“Have you? Three nights at Huntington I observed you come and go from your assignations—you didn’t notice a thing. On the last night, another couple on their secret rendezvous was headed right in your direction. I had to divert them. After that I had no choice but to speak to your family.”

She had not known this, but still her ire rose. “And bilk a kiss from me besides.”

“For someone who deals with writers, you should choose your words with greater care.” He smirked. “I came by my kiss honestly.”

The lecher.

“And how do you like my book? Does it not astound you with its literary finesse?”

“We are talking about smut with dirty drawings.”

“Ah, so you have been reading.”

“I glanced through two pages and that was enough for me.”

He smiled. “It’s that good, eh?”

Her breath caught. “It is a waste of paper. And what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’ve come to welcome our duchess back to London. She is practically my sister, too. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” she was not so much curious as suspicious.

“Fitz will be here soon. Martin might know everything that happened in East Anglia before Canute the Great made it a mere fiefdom, but I see he doesn’t have the sense to remove himself and avoid giving the impression that he has come to meet you.”

“He hasn’t. He happens to be on his way to Oxford.”

“All the more reason not to give Fitz the wrong ideas. If there is no misconduct, then you shouldn’t waste people’s suspicion.”

He ambled off, took Andrew by the shoulder, and guided him away.


Fitz arrived at the rail station to find Helena and Hastings standing together, speaking in that particular push-pull rhythm of theirs. Fitz listened to their exchange of mildly veiled insults with his usual amusement—and a twinge of melancholy. It was a testament to Hastings’s skill and determination that Helena, after all these years, still did not realize he was in love with her. But what good was such love, too proud to make itself known?

He wondered whether the same applied to his wife. Once she had her freedom, would she be too timid to pursue her fellow, to whom she’d remained chastely devoted all these years?

An odd thing, his continued anonymity. She did not make her debut until after she was Lady Fitzhugh, so she could not have been acquainted with many young men before she married. In the intervening years, Fitz had met most of the Graveses’ social set and never once had he come across a man who elicited any reaction in her.

“My goodness, Mrs. Englewood!” Hastings cried. “What an adorable coincidence running into you.”

Fitz was jolted out of his reverie. Isabelle, in a promenade dress of black velvet, appeared at Fitz’s elbow. She shook hands warmly with both Hastings and Helena. “Adorable, yes, coincidence, no. Fitz told me that the duchess is due back this afternoon. I am dying to meet her new husband and see her again—as well as the rest of you. How could I pass the opportunity when I know that everyone will be gathered here?”

Everyone, including Millie.

Had she been anyone else, Fitz would have suspected her of trying to usurp Millie’s place. But Isabelle was a creature of impulses, not wiles. There was no malice to her, nor machinations.

All the same, this was ill done of her. Inserting herself openly into a family occasion—she might as well take out a notice in the papers stating their intention to set up a household together. No matter how romantic a reunion of young lovers, he would still be committing adultery and he preferred to do so discreetly, and not give his wife reasons to think she’d been publicly thrown over.

He was not alone in his reaction. Once Helena and Hastings realized that Isabelle had come deliberately and would remain with them, they both glanced toward the gates of the platform: It was only a matter of time before Millie arrived.

And then they both glanced at Fitz with uncertainty—and more than a little anxiety on Helena’s part—trying to gauge his reaction, to determine whether he approved of Isabelle’s action or whether he shared their unease.

Venetia’s train pulled into the station. She and her husband, the Duke of Lexington, stepped down from the duke’s private rail coach. The two had supplied the bulk of the gossip for the early part of the Season, culminating in an elopement that had shocked everyone, members of their families included. Fitz had guessed more of the reasons behind their sudden marriage than most, but still he’d worried, until the couple had come for a quick visit to London not long ago and he’d seen for himself how happy and relaxed Venetia was in her new marriage. They had then returned to the duke’s estate in the country for the rest of their honeymoon and were only now rejoining Society, beginning with the ball in their honor, hosted by Fitz and Millie—the same night they would consummate their marriage.

Only two days away now.

Helena waved. Venetia waved back, all smiles. The crowd hushed—Venetia was the great beauty of their generation and her appearance often caused awed silences. But as she walked arm in arm with her husband toward her family, the gawkers gradually returned to their own concerns.

Her smile faltered as she saw Isabelle. Perhaps her hand tightened on her husband’s arm also, for the duke bent his head toward her. Fitz could not tell what question he asked, but her answer, judging by the movement of her lips, seemed to be, Everything is fine. I’ll tell you more later.

She was warm and gracious as she greeted Isabelle and introduced her husband. They were all old friends. Isabelle and Hastings had pulled many a prank together when the boys visited the Pelham house. She and Helena had always got on well. And Fitz had learned, from a remark Helena let stray years ago, that in the days leading up to his wedding, Venetia had spent many hours holding Isabelle’s hand as the latter wept and raged against the cruelty of fate.

This, then, should have been a more buoyant reunion. But Isabelle alone brought the delight and the vivacity. She was thrilled for Venetia’s match with the duke. She made hearty digs at Hastings for Helena’s continued scorn of him. She could not wait to be more settled so that she could throw a dinner for the old gang.

Everyone else was cordial in their manners, but their smiles reminded Fitz of those one put on when faced with an overly chatty vicar.

“Yes,” said Isabelle, as they walked toward the exit and the carriages that awaited beyond. “I do enjoy it. And did Fitz tell you? He was the one who arranged for the house.”

Swift, inscrutable glances darted Fitz’s way.

“Fitz is terribly modest,” said Venetia. “Not for him to boast what he has done for his friends.”

Isabelle laughed. “Modest, Fitz? When did you become modest? I remember you bragging with the best of them.”

He had, hadn’t he? He’d strutted, too, as young, athletic boys so often did. One could say having his dreams executed before his eyes killed his swagger outright. But the truth was, he’d always admired quiet confidence better than braggadocio and would have moderated his bluster at some point, even if life hadn’t beat him to it.

“Modesty is a more appealing quality in an older gentleman such as myself.”

Isabelle laughed. “Oh, how funny.”

He had meant to poke fun at himself but what he said was not a joke.

“So, my dear Mrs. Englewood, what are your plans now that you are back?” asked Hastings.

“Oh, so many of them.” Isabelle turned her face toward Fitz, her look of anticipation unmistakable.

Hastings tapped his fingers against the handle of his walking stick. Venetia adjusted the angle of her hat. Helena tugged at the brooch at her throat. Isabelle might not recognize the signs but they were uncomfortable, especially his sisters.

“Mrs. Englewood is going to visit her sister in Aberdeen in a day or two,” Fitz said.

“Oh, how delightful,” said Venetia. “Will you stay for a while? Scotland is lovely this time of the year.”

There was hope in her voice.

“No, a week at most. I will visit her for a longer time after the end of the Season but for now I shall miss London too much.” She gazed again at Fitz, not caring that she was essentially flirting—possibly even thrilling to it.

Perhaps Fitz had shot well past modesty into outright prudery. But Isabelle had children and he a wife. They ought to be more circumspect in their public conduct, even if they were only before his family and his most trusted friend.

Then he saw her, Millie, descending from her brougham, looking right and left preparing to cross the street. Her eyes landed on him at the same moment. But the pleasure on her face faded away as she took in the sight of Isabelle walking next to him, comfortably ensconced among members of his family.

In her place.

She blinked a few times, her sweet, delicate face straining for composure. Lowering her head, she turned around and climbed back into the brougham.

It drove away, inconspicuous, one vehicle in a sea of carriages.


Alice was in her usual place on the mantel of Fitz’s study, her eyes closed, her tail curled around her plump little body. The clear glass bell jar that protected her from dust and moisture provided a clue that she’d long ago departed for the hereafter, but she remained so lifelike Millie still expected her to stir and wake up.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere in the house,” came her husband’s voice behind her. “Why didn’t you join us?”