“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”

Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow. Shall we sneak off while we may? the look seemed to ask.

Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.

“I do regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to walk here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I am here. It is Lady Muir I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”

A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.

It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was her friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haughty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she had laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all. But she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.

Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.

This was grossly unfair to George.

“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.

“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other forever. We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”

How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.

The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.

The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to admit one more member, it seemed, even if just temporarily. George had allowed Mrs. Parkinson to win her point and give herself the opportunity to insinuate her company upon them for some days to come. Lady Muir was staying.

Mrs. Parkinson was the only one among them who looked gratified at the verdict, even though at the same time she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and heaved a soulful sigh.

It would have been better, Hugo thought, if he had not gone down onto the beach at all today. Last evening’s joke ought to have been warning enough. God sometimes enjoyed getting in on a joke and giving it his own peculiar twist.

The new sprain had been aggravated by the old break, which in its turn had been poorly set. He would dearly like to have a word with the physician who had set it, Dr. Jones said with some severity after he had explained the situation to Gwen. He ordered her not to put her foot to the ground for at least a week but rather to keep it elevated at all times, not even on a low stool but whenever possible on a level with her heart.

It would have been a gloomy enough pronouncement under any circumstances. Even at home, the prospect of remaining inactive for so long would have been irksome. And at Vera’s, another week without any escape from the company of her hostess and her friends would have been rather like being sentenced to a stay in Purgatory. Nevertheless, even that would have seemed like Paradise in comparison with the reality she faced. She was going to have to spend a week—at least a week—at Penderris Hall as a guest of the Duke of Stanbrook. She was being forced to impose herself upon a reunion of men—and one woman—who had spent long months together here recovering from wounds sustained during the wars. They were surely a closely bonded group. The last thing any of them would want was the forced presence of an outsider, a stranger to them all, who was nursing nothing more lethal than a hurt ankle.

Oh, this was the stuff of nightmares.

She was humiliated and in pain and homesick—dreadfully homesick. But most of all she was angry. She was angry at herself for continuing along the beach after discovering how difficult a terrain it was to walk upon, and for choosing to climb that treacherous slope. She had a weak ankle. She knew her limitations and was usually quite sensible about the sort of exercise she undertook.

Most of all, though, she was angry—quite furious, in fact—at Vera. What true lady would suddenly close her home to the very friend she had begged to come and keep her company in her grief and loneliness, just because that friend had suffered a slight accident? Should her reaction not have been quite the opposite? But Vera had been patently, embarrassingly self-serving in her unwillingness to allow Gwen to be conveyed to her house. Much as she had railed against the Duke of Stanbrook before today, she had obviously been thrilled beyond words at being offered a chance to come here to Penderris today, and in his crested carriage, no less, for all the other inhabitants of the village to witness. She had seen the chance to extend the thrill and become a daily visitor here for the next week or so and had proceeded to grasp it, without any consideration whatsoever for Gwen’s feelings.

Gwen nursed her humiliation and pain and anger while she reclined upon the bed in the guest room that had been assigned to her. Lord Trentham had carried her up here and deposited her on the bed and left her almost without a word. He had asked if he could fetch her anything, but both his face and his voice had been without expression and it was clear he did not expect her to say yes.

Oh, she must not give in to the temptation to shift all the blame for her discomfort onto the occupants of Penderris Hall. They had taken her in and been remarkably kind to her. Lord Trentham had carried her all the way up from the beach, or very close to it. And his hands had been surprisingly gentle when he removed her boot. He had brought her that cool cloth and pressed it to her forehead just when the pain had been threatening to get beyond her control.

She must not dislike him.

She just wished he did not make her feel like a spoiled, pampered, petulant schoolgirl.

A maid distracted her after a while. She brought more tea and the news that a portmanteau of her ladyship’s belongings had been brought over from the village and was now in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber.

The same maid helped her wash and change into a gown more suitable for evening. She brushed out Gwen’s hair and restyled it. And then she left the room and Gwen wondered what would happen next. She hoped desperately that she could remain in her room, that the maid would bring up a tray at dinnertime.

Her hopes were soon to be dashed, however.

A knock on her door was preceded by the appearance of Lord Trentham, looking large and actually rather splendid in a well-fitting tailed evening coat and other evening attire. He was also glowering. No, that was unfair. His face in repose rather naturally glowered, Gwen thought. He had the look of a fierce warrior. He looked as though the niceties of civilized living were unimportant to him.

“You are ready to come downstairs?” he asked

“Oh,” she said. “I would really prefer to stay here, Lord Trentham, and be no bother to anyone. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you would ask for a tray to be sent up?”

She smiled at him.

“I believe it would be too much trouble, ma’am,” he said. “I have been sent to bring you down.”

Gwen’s cheeks grew hot. How very mortifying! And what a vastly unmannerly answer. Could he not have phrased it differently? He might have told her that her company would be no bother to anyone. He might even have gone as far as to say that the duke and his guests were looking forward to her joining them.