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In the clear afternoon light, the countess’s fair hair shone richly, the bright ruddy gold of Indian yellow pigment. Precious and rare. For her, only the best.

In this room—in London—there might always be people like Wadsworth, who doubted Henry could resume his place in society. Who doubted him. The war was over, and its tactics were of no use anymore. He couldn’t win the esteem of the men in this drawing room by offering them meager privileges like dried-out snuff or extra biscuit; they could do better for themselves simply by stepping out the door with a shilling in hand. And he could hardly soothe and train Lady Stratton to follow his will, as once upon a time he had been able to command a horse.

He had lost his easy place in this world, and he did not yet see his way to a new one.

He could not stand still any longer; his muscles jumped to act. “I must leave,” he blurted to Frances.

She sank a little against the wall. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

If so, that was more than Henry understood.

He bade Lady Stratton a proper farewell; he managed that much. Lord Wadsworth muttered in his ear as he left, “Deserting the scene of your defeat? I would have expected better from a soldier.”

His words crawled over Henry like stinging insects, and he shuddered them off, annoyed, as he left the house and began to stride the few streets back to Tallant House. His feet fell naturally into the swift pattern of wheeling step: one hundred twenty paces in a minute, each a perfect thirty inches long.

He halted, forced himself to walk more slowly—the pace of a gentleman, not a soldier. He must remember the kind of man he was now.

Or was it only the man he had once been? He was beginning to suspect that his old self had been trod into the mud of Belgium, burned away under the unforgiving sun of a Spanish siege. He might feel the ghost of the old Henry here, but Wadsworth had just proven: it would be difficult to resurrect his place in society.

He was determined, though. He was haunted by many ghosts these days; the old Henry would merely be one more.

***

Naturally, Jem and Emily wanted a full report over dinner on his call at Caro’s house.

“I brought her violets,” Henry said, looking over the dishes scattered across the table. He had yet to re-accustom himself to the amount of food served for a simple family dinner. Two courses, multiple meats and vegetables, all prepared and seasoned well.

An everyday luxury. Heaven on a plate. He selected beef, creamed peas, and a fricassee of chicken as tonight’s particular heaven.

“Violets were a good choice,” Emily said, cutting slivers of sole. “Really, anything except roses is a good choice. You wouldn’t believe the number of roses Caro gets. She has a horror of them.”

Jem paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Em, I thought you liked roses.”

“I do, Jemmy. But I don’t get hundreds of them every week.”

He stared. “Hundreds? Where does she put them all?”

Emily shrugged. “In the privy, for all I know. Never mind, Hal; you’ve made a good start. Did you speak to her much?”

“Not much.” Henry didn’t want to discuss the afternoon again. The unexpected alliance, the unforeseen attack. He forked through his chicken and found pieces small enough to spear without cutting, then turned his attention to the beef.

“Why not?” Emily pressed.

Jem shot her a look.

“What?” Emily countered. “He went there to talk to her. So why didn’t he?”

“She was… busy,” Henry grunted as he struggled to cut the beef without the aid of a fork. “She had at least ten other callers. Gah.” The sauced beef had shot from his plate into his lap, spattering wine-broth down his shirtfront and on his breeches.

Good God. He looked like a baby playing with its food. He glared at his right arm, but it was insensible. As always.

He would have glared at his brother, at Emily, but they both studied their plates tactfully as a footman helped Henry clean up the worst of the spill.

“The fish is quite good,” Emily said when Henry reseated himself. “I asked Cook to make it salty, just as you always preferred it, Hal.”

She passed him the platter with a smile, though her eyes didn’t meet his.

If she or Jem had offered to help Henry cut his meat, as though he were one of their young sons, he might have left the table. But this—well, she meant to be kind. And she managed it beautifully, as she managed everything she put her mind to.

Such kindness could strangle him, though. Jem and Emily had wondered whether Henry was ready to be back in London, to mix with society. Now they couldn’t even look at him.

A pity, Wadsworth had said. It was pity that terrified Henry. And it was lurking everywhere today.

Except in the dark eyes of Frances Whittier.

Jem cleared his throat, studied the crest on the handle of his fork. “You know, Hal, I was wondering how Winter Cottage was looking these days. No one’s been there since you… ah…”

“Left for war.” Henry’s voice was flat.

Winter Cottage was a small property in Sidcup, a short ride outside London. Jem had deeded it to Henry when he reached his majority.

Jem was the opposite of subtle; his every emotion flickered across his mild countenance. And just now, he had that worried look again. Henry knew what he was up to.

“The season can be awfully exhausting,” Jem continued. “Right, Em?”

“Oh—yes, indeed,” his wife agreed. “Very much so. Yes, I only wish I could go to Sidcup for a few weeks.”

Henry folded his arms—well, one arm—and grimaced, waiting for them to make their point.

Jem widened his eyes, trying to look as though he’d just had an idea. “I say, Hal, you could wait out the season at Winter Cottage. Come back in a few weeks when the City’s thinned out. Er, more relaxing that way, you know.”

“I’m not here to relax,” Henry said. What he was here for, he wasn’t sure. He’d wanted to conquer, to win London. He deserved a victory; he craved one. But not even his family had faith in him anymore.

Why should they, though? If he couldn’t get through a family dinner without dumping food on himself, how could he mix with the ton? How could he dance at a ball or take a lady in to supper? How could he ever again clasp a woman in his arms when he had only one?

“Just think about it,” Emily pleaded. “It would be such a pity to have that lovely cottage unused.”

Pity.

“I’ll think about it,” Henry sighed, and she looked relieved.

And maybe he really would. Leaving for Winter Cottage wasn’t ideal, but then, neither was having a paralyzed arm.

Henry could think of nothing better to do. And surely it was better to do something.

But that night, the first letter arrived, and that changed everything.

Four

The first surprise was the fact that a letter had arrived for Henry at all. Since his recent return to London, he had often been included in Jem’s and Emily’s invitations, but he had no correspondents of his own.

The second surprise was the way it was delivered. Jem’s butler brought the letter to Henry’s bedchamber with a disapproving glare, the first facial expression Sowerberry had ever permitted himself in Henry’s presence. The letter had been, the servant declared, left by a saucy-looking boy for “the soldier what had the gamy arm.”

Henry halted his inventory of his possessions—not that he was definitely leaving for Winter Cottage, just considering it. “My arm is not gamy,” he protested as he accepted the letter from the butler, who drew himself up tall with offended dignity. “Nothing of the sort, or I would have lost it.”