He had a life back in England, one that did not include her. He had a family who adored him and a girl he was supposed to marry. A girl who, like him, was an aristocrat through and through. And when he remembered her—the inimitable Billie Bridgerton—he’d remember why they made such a good match.
Cecilia pushed herself away from the window ledge, grabbing her coin purse before she headed out the door. If she was leaving tonight, she had a great deal to do, and all of it needed to be done before Edward returned from army headquarters.
First and foremost, she needed to purchase her passage. Then she needed to pack, not that that would take very long. And finally, she needed to write Edward a letter.
She needed to let him know that he was free.
She would leave, and he could get on with his life, the one he was meant to lead. The one he wanted to lead. He might not realize this yet, but he would, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near him when that happened. There were only so many ways a heart could break. Seeing his face when he realized he belonged with someone else?
That might do her in entirely.
She checked the pocket watch Edward kept on the table to serve as their clock. She still had time. He’d gone out earlier that morning—a meeting with Colonel Stubbs, he’d said, one that would last all day. But she needed to get moving.
This was good, she told herself as she hurried down the stairs. This was right. She’d found the money, and she wasn’t pregnant. Clearly they weren’t meant to be.
Goal for today: Believe in fate.
But when she reached the front room of the inn, she heard her name, called out in urgent tones.
“Mrs. Rokesby!”
She turned. Fate, it seemed, looked an awful lot like the innkeeper at the Devil’s Head.
He’d come out from behind his counter and was walking toward her with a strained expression. Behind him was a finely attired woman.
The innkeeper stepped to the side. “This great lady was hoping to see Captain Rokesby.”
Cecilia tilted to the side to better see the woman, who was still somewhat obscured behind the innkeeper’s portly form. “May I help you, ma’am?” she said with a polite curtsy. “I am Captain Rokesby’s wife.”
Strange how easily the lie still slipped from her tongue.
“Yes,” the woman said briskly, motioning for the innkeeper to be gone.
The innkeeper quickly complied.
“I am Mrs. Tryon,” the lady said. “Captain Rokesby’s godmother.”
When Cecilia was twelve years old, she’d been forced to play the part of Mary in her church’s Nativity play. This had required her to stand in front of all her friends and neighbors and recite no fewer than twenty lines of prose, all of which had been religiously drummed into her by the vicar’s wife. But when the time came to open her mouth and announce that she was not married and didn’t understand how she could be with child, she froze. Her mouth opened, but her throat closed, and it didn’t matter how many times poor Mrs. Pentwhistle hissed the lines at her from offstage. Cecilia just couldn’t seem to move the words from her ears to her head to her mouth.
That was the memory that blazed through Cecilia’s head as she stared into the face of the estimable Margaret Tryon, wife of the Royal Governor of New York, and godmother to the man Cecilia was pretending to be married to.
This was much worse.
“Mrs. Tryon,” Cecilia finally managed to squeak out. She curtsied. (Extra deep.)
“You must be Cecilia,” Mrs. Tryon said.
“I am. I . . . ah . . .” Cecilia looked helplessly around at the tables of the half-filled dining room. This was not her home, and thus she was not the hostess here, but it seemed like she ought to offer to entertain. Finally, she pasted as bright a smile as she could manage on her face and said, “Would you like to sit down?”
Mrs. Tryon’s expression flicked from distaste to resignation, and with a little jerk of her head, she motioned for Cecilia to join her at a table at the far side of the room.
“I came to see Edward,” Mrs. Tryon said once they were settled.
“Yes,” Cecilia replied carefully. “That is what the innkeeper said.”
“He was ill,” Mrs. Tryon stated.
“He was. Although not so much ill as injured.”
“And has he regained his memory?”
“No.”
Mrs. Tryon’s eyes narrowed. “You are not taking advantage of him, are you?”
“No!” Cecilia exclaimed, because she wasn’t. Or rather, she wouldn’t be soon. And because the thought of taking advantage of Edward’s generosity and honor burned like a poker in her heart.
“My godson is very dear to me.”
“He is dear to me, too,” Cecilia said softly.
“Yes, I imagine he is.”
Cecilia had no idea how to interpret that.
Mrs. Tryon began to remove her gloves with military precision, pausing only to say, “Were you aware that he had an arrangement with a young lady in Kent?”
Cecilia swallowed. “Do you mean Miss Bridgerton?”
Mrs. Tryon looked up, and a grudging flash of admiration—possibly for Cecilia’s honesty—passed through her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “It was not a formal engagement, but it was expected.”
“I am aware of that,” Cecilia said. Best to be honest.
“It would have been a splendid match,” Mrs. Tryon went on, her voice becoming almost conversational. But only almost. There was a hint of standoffishness to her words, a vaguely bored note of warning, as if to say—I have control, and I shall not relinquish it.
Cecilia believed her.
“The Bridgertons and the Rokesbys have been friends and neighbors for generations,” Mrs. Tryon went on. “Edward’s mother has told me on many occasions that it was her dearest wish that their families be united.”
Cecilia held her tongue. There wasn’t a thing she could say to that that wouldn’t cast her in a bad light.
Mrs. Tryon finished with her second glove, and let out a little sound—not really a sigh, more of an I-am-regrettably-changing-the-subject sort of noise. “But alas,” she said, “it is not to be.”
Cecilia waited for an impossibly long moment, but Mrs. Tryon did not say more. Finally, Cecilia forced herself to ask, “Was there anything in particular I might help you with?”
“No.”
More silence. Mrs. Tryon, she realized, wielded it like a weapon.
“I . . .” Cecilia motioned helplessly toward the door. There was something about this woman that left her utterly inept. “I have errands,” she finally said.
“As do I.” Mrs. Tryon’s words were crisp, and so were her motions when she rose to her feet.
Cecilia followed her to the door, but before she could bid her farewell, Mrs. Tryon said, “Cecilia—I may call you Cecilia, may I not?”
Cecilia squinted as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. “Of course.”
“Since fate has brought us together this afternoon, I feel it my duty as your husband’s godmother to impart some advice.”
Their eyes met.
“Do not hurt him.” The words were simple, and starkly given.
“I would never want to,” Cecilia said. It was the truth.