalated their fight. That girl would have left Lucy to clean up any mess caused by their drama. That girl wouldn’t have even realized she’d done anything wrong — Octavia’s mistakes had all been caused by exuberance and passion, not by malice.

Lucy had loved her — still loved her — despite it all. But it wasn’t always easy to live in Octavia’s wake. And in some ways, being left behind at Maidenstone without her — feeling like the boring country cousin while Octavia lived a high-flying, scandalous life in London — had been worse.

Octavia sighed and reached out her hand. “I’m sorry I mentioned Julian. Old habits die hard. I really do want to be your ally, if you’ll allow me to help you?”

Lucy almost didn’t accept. It was a spiteful, petty reaction, and she felt bad for even thinking it. But even though she was sure that Octavia’s apology was sincere, it still felt like it had twisted around on itself until it was somehow Lucy’s responsibility to be graceful. It was now Lucy’s responsibility, not Octavia’s, to be magnanimous and accept Octavia’s return to Maidenstone.

A return that had only happened because Octavia wanted to win the estate, not because she had wanted to make amends.

But Lucy was still Lucy. She couldn’t fling her wine in Octavia’s face. Nor could she bear the pressure of letting Octavia’s hand hang in the air between them.

Lucy was barely a year older than her, but Octavia had always crawled into Lucy’s bed in the nursery when she couldn’t sleep. They had shared a room for over a year after their parents’ deaths, and Lucy still remembered biting down on her own tears, letting Octavia cry herself to sleep while Lucy held her in the dark.

It was dark now and instinct took over. She hugged Octavia, careful not to spill her wine on Octavia’s dress. “I don’t need your help,” she whispered. “But I want you to stay here as long as you like.”

It was true and false all at once. She loved Octavia. She loathed her. She was jealous of all the freedom Octavia had, and disapproving of the ways in which she’d used it. She didn’t want to let her go, and she didn’t want to see her again.

Octavia squeezed her, as open and exuberant as she’d always been. “I’ll help you anyway,” she said cheerfully — seeming not to notice that Lucy’s feelings were far more conflicted. “Now, where is this supposed heir? Surely we can stop him from claiming the estate.”

This was not part of the plan. Lucy had been so focused on convincing Ferguson to let Max inherit — and convincing Max to marry her — that she had mostly forgotten about Octavia and Callista. They wouldn’t be willing to let Max have the estate. And even if they were willing, the men they’d agreed to marry wouldn’t be so generous.

Lucy pulled back and glanced at Rafe. She liked him well enough, although she hadn’t had many interactions with him during the party — he’d been too busy sneaking around with Octavia. But his stance was too protective — like he was already anticipating a fight.

“Does your brother know about Mr. Vale’s arrival?” she asked him.

“I haven’t spoken to him since his wedding. Do you know where he went?”

“He and Callie went to the inn at Salcombe and refuse to admit any callers.”

Rafe laughed. “Gav is rather single-minded about his goals. I’ll call on him tomorrow and drag him out of bed if I have to.”

This was going from bad to worse. Max’s documents had held up under Ferguson’s scrutiny — but Ferguson didn’t have a vested interest in keeping him from inheriting the estate.

She looked around, trying to find Max. It was nearly impossible to see anyone who lurked in the shadows beyond the fire, and her inability to monitor everyone’s comings and goings made her uneasy.

Max was somewhere in the crowd, navigating it without her. He hadn’t come back to her since they’d parted ways by the mausoleum. It bothered her more than she expected.

Was she upset that he hadn’t come back to her — or upset that she wanted him to?

“Don’t worry, Lucy,” Octavia said encouragingly. “You know more about the family tree than anyone alive. I’m sure you can find a way to disprove Vale’s claim. But Callie and I can help. Maybe she heard something from her father that we didn’t hear from ours.”

Lucy had dismissed Callista as a threat, at least when it came to knowledge. Tiberius had hated the rest of the family — Lucy doubted he would have spent much time telling Callie what her bloodlines were.

But Octavia’s comment reminded Lucy of something she’d forgotten — something she felt stupid for not remembering before now. The original Briarley Family Bible listed the family’s earliest marriages, births, and deaths. And it had disappeared when Tiberius had run away from Maidenstone.

If he had destroyed it, or if Callie had left the Bible in Baltimore, it wouldn’t cause any problems for Max’s claim. But if Callie had brought it back with her, it might ruin everything.

Lucy could still marry Max even if the Bible proved that he wasn’t the Maidenstone heir. But it wouldn’t make sense to do so unless she was guaranteed to win Maidenstone with him.

There was also the little matter of whether he actually wanted to marry her. But that problem wasn’t as immediate as the issue of the Bible.

It also wasn’t as immediate as the issue of Octavia’s desire to “help” Lucy. Lucy took another sip of wine. “I have the situation under control. And anyway, it will take a few more days before Ferguson’s messenger comes back from London with more news about Mr. Vale’s claim. If you want to return to Exeter and wait for your marriage license, I can send word when we know more.”

Octavia shook her head, but whatever she might have said was lost when Max strolled up.

“Does the next ritual involve throwing wineglasses into the fire?” he asked.

Some of her tension melted away. His voice didn’t betray any sign of anger — if he was still upset with how she had hinted at his claim to the earldom in front of the guests, he didn’t indicate it.

And she was glad to see him. More glad to see him than she’d been to see Octavia, and she had missed Octavia for years.

“I wish I could throw a wineglass,” she said. “Instead, I must present you to my cousin Octavia and her….”

She gestured at Rafe. “Fiancé,” Rafe supplied.

“Fiancé,” Lucy repeated. “Octavia, Lord Rafael, this is Maximus Vale.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Max said. He looked down his nose at them as though he was already an earl. “Miss Briarley, do you want me to escort you away so you don’t have to associate with them?”

Lucy laughed a little, one of those surprised, horrified sounds that had no mirth in it whatsoever. She was pretty sure that Octavia hissed.

But then Max winked at Lucy. “Seems as good a reason as any to pry you away and have you to myself. I beg your pardon for using you like that,” he said to Octavia and Rafe. “But will you excuse us?”

They both nodded, but their eyes were narrowed — Max hadn’t done himself any favors with them. “Lucy, I’ll want to hear everything in the morning,” Octavia said.

Lucy nodded. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she promised.

She took Max’s arm. Suddenly, despite all the emotions, and all the wine, and all the conversations they were avoiding with each other, she felt safe.

He patted her hand as he led her away from Octavia and Rafe. “I hope I wasn’t too peremptory by taking you away, but I guessed you might want to be rescued.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked.

“Your feelings about Octavia are obvious. I’m sure you love her — but I’m equally sure that you already had enough emotions to contend with tonight without having to deal with her as well.”

It seemed impossible that he could know her so well after such a short period of time. But he was exactly right.

Perhaps she was making a mistake with him. If she was, it wasn’t the same mistake she’d made with Chapman. Max might break her heart in the end — but it wouldn’t be because he didn’t care about her.

“I thank you for the rescue,” she said. “You’re right — I wasn’t entirely happy to see Octavia. But she’s not my biggest concern at the moment.”

His steps slowed. “If you want to discuss our arrangement again….”

“Not now,” she said, cutting him off. “There won’t be an arrangement if someone proves that you’re not the heir. Let’s stay focused on that for now?”

He looked down at her, seeming skeptical. “You just laid flowers on your grandfather’s grave, you had to handle Octavia, and you were disappointed that I didn’t agree to make a public declaration — and yet your main concern is proving my claim?”

Lucy laughed. “Yes, hard as it is to believe. All the rest of that can wait, but there’s one thing we must do tonight.”

“Do I want to know what that is?” he asked.

“Only if you’re willing to help me break into someone’s room.”

He came to a sudden stop. “Why would you ask me to do that?”

His voice sounded offended — almost dangerous. She squeezed his arm. “I know you’re probably too law-abiding for such an activity. But if you’re going to be a Briarley, you’ll have to become accustomed to bending the rules when it suits you.”

His laugh sounded pained. “I think I’ll be able to manage that. Whose room do you want to break into?”

“Callie’s,” she said. “Octavia reminded me that she might have the Briarley Bible. And tonight may be our only chance to find it.”