The little woman scooted to the end of the settee and pulled a lever, which shot forth a footstool. “You said that the rector is able to officiate on Wednesday, is that correct?”

“Indeed. Ten in the evening.”

She stepped onto the footstool, then to the floor. Rogan took her elbow and walked alongside her into the entry hall.

“Do not change your plans,” she told him as they reached the front door and the footman opened it.

“But how will-”

“No, no. No more chatter for now.” She patted his arm. “Wait for my message on the morrow. There will be a wedding.” Her crimson-painted lips curved upward. “You will see. Trust the purity of Mary’s heart. She will not let you down.”

It was Wednesday.

And this night Mary would have become the Duchess of Blackstone.

Instead, she remained inside the house, curtains drawn, the knocker removed from the front door as though the family was not at home.

When Mary heard the door open, she rose from the window seat in the parlor and walked to meet her sisters, who had gone to Portman Square to collect her belongings from Rogan.

Only they had returned very quickly.

When Mary walked into the entry hall, she saw that Elizabeth and Anne were not alone.

Quinn’s cane clicked on the marble floor as he stepped toward her, his hand outstretched.

“Miss Royle,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “We must speak. Please.”

Mary’s gaze shot to Anne’s.

“We had only just arrived when Lord Wetherly’s carriage drew up before the house. He had come from his country house to help his brother prepare for the wedding.”

“But your sisters told me that there would not be a wedding today. And I fear the fault is mine.” Quinn’s gaze crawled along the floor before he gathered the courage to meet Mary’s.

“Your fault? How can that be?” Mary asked. When Quinn did not immediately reply, she gestured for him to follow her into the parlor.

When Elizabeth made to join them, Mary turned back to her. “Would you two please put my belongings in my bedchamber?” she asked, hoping to glean a few private moments hearing what Quinn had to tell her without her sisters listening to every word.

“Oh, we did not collect your belongings. And we do apologize for not doing so.” Elizabeth nervously glanced at Anne for support.

“Quinn was certain that what he had to tell you would repair the misunderstanding between you and the duke.” Anne took a step backward. “So I told Elizabeth that we should just return home and leave your belongings. It was the wisest course of action, for there may yet be a wedding this eve after all.”

Mary pinned Anne with a heated gaze, but she said nothing and walked into the parlor with Lord Wetherly.

Mary offered him a chair, but he appeared more than a little on edge, admitting to her that he preferred to stand.

“I-I thought you knew,” he stammered.

“I don’t understand, Lord Wetherly.”

“I apologized. And you accepted it.” He peered at her through squinted, confused eyes.

Mary set her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Please, Quinn, speak plainly. I do not recall any apology. What could you have done that might warrant one?”

“Truly, you do not know?”

Mary shook her head brusquely, hoping that Quinn would hurry along with his confession.

“I was so happy for my brother. So joyous that he had found a woman so worthy of his heart.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I wanted to share my brother’s happiness with everyone, but so few knew of the ceremony. So I submitted the column recounting your wedding at the Argyle Rooms.”

Mary shot to her feet. “You? But I found it with Rogan’s papers in the secretaire.”

“I put it there, so later I could compare my wording with the on-dit column when the news of the wedding was published. Surely you are aware of the columnists’ penchant for embellishment. I wanted to be sure they reported everything correctly. It was important to me.”

“Then Rogan never saw the draft or knew of the column before it was published?”

“No, he didn’t.” Quinn shrugged sheepishly. “I was reading the very column I had supplied to the editors at the newspaper when Rogan came down the stairs to break his fast. I had been out the night before and hadn’t realized that he had come home.”

Mary’s head began to ache. She didn’t want to hear any more, but she knew she must.

“When Rogan told me that the wedding had been Lotharian’s lark, I could not speak. Rogan took the newspaper from the table and began to read it. He was headed for the door before I could confess my error. As he was leaving, he told me he would be bringing you back with him. I knew he would marry you and the cart would be set to rights again.”

“Why didn’t you tell him? Or tell me?”

“Rogan was so happy. Oh, he tried not to let on, but I could see it. I have never seen a man whose heart was so full. I couldn’t tell him. And the article really didn’t matter at that point anyway. You and he were going to be married.”

Mary’s eyebrows inched toward her nose. “Wait a moment. You did mention the column to me.” She raised a finger in the air as she dug deep into her memory to recall the words. “You apologized for the column.” She looked at Quinn. “But I thought you meant that the release of the column was regrettable. Not that you wrote it!”

Quinn coughed an uneasy half laugh. “I suppose on some level I knew you misunderstood. I only hoped that you would realize that I had supplied the information for the column when you read it and saw that my name alone was left out.”

Mary shook her head. “I was too shaken by the consequences of the column to notice,” she said under her breath.

She turned and walked nearly blindly into the entry hall, where she snatched her straw bonnet from a hook on the wall.

Quinn followed close behind. “I am sorry, Miss Royle. You cannot know how much.”

Mary opened the front door and started down the steps.

Quinn’s cane clicked behind her.

“I have to speak with Rogan. I have to apologize for doubting him-” she began.

“Let me take you to Portman Square,” Quinn said. “’Tis the least I can do.”

Before Mary could accept, she heard MacTavish calling her name from the open door.

“Miss Royle!” He raised a folded square of vellum in his hand. “This came for you while you were in the parlor with Lord Wetherly.”

“I shall read it when I return,” she replied curtly.

“It is from the duke, Miss Royle. His footman bade me tell you it was very important.”

Mary spun around, raced up the stairs, and took the missive. She broke the red wax wafer and unfolded the letter. Her eyes skimmed over the short note.

She looked to Quinn. “He has gone to Cavendish Square. Can you take me there to meet him?”

“It would be my honor, Miss Royle.”

Mary and Quinn were led into Lady Upperton’s library, where the portly old woman and Lord Lotharian sat waiting.

Mary glanced about the room. Rogan was not there. She lifted the short letter in her hand to show Lady Upperton and Lotharian. “I-I was under the impression that Blackstone would be here.”

“Oh, and he shall.” Lotharian rose and walked over to reach out his hand to her.

Mary took a step backward.

“My dear, you might be quite miffed at me now, but I vow, in one hour’s time, you will be kissing my cheek.”

“I doubt that very much, my lord. The past few days have been the most miserable of my life.”

“But how were your nights, my dear?” he asked, casting a loathsome, rakish wink at her.

Mary looked past the ancient rake and spoke instead to Lady Upperton. “I beg your pardon, Lady Upperton, but if Rogan is not here, then where is he? It is important that I speak with him immediately.”

“I am here.”

Mary spun around to see Rogan entering the room with a gray-haired older woman on his arm.

The woman held herself most regally, and Mary was sure she recognized her from somewhere. Just where, though, she couldn’t recall.

Lord Lotharian and Lady Upperton approached the woman and began to speak with her. But Mary’s eyes were fixed on Rogan, and she paid the woman no heed.

Rogan released the lady’s arm and politely left her side to come to Mary. “Mary, I must speak with you.”

Lady Upperton turned and snared both of them by the arm. “There will be time, all the time in the world, for the two of you to speak. But right now, it is time that we hear from Lady Jersey.”

“Lady Jersey?” Mary sputtered. She stared hard at the woman. Yes, it was she. The woman from the portrait in the Harrington gallery.

Only now she was older. Her hair gray, not chestnut. Her skin pale, rather than vibrant. “Lady Jersey! B-but, how?”

Graciously, Lady Jersey allowed Lord Lotharian to escort her to the settee, and she sat down.

She raised her eyes to Mary and gazed at her as if assessing her. “I knew the late Duke of Blackstone quite well. His son, here, asked me to come to speak with you about a Kashmir shawl of mine that you might have found.”

Mary’s eyes went wide. “Yes, we did find a shawl amongst my father’s belongings after he died.”

Lady Jersey raised her thin brows. “I do not believe I know you, gel.”

A jolt rushed through Mary as it occurred to her that if the Old Rakes’ story was true, this woman would have preferred her and her sisters…dead.

Lady Upperton quickly made the requisite introductions.

When appropriate, Mary curtsied hesitantly, for her bones felt as though they had been replaced with ice.

“Miss Royle?” Lady Jersey narrowed her eyes. “Your name is somehow familiar to me, though your face is not. Have we met before? At the theater, or a rout, perhaps?”