“The Dowager Duchess of Arlington,” he said. “She was here tonight.”
She swallowed. “I’m—I’m surprised that Her Grace would even know that I exist.”
“Well, she does. And I’ve never known her to speak frivolously on any subject,” he said.
He admired the dowager duchess, she suddenly realized. Of course he did. So did she, to this day. The dowager duchess had no flaws and no weaknesses. Her husband had worshipped her. Her children were paragons one and all. And though she’d never been beautiful, she had the presence and fierce handsomeness of a falcon.
“Was it true, then, that Bertie meant to marry you?”
She supposed Bertie had considered it seriously enough to undertake the trip to Lyndhurst Hall—without telling her where he was going. He would have gladly married the Lady Vera Drake and allied himself with the Arlingtons: a very satisfying nose-thumping at his brother, who had no hope of ever joining such a fine family.
“No,” she said. “He never meant to marry me. He would not dream of marrying his cook, certainly not when Society and his brother would derive such amusement from it.”
For a moment she thought he’d turn around. She tensed. But that moment passed and he stayed where he was. And said nothing. She clasped her hands in front of herself, behind herself, then finally wiped her perspiring palms on her dress.
When the silence distended too much, she blurted out, “I would like to thank you for the painting, sir. It is exquisite.”
“No, it is I who should thank you. My breakfast meeting went swimmingly thanks to your croissants. I’ve never accomplished so much in so short a time with this particular collection of colleagues.”
Her lips curved in pleasure. She became bolder. “And the dinner tonight, sir, did it go well also?”
She heard a low chuckle. “Yes, it went very well. My guests were speechless with wonder. In fact, Miss Bessler requests that they not be made quite so speechless in the future. She likes a bit of intelligent conversation to go with her dinner.”
Her smile died. Frightful how easy it was for her to forget that he was pledged to another. When they were alone, the world seemed to begin and end with the two of them.
“I will see what I can do,” she said carefully.
“Thank you,” he said.
There was a byzantine pause, then he took a deep breath. “I asked you to come tonight because I wanted you to know that I’ve invited Michael Robbins to London. I expect him to arrive Saturday in time for dinner. We’ll dine at home.”
“Michael?” she blinked. “Michael will be here?”
“For a day or so, yes.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“We met while we were both at Fairleigh Park for Bertie’s funeral.”
“I see,” she said. Michael had said nothing of it.
“There was a photograph of him in your room. I hope you’ll be pleased to see him.”
“You invited him…for me?”
“In my letter to him I told him that I’m considering assuming my late brother’s role as his sponsor and would like to know him better,” he said. “But yes, it was for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, half-stunned. “It’s been a long time since anyone has taken so much trouble on my behalf.”
“I want to do more for you. I want to lay the world at your feet.”
Her heart pounded. Turn around, she wanted to say. Turn around. Instead, she was the one who couldn’t bear the intensity of her emotions. She turned her back to him, afraid she would do something irredeemably stupid.
On the shelves before her was the frame that had held the photograph of the Somerset brothers. But that photograph was no longer there. It had been replaced by another, also an old photograph, of two young boys gazing solemnly at the camera. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the boys’ clasped hands, a gesture of such trust and solidarity that the passage of time had only amplified, not lessened, its power and intensity. And so it took her a long moment to realize that the boys in the frame were none other than the Somerset brothers.
An almost intolerable joy pierced her. If ever she sought a sign of forgiveness and renewal—it was here, right before her eyes. There was hope for them. There was.
“Why don’t you, then?” she said. “Lay the world at my feet, that is.”
It had started to rain, wet threads that glinted a dull, ephemeral ocher in the light of a distant street lamp. A clarence rolled past, the coachman hunched under his coat. Rain streaked over the day’s deposit of soot on the windowpanes, a watery distortion of Stuart’s view.