“There is no one to compare to Judith Law,” Rannulf said. “But if you think I see nothing but her physical beauty, Wulf, you are wrong.”

“She has been something of a damsel in distress,” Wulfric said, “in more ways than one. The gallant urge to ride to the rescue can sometimes be mistaken for love, I believe.”

“She has never behaved like a victim,” Rannulf assured him. “And I am not mistaken. If you are about to recite all the ways in which she is not an eligible bride for me, Wulf, you may save your breath. I know them all and they make no difference whatsoever to my feelings for her. I have position, money, and prospects enough that I do not need a wealthy bride.”

His brother did not comment.

“I take it, then,” Rannulf said after some moments of silence, “that I will not have your blessing, Wulf?”

“Is it important to you?”

Rannulf thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last, “It is. You frequently infuriate me, Wulf, and I will never allow myself to be dominated by you, but I respect you perhaps more than I respect anyone else I know. You have always done your duty, and sometimes you go the extra mile for one of us even when it must be distasteful or tedious for you to do it. Like the time a month or two ago when you went into Oxfordshire to help Eve and Aidan regain custody of her foster children—the orphans of a lowly shopkeeper. And like what you have done for me today. Yes, your blessing is important to me. But I will marry Judith with or without it.”

“You have it,” Wulf said softly. “I would not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you all the possible sources of future dissatisfaction, once the bloom of romance has faded. Marriage is a lifetime commitment, and we Bedwyns have always been faithful to our spouses. But your choice of bride is yours to make, Rannulf. You are of age, and it is you who must live with her for the rest of your life.”

Was that why Bewcastle had never married? Rannulf wondered. In his cold, calculated way, had he always considered the possible sources of future dissatisfaction? But as far as Rannulf knew, his eldest brother had never shown even the slightest interest in any lady despite the fact that for years he had been one of England’s most eligible bachelors. He had kept the same mistress for years, but no romance that might have led to matrimony.

“I am not expecting happily ever after, Wulf,” Rannulf said. “But I am expecting to be happy even after the bloom has faded from the rose. As you just said, marriage is a lifetime commitment.”

They did not talk anymore, and as soon as the carriage drew up before the doors of Bedwyn House Rannulf vaulted out and hurried inside and up the stairs to the drawing room. Alleyne, Freyja, and Morgan were there but not Judith.

“Ah, at last,” Alleyne said. “Come and tell us the rest of the story, Ralf. Apparently Free and Miss Law were banished at the most interesting moment. Let me see your knuckles.”

“Where is Judith?” Rannulf asked.

“In her room, I suppose,” Alleyne said. “Overcome by all the excitement, no doubt. Did Effingham put up a fight? If he did, he missed your face, even the large target of the Bedwyn nose.” He grinned.

“She is not,” Morgan said. “That is all you know, Alleyne. She is not in her room. She has gone.”

Rannulf looked sharply at her and then at Freyja, who was sitting unnaturally still and had not clamored immediately for a report on what had happened after she left Law’s rooms.

“She has gone home,” she said, “by stagecoach.”

“Home?” Rannulf stared blankly at her.

“To Beaconsfield in Wiltshire,” she explained. “To the rectory. Home, Ralf, where she feels she belongs.”

He stared at her, aghast.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

It spoke volumes of the Bedwyns that neither lady displayed even the slightest evidence of shock.

It rained through most of the night, slowing the progress of the stagecoach and a couple of times causing Judith’s stomach to clench in terror as the coach slithered on particularly bad stretches of mud. But by morning the sky had cleared and the sun was shining again, and there were familiar faces to smile at her and call greetings to her when she was set down outside the inn in Beaconsfield.

They were hardly reassuring. As she trudged along the street toward the rectory at the other end of the village, she felt as if she trod on her heart every step of the way. She had not even taken a final look at him, and foolishly she had kept on panicking throughout the seemingly interminable journey, not being able to bring his face into focus in her mind.

Her story had had a happy ending. She kept telling herself that. Both she and Bran had been cleared of the robbery charges against them and the true culprit caught. Grandmama’s jewels had been recovered—at least she assumed they would all be recovered since Horace had not denied having the rest of them at his lodgings. She was going home—Aunt Effingham would certainly not want her back at Harewood now. It was unlikely that she would want any of them there, and so even Hilary might be safe from the misery of going there to live.

But it did not feel like a happy ending. Her heart was crushed and she thought it might take longer than forever to heal.

Besides, it was not a completely happy ending even if she ignored the state of her heart. Nothing had been solved for her family. Quite the contrary. Bran was hopelessly in debt, and it seemed as if the only ways he could think of to get himself out of debt were to gamble and to beg Papa for help. He would be forced to take that latter course soon, and then they would all descend into poverty indeed. It seemed altogether possible that Bran’s ultimate destination was going to be debtors’ prison. Perhaps Papa’s too.

No, it was a miserable morning in every way it was possible to be miserable. But even as she thought it, the door of the rectory opened and Pamela and Hilary came dashing outside, Hilary shrieking.

“Jude!” she cried. “Jude, you have come home.”

Judith set down her bag in the roadway by the garden gate and laughed with happiness despite herself as first one sister and then the other flung themselves into her arms and hugged all the breath out of her.

Cassandra came more slowly behind them smiling warmly and holding out both arms as she came.

“Judith,” she said, hugging her too. “Oh, Jude, we have been so afraid that you would not come home and we would never see you again.” Tears were welling from her eyes. “I know there must be an explanation. I just know it. Where is Bran?”

But before Judith could reply, she became aware of her father’s stern, silent figure in the doorway.

Invisible fingers of doom reached out to envelop her.

“Judith,” he said without raising his voice—it was his pulpit voice, “you will come into my study, if you please.”

Obviously they had heard something from Harewood.

“I have just come from London, Papa,” she said. “Grandmama’s jewels have all been recovered. It was Horace Effingham who stole them with the sole purpose of incriminating Branwell and me. But he has been caught and has confessed. There were more witnesses than just Bran and me, the Duke of Bewcastle among them. I daresay all will be explained to Grandmama and Uncle George within the next few days.”

“Oh, Jude.” Cassandra was weeping in earnest now. “I knew it. I did, I did. I never doubted you for a moment.”

Mama came elbowing past Papa then and rushed down the path to catch Judith up in a mighty hug. “I was in the kitchen,” she cried. “Girls, why did you not call me? Judith, my love. And Branwell has been cleared too? That boy is a trouble to poor Papa, but he could never be a thief any more than you could.

You came on the coach?” She smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen from beneath Judith’s bonnet. “You look dead on your feet, child. Come and have some breakfast and I will tuck you into your bed.”

For once Papa was overpowered by his women. He stood frowning and troubled, but he made no other attempt to take Judith aside to chastise her in any way for what he had heard from Harewood. And no one, Judith realized, commented on her mention of the Duke of Bewcastle. After she had been led off to the kitchen, she did not see her father again until after noon. She had not lain down as she had been pressed to do but had spent the morning with her mother and sisters in the sitting room. While they had all been busy sewing, she had written two letters—one to the Duke of Bewcastle and one to Lord Rannulf. She owed them both a deep debt of gratitude, yet she had rushed away from Bedwyn House without a word to either of them. She had just finished the long and difficult task when her father came into the room, the habitual frown on his face, an open letter in his hand.

“I have just received this from Horace Effingham,” he said. “It bears out what you told me this morning, Judith. It is a complete confession, not only of the theft and the attempt to incriminate you and Branwell, but also of his motive. He tried to force his attentions on you at Harewood, Judith, and you very properly repelled them. His scheme was an attempt to avenge himself on you. According to his letter, he has also written to my mother and to Sir George.”

Judith closed her eyes. She knew they had all believed her this morning—even Papa. But what a relief it was to be fully exonerated. Horace would never have written such a letter of his own volition, of course, especially the humiliating part about her rejecting his advances and his wanting revenge. He had been forced into writing it—by Lord Rannulf. Had it really all happened just yesterday? It seemed an age ago.