Clara sat in a compartment train carriage, staring out the window at the fields and hedgerows of Kent, watching as they gave way to the coal-dusted streets and sidewalks of London. Her companions all had books, but she feared they were only pretending to read, for whenever she chanced to glance at them, their gazes were on her. When caught watching, they always returned their attention to their reading, but not before Clara saw the bewilderment in their eyes.

Carlotta, not usually the most understanding of women, had displayed a surprisingly tender regard for her well-being upon learning she had rejected Galbraith’s proposal. She had offered no lectures and asked no questions. Leaving Clara with her maid to pack, she had gone at once to inform their hosts and her sisters-in-law that a matter of urgency had arisen for Clara that required them to return to London immediately, and she had made all the arrangements for their departure from Lisle.

Carlotta must also have instructed Sarah and Angela to ask Clara no questions, for as the late afternoon train carried them back to London, no one spoke. Even the usually lively Angela was silent. None of them pressed for details, and Clara was relieved, for what could she say?

Lord Galbraith proposed, but only out of a sense of obligation. I laid with him last night, you see, so he feels he must do the gentlemanly thing and offer me marriage. I love him, but he doesn’t love me, so I refused him. My virtue is lost, I may be pregnant, and now that I have rejected him, what will become of me?

All of that sat like dead weight inside her, pressing on her heart and laying like a stone in her belly. Fear whispered in her ear, reminding her of what happened to unmarried women who did what she’d done, of what the children of such liaisons were called.

It will be my bastard.

Even now, Rex’s words made her flinch. Even now, she did not know what she would do if and when the worst happened. Now, in the cold light of day, she wondered what had possessed her last evening and how she could have forgotten all of Irene’s explanations and warnings. And she wondered, after everything she knew about him, after everything he had told her and everything she had told herself, how she could ever have let herself fall in love with him.

But love, she was beginning to see, was a choice of the heart. Common sense and reason played little part, or if they did, hers had both taken quite a holiday.

Looking back on everything that had happened these past two months, she realized that falling in love with him was something she’d feared all along.

From the beginning, she’d sensed he had the power to steal her heart, and that if he ever succeeded, her heart would be returned to her in pieces. Her reasoning mind had tried to protect her with disapproval of his profligate living, questions about his morality, and reminders of all his flaws, but from that first moment in the tea shop, her soul had not cared about any of that. Her soul had only known this man could make her feel beautiful and desirable, and unmoved by the cautions of her reasoning mind, her soul had insisted on turning toward him again and again, the way a plant in a window turned continually toward the sun, heedless of fate and uncaring of consequences.

That unknowing, unreasoning instinct, she appreciated now, was why she’d asked him to be Lady Truelove—she’d known somehow that he would teach her things about herself no one else could. It was why she’d agreed to his sham courtship—because she’d sensed it might be the only true romance she ever had, and her heart had not wanted it to pass her by. It was why she’d managed to ignore all her own high-minded principles about virtue and marriage and had lain with him, sacrificing all the dreams she’d ever had for her future. And it was why, though she might be ruined forever, she felt no shame and no regret. Deep down in the dark, secret recesses of her soul, she’d wanted this, every beautiful, shining, heartbreaking moment of it.

You’re lovely. Even more lovely than I’d imagined.

Shame and regret, she supposed with a newfound cynicism, might come later, when his awestruck voice and tender words and scorching caresses had receded from her memory. And if the worst did happen, an illegitimate baby would probably be quite effective at snuffing out any yearning for romance that might still be lingering within her.

The train slowed, coming into Victoria Station, and Clara shoved aside grim speculations about the future. If there was a baby, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

A smile touched her lips. In the midst of the worst crisis of her life, and yet, she was still such a procrastinator.

Carlotta must have telegraphed ahead to Upper Brook Street, because the duke’s carriage and a dog cart were waiting for them at Victoria. At Carlotta’s direction, porters separated Clara’s trunks from the others, strapped hers to the carriage boot, and piled all the remaining luggage on the dog cart. Twenty minutes later, the duke’s dog cart and its driver were halfway to the West End, and his other driver and footman were carrying Clara’s trunks into the house at Belford Row and she was bidding farewell to her sisters-in-law.

“We shall see you for dinner soon, I trust?” Angela’s arms wrapped her in a hug, then she pulled back and looked into Clara’s face. “I shan’t ask any questions, but I hope you feel you can confide in me—in any of us—if you need to.”

“Of course.” Clara smiled, gave her friend a reassuring pat on the back, and decided it was best to leave things like that for the present. A few minutes later, the duke’s carriage was off again, and Clara was taking off her traveling cloak, hat, and gloves in the foyer and handing them over to her maid.

“Have everything taken to my room, Forrester,” she instructed. “I’ll see Papa, inform him I’m home, and then—”

“Clara!”

That familiar voice brought a burst of happy surprise, lightening her heavy heart, and she turned to find her sister running up the corridor from the newspaper office, arms outstretched.

“Irene?” She laughed, stretching out her own arms and running to meet her beloved sister halfway. “You’re home again!”

“Just an hour ago.” Irene’s affectionate and comforting arms wrapped around her, and suddenly, the powerful emotions that Clara had been keeping at bay all day refused to remain wholly submerged. A sob surged up inside her, cracking her hard-won fortitude, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep it from escaping.

“Henry’s on his way to Upper Brook Street,” Irene said, still hugging her tight. “But I wanted to see you first, and Papa, so Henry dropped me here and took all our luggage on. But then I discovered you had gone to the country. I was about to leave you a note and depart.”

Clara worked to regain her composure. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere, if I’d known you were arriving home today,” she said and pulled back, pasting on an expression of mock censure. “You are terrible about writing, dear sister.”

“Me? What about you? Only two letters from you forwarded to me through Cooks’ these past two months.”

“I’m not the one who has things to write about,” she lied. “You’re the one gallivanting across the world.”

“Yes, and when I come home, I find you’ve gone gallivanting off to the country with people I’ve never even met. Speaking of which . . .” Irene paused, frowning. “Why are you here? Annie told me the house party you were attending was supposed to go on through the weekend, and today is only Saturday. Isn’t it?”

Irene laughed, shaking her head, her frown clearing as she brushed back a lock of golden-blond hair that had tumbled over her forehead. “One tends to lose track of what day it is after four months of traveling, and—”

She broke off, all the laughter dying out of her expression, and Clara knew something in her own face must have given her away.

“Clara?” Irene put a hand on her arm and cupped her cheek, her hazel eyes filled at once with protective, sisterly concern. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Heartbreak, fear, panic all welled up, blurring her sister’s beloved face, but she blinked back tears and tried to smile. “I’ve fallen in love.”

The rule that Irene and Clara had established not to partake of alcohol in their father’s house was broken that night, and Clara was able to add the drinking of brandy to her ever-growing list of life experiences.

Across her desk in the privacy and quiet of the newspaper office, over a snifter of brandy, she told her sister everything about her transformation from wallflower to belle of the ball to fallen woman, and all things considered, Irene took the entire narrative rather well, at least after she calmed down and promised not to shoot Lord Galbraith with a pistol. There were no recriminations regarding Clara’s lost virtue, no lectures on why she ought to have accepted his marriage proposal, several faithful pledges not to tell the duke anything about it, only one sobering mention of the possible consequences and choices Clara might have to face, and then, at last, Irene asked the vital question.

“What are you going to do now?”

Perhaps it was the steadying effects of a few sips of brandy, but Clara was able to give her sister a calm and reasoned response.

“Carry on, of course. What else is there to do?”

“Carry on with what, though?” Irene asked, her voice gentle. “If the worst happens . . .”

Clara nodded as Irene’s voice trailed off. “I know. But if there is no baby, or if there is and I give it up, then I shall need an occupation, a distraction, a purpose, and even if I go back into society, I don’t think that alone would be enough to satisfy me now. I think . . .” She paused, took a deep breath and waved a hand to their surroundings. “I think, perhaps . . . the paper.”

“The Weekly Gazette?” Irene stared at her as if she’d grown a second head, and no wonder, for in the past, Clara had never expressed a fraction of her sister’s passion for the family business. “You want to run the paper with me?”

“Well, Jonathan’s not going to do it,” she reminded. “Not now.”

“As long as there’s silver in that mine of his, I expect you’re right. But when did you become so interested in running the newspaper?”

Clara began to laugh. “Well, I didn’t have much choice after I sacked your Mr. Beale.”

“What? You sacked him? Why? Was he awful?”

“You have no idea.” Clara explained how firing the editor had come about, and she didn’t mince words regarding her opinion of the man or how difficult it had been to work with him.

“Heavens,” Irene said when she’d finished, shaking her head, looking even more confounded than before. “I had no idea when I interviewed him that he was anything like what you describe. He was so highly recommended, and seemed to radiate competence. And I certainly never would have hired him if I’d known his opinion about working for a woman! Although . . .” She broke off, frowning a little. “Now that I think about it, he did ask several times about Jonathan. He must have wanted to be absolutely sure he’d be reporting to our brother rather than to me, though I can’t believe I didn’t notice his reasons at the time.”

“Well, you were a bit busy. Wedding plans and all that.”

“I suppose so. But still . . .” She slapped a palm to her forehead. “How obtuse of me.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Irene, though until Mr. Beale, I never thought you did.”

“Oh, darling, I make mistakes all the time! I’ve just tried not to let you see them. I’ve always wanted to protect you. Speaking of which,” she added before Clara could reply, “why didn’t you ever cable me and tell me of your difficulties? I’d have come home at once.”

“I know, and that’s just why I didn’t do it. You deserved every minute of that trip, and I wasn’t going to deprive you of it. And,” she added before her sister could reply, “the funny thing is that even as hard as I’ve been working, and as scary as taking this on has been for me, it’s been rather fun, too. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m really starting to enjoy it—being in charge, making the decisions, exercising my own judgement.”

Irene grinned. “Fun, isn’t it? Still, I’m astonished at all these changes in you. You’re quite transformed, Clara, really. But . . .” Irene paused, her grin fading as she leaned forward across the desk to put a hand on Clara’s forearm. “If there is a baby, we shall have to consider carefully what that will mean and what to do.”

Clara nodded, appreciating that it was time to put aside procrastination, and prepare for the worst, just in case. “Because I shan’t be able to do both, you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. If you gave the child up, of course you could work here at the paper. In fact, since no one knows what happened between you and Galbraith, your life could pretty much go on as before.”

“My life will never be what it was before.”

Her sister winced at that. “No, darling,” she agreed tenderly. “I don’t suppose it will. But baby or no, are you absolutely sure refusing Galbraith was the right thing to do? You’ve always wanted to be married. And you do love him.”

“But he does not love me. He admitted the fact.”

Catching sight of her sister’s scowl, she rushed on before Irene could go on a hunt for Papa’s pistol. “So, if there is no baby, I would like to carry on with the paper. If I am with child—” She paused, her voice failing, and it took her a moment before she could go on. “I would have to go abroad to have it, Irene. And if I kept it, I would have to stay abroad.”

Her sister gave a cry of dismay. “No, you wouldn’t. You could put the child with a family in the country, pay them to care for it, make it your ward, see it during holidays . . .” Her voice trailed away as Clara shook her head.

“I think we both know that wouldn’t be possible. People would eventually put two and two together and make four. I could not shame you by staying in England.”

“Nonsense,” Irene said stoutly. “You think I care about that?”

“You would have to care. You’re married now, and your husband and his position would have to be considered. He is a duke. He could not have a wayward sister-in-law and her love child living nearby, and certainly not coming to visit. And what of his sisters? Their social position has already been damaged—”

“I would never turn my back on you!” Irene interrupted fiercely. “Not even for Henry would I ever do that.”

“I know.” She paused. “And we don’t even know if there will be a child. But if there is and I decide to keep it, you will have to come abroad to visit us, without Henry.”

Irene gave a sob and caught it back. “You would be giving up everything, Clara. Your life, your future, all your hopes—” Her voice broke, and she stopped.

Watching her, Clara smiled a little. “Dearest Irene,” she murmured. “All this must be so hard for you, for you have always tried so hard to protect me. But I cannot marry a man who does not love me just to be safe and protected. And I can’t always take the easy way through life, even if a life of ease is what you want for me.”

Something in her voice, perhaps the resoluteness of it, caught her sister’s attention, for Irene pressed her lips together, and a sweet, poignant sadness came into her lovely face.

“What are you thinking?” Clara asked, watching in astonishment as a tear rolled down her sister’s cheek.

“I think . . .” Irene choked up again, then gave a little sniff and leaned forward to take her hands. “I think my little sister is all grown up.”

She wouldn’t see him.

At least twice a week, Rex called at Belford Row, only to be told by their grenadier of a housekeeper that Miss Deverill was not receiving. He tried calling at the newspaper office, but that strategy brought no greater success, for her secretary always informed him that she was busy. He tried using charm, but he must be losing his touch with the ladies, for Miss Evelyn Huish remained adamant and unimpressed, a stalwart sentry at Clara’s gate. Resisting—for the present anyway—the temptation to invade Clara’s office by force, he turned to other means of dealing with the situation.

He wrote letters. She did not reply. He sent flowers. She sent them back. He got drunk, often. It didn’t help. One night, God help him, he even found himself standing on the pavements outside the newspaper office, champagne in hand, staring through the lit windows hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He even attempted to go in, but the door, when he tried it, was locked. A good thing, probably, for all the instincts that had made him such a rake in his salad days told him that invading her privacy would only hurt his cause. Left with no other options, he was forced to wait.

He had a slew of relations and friends, and once the news spread of his marriage proposal and Clara’s rejection, all those friends and family attempted to distract him. During the seemingly endless days of summer, invitations poured in from every quarter, beckoning him to the country for hunting and house parties, but he refused them all. He had no intention of being away, should Clara write him with news of her condition or decide to take pity on him and agree to receive him.

When friends came to town, however, he was happy to spend an evening with them. Lionel he saw more often than most, but though the two of them managed an occasional game of tennis, and one rousing night of celebration in late August when he learned of Lionel’s formal engagement to Dina, Rex preferred to spend the majority of his time alone. He walked the streets of London a lot, usually places with some connection to Clara—Upper Brook Street, the sidewalk in front of Montcrieffe House, Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium, the newspaper office. He even returned to the spot in Hyde Park where she’d tried to launch that kite, and as he thought of her laughing with her nephews, he wondered when he would hear news of a baby. Oddly, he was sure there would be one, perhaps because he’d been prepared for that outcome from the moment he’d entered her bedroom that night at Lisle.

His father, probably in the mistaken belief that Rex’s proposal had been rejected for financial considerations, not only reinstated his estate allowance, but doubled it.

Usually, when Rex was in funds, his mother managed to learn the fact and came calling for a touch, and sure enough, only days after his father’s reinstatement of his income, his mother was at Half Moon Street asking to be received. To his surprise, however, he soon learned that money, for once, was not her reason for coming.

“Rex,” she cried, beautiful as ever as she came across his drawing room, hands outstretched in greeting. “I’ve just heard. Oh, my darling boy, is it really true, or is it just a rumor?”

“Is what true?”

“That you proposed marriage to a young lady and she refused you? It must be gossip, for no girl would ever turn you down, but my source was quite adamant—”

She stopped, and he realized something in his countenance must have given him away, for she gave a cry of dismay and yanked her hand from his, cupping it to his cheek with what he knew was genuine motherly concern. “It is true! Oh, Rex, my dear.”

He pulled out of his mother’s hold, forcing a laugh. “Only time in my life I shall ever propose to a girl, and she turns me down flat. One of life’s little ironies, what? And just what I deserve.”

“Nonsense. Any girl would be lucky to have you. And besides, you shall persuade her. You’re not giving up after one refusal, surely?”

“More than one, I’m afraid.” He pressed his lips together, smiling a little. “She refuses me every time she refuses to see me, Mama.”

“But why? The only reason she could have for turning you down is money, and your father reinstated your allowance—by a substantial amount, I understand.”

He sighed. “How you ferret these things out never ceases to amaze me.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, tugging at her ear. “I have my spies,” she murmured.

“Yes, my butler, no doubt. Every time I pay him whatever back wages I owe him, I’m sure he fires off a letter. He’s a fool for you.”

“Yes, well . . .” His mother paused, smoothing her skirt and trying to look modest, but she succeeded only in looking like a contented house cat. “He is such a dear, sweet man. If he wasn’t a butler, I’m sure I’d have fallen in love with him ages ago.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he agreed. “So, now that you’ve heard my income’s reinstated, is that why you’ve come?”

“No, no, I don’t need a penny, but it’s very sweet of you to offer.”

He hadn’t offered, but pesky little details like that always sailed right past his mother’s beautiful head. “You not in need of money?” He laughed. “My, there’s a first time for everything.”

“No, I came because I have news of my own, darling, which I shall tell you presently. But first, you must assure me that you’re not giving up on this girl you’re after.”

“Really, Mama, of all the people in the world, I’d have thought you the last one to encourage anyone to get married.”

“Nonsense. How else will you be ensured a steady income?”

“How, indeed.” He folded his arms, bracing himself. “What’s your news? But I think I can guess,” he added, noting the little smile that curved his mother’s lips “A new man, I assume?”

She heaved a dreamy sigh and pressed a hand to her bosom, confirming his theory. “And what a man he is, too. Handsome, charming, quite rich.”

“Naturally. Am I entitled to know who he is?”

“Of course! Our affair is not a secret, and even if it were, I’d tell you, for you can always keep a secret.”

He thought of the night he’d spilled secrets to Clara about his parents, himself, and how he spent his money. She was, he realized, the only person in his life who could loosen his tongue. “Not always, Mama. But carry on. Who is this new man of yours?”

“It’s Lord Newcombe. We met at Cannes in January, then again at Zurich in July, and now . . .” She paused, one that was clearly supposed to be dramatic. “I’m in love!”

“What a surprise.”

The ironic inflection of his voice seemed lost on his mother. “It was to me! Newcombe’s ten years younger than I am.”

“Newcombe?” He repeated the name, frowning a little as he began to appreciate who they were talking about. “You mean Baron Newcombe?”

“The very same.”

“You realize he’s married?”

She laughed. “So am I. What does that matter?”

“To you, it probably doesn’t.”

That dry comment earned him an unhappy sigh. “Really, Rex, I love you, but there are times when you remind me so much of your father.”

He made a sound of derision. “I’m nothing like Papa.”

“Not in looks, perhaps. And you’re much more charming than he ever was. But you do have some of his qualities. Impatience, stubbornness, cynicism, and a rather tiresome way of putting a damper on the loveliest things.”

“Things like true love?”

“Exactly! Do you know, Newcombe’s taking me around the world on his yacht? He wanted to depart straight from Calais, but I insisted on coming up to London to see you before I go. Isn’t it wonderful?” she added, clasping her hands together as if she’d just been blessed by heaven. “I shan’t have any living expenses for months!”

He sighed, knowing that when those months had passed, Mama would be here again, and he’d be drying her tears and handing over whatever cash he could spare. He thought of his father, and he thanked God that his mother was mistaken in his character, for the last thing he ever wanted to be was a brokenhearted wreck of a man who, despite years of rejection, still loved one—and only one—woman.

“Just be careful, Mama,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be silly, darling.” She smiled and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I always land on my feet.”

A cough sounded behind them, and both he and his mother turned around to find Whistler standing in the doorway, a silver salver resting atop his fingertips, an unmistakable admiration for the countess in his eyes. “Forgive me, your ladyship,” he said, bowing, then turned to Rex. “The afternoon post, sir.”

He caught a nuance of significance in the butler’s last words, and when he shot Whistler a sharp, inquiring look, he was rewarded with a slight nod of confirmation.

At last. Relief flooded through him, and though he wanted to dash across the room and tear the letter open right then and there, he refrained, for he did not want his mother here when he read the news from Clara.

“Just put it there, would you, Whistler?” he said, working to keep his tone indifferent. Then, as the other man crossed the room to deposit his letters on the writing desk beneath the window, he turned to his mother. “I fear I must send you off, Mama, for I have an engagement and have to change.”

“Of course. I need to be toddling along anyway, for as I said, Newcombe’s awaiting me at Dover. Au revoir, my darling son.” She cupped his cheeks. “If you want this girl, don’t give up.” With that bit of rather ironic advice, she kissed him and departed, following Whistler out the door.

Rex walked to his desk, took up the letter that reposed on the top of the pile, and turned it over. There was no name on the back, but there was a return direction. No. 12 Belford Row, Holborn.

Rex swallowed hard, bracing himself, and sat down at his desk. He moved to tear the letter open with his usual impatience, but then, he changed his mind and retrieved a letter opener from the desk instead, using it to slit the envelope neatly across. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, he pulled out the single sheet of notepaper, broke the seal, and unfolded it.

He stared at the lines of Clara’s prim copperplate script in disbelief. Throwing him off his trolley on a consistent basis seemed to be her special gift, but nonetheless, this was not the news he’d been expecting. He’d been sure beyond doubt there would be a baby, that his future with her was settled and inevitable, and this news left him feeling not only astonished and bewildered, but also strangely bereft.

He read the lines again. She hoped her news would bring him relief—well, that was a reasonable wish, he supposed. Most men, he thought cynically, would be dancing a jig after news like this.

He had never felt less like dancing.

He held the letter to his nose, and as he breathed in the scent of orange blossoms, he thought of that night in her office when she’d stood in his embrace and he’d shown her how to open champagne, and he suddenly realized that he might never have the chance to hold her in his arms again.

Suddenly, he saw a different future ahead of him than the one he’d lately been envisioning, a future like his past, a future without her. As his mind formed that picture, something deep inside Rex cracked and broke apart, and he realized in despair that he was more like his father than he’d ever thought possible.

He set aside the letter and lowered his face into his hands.