alone so that she might spend the days of her widowhood in peace. He had no claim, and certainly no right, to her company.
Not that he was glad the French Blue was stolen from under his nose, but it appeared the theft would throw the lot of them together, himself and Lady Caroline included.
And Henry was certainly glad for that.
He followed Lady Violet out to the street.
Eight
C aroline stuck out her lip and blew a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. She glanced out the window, open to a cool spring breeze, and sighed. The sun still shone brightly, same as it had when she’d last checked. The hours were passing at a snail’s pace.
Would this day never end?
She’d begun reading quite some time ago. Even so, the book on her lap remained open to the first page—obviously a very boring first page. With another sigh she closed it and held it in her hands. Around her the house was oppressively quiet.
So far, “liberated widowhood” was proving mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps she needed a different book, or maybe a different sofa. Was it too early for a drink? Wine didn’t count as a proper drink, really, when one considered the strength of other libations, brandy, cognac, rag water . . .
Caroline closed her eyes. She was being silly. There was no cure for the way Henry had looked at her through the crack in the door, not even gin.
There was no cure for Henry.
She wanted to feel rage at his appearance at Hope’s. She’dtold him, in no uncertain terms, to leave her be. And he was very good at leaving.
What she felt for him was strong, and wild. But it wasn’t rage.
Caroline tossed the book aside and leapt upright. Her slippers pinched her feet as she paced across the stars and constellations embroidered into the carpet, hands tucked into the small of her back. She couldn’t sit still; the future that once promised peace, and solitude, and plenty of time in her garden, now seemed unbearably enormous and barren, somehow. She couldn’t bear another hour like this, much less a day, a week, a decade.
After what felt like an eternity spent pacing (but was probably less than three minutes), Caroline’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall.
She crashed through the doors and slid out into the hall’s marbled expanse. William was there, gathering his hat and gloves from Mr. Avery. She did not need to ask where he was headed; her brother appeared as exhausted, and just as restless, as she.
Caroline put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin and asked anyway.
“I am going to call on Lady Violet,” he said, slapping his gloves against the palm of his hand. “I feel rather terribly for her, what with the missing diamond and all that. It’s only proper I see to the condition of her nerves.”
“The condition of her nerves ? I don’t believe you for a moment.” Caroline sniffed. “But if you allow me to accompany you, I promise not to pursue the matter any further.”
William huffed and rolled his eyes, but after making a mad dash upstairs for her spencer jacket and bonnet, Caroline found him waiting for her a few moments later.
“Don’t worry.” Biting back a smile, she took his hand in her own; it was clammy. William was nervous. “I take my duties as a negligent chaperone quite seriously.”
* * *
C aroline’s heart pounded as she and William were ushered through the rambling, if faded, expanse of Lady Violet Rutledge’s house.
Henry wasn’t here, she told herself. Why would he be? He had no business with Violet. Unless, of course, he was somehowinvolved in the saga of Hope’s missing diamond, in which case he would certainly be here.
Caroline cowered behind the fortress of William’s shoulders, as if he might lessen the blow of Henry’s presence—or his absence. She heard Violet’s voice — “ Our thief might be . . . someone with the cheek to steal a fifty-carat stone in front of five hundred people . . . but who? ”—and then the butler flung open
Not that he was glad the French Blue was stolen from under his nose, but it appeared the theft would throw the lot of them together, himself and Lady Caroline included.
And Henry was certainly glad for that.
He followed Lady Violet out to the street.
Eight
C aroline stuck out her lip and blew a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. She glanced out the window, open to a cool spring breeze, and sighed. The sun still shone brightly, same as it had when she’d last checked. The hours were passing at a snail’s pace.
Would this day never end?
She’d begun reading quite some time ago. Even so, the book on her lap remained open to the first page—obviously a very boring first page. With another sigh she closed it and held it in her hands. Around her the house was oppressively quiet.
So far, “liberated widowhood” was proving mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps she needed a different book, or maybe a different sofa. Was it too early for a drink? Wine didn’t count as a proper drink, really, when one considered the strength of other libations, brandy, cognac, rag water . . .
Caroline closed her eyes. She was being silly. There was no cure for the way Henry had looked at her through the crack in the door, not even gin.
There was no cure for Henry.
She wanted to feel rage at his appearance at Hope’s. She’dtold him, in no uncertain terms, to leave her be. And he was very good at leaving.
What she felt for him was strong, and wild. But it wasn’t rage.
Caroline tossed the book aside and leapt upright. Her slippers pinched her feet as she paced across the stars and constellations embroidered into the carpet, hands tucked into the small of her back. She couldn’t sit still; the future that once promised peace, and solitude, and plenty of time in her garden, now seemed unbearably enormous and barren, somehow. She couldn’t bear another hour like this, much less a day, a week, a decade.
After what felt like an eternity spent pacing (but was probably less than three minutes), Caroline’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall.
She crashed through the doors and slid out into the hall’s marbled expanse. William was there, gathering his hat and gloves from Mr. Avery. She did not need to ask where he was headed; her brother appeared as exhausted, and just as restless, as she.
Caroline put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin and asked anyway.
“I am going to call on Lady Violet,” he said, slapping his gloves against the palm of his hand. “I feel rather terribly for her, what with the missing diamond and all that. It’s only proper I see to the condition of her nerves.”
“The condition of her nerves ? I don’t believe you for a moment.” Caroline sniffed. “But if you allow me to accompany you, I promise not to pursue the matter any further.”
William huffed and rolled his eyes, but after making a mad dash upstairs for her spencer jacket and bonnet, Caroline found him waiting for her a few moments later.
“Don’t worry.” Biting back a smile, she took his hand in her own; it was clammy. William was nervous. “I take my duties as a negligent chaperone quite seriously.”
* * *
C aroline’s heart pounded as she and William were ushered through the rambling, if faded, expanse of Lady Violet Rutledge’s house.
Henry wasn’t here, she told herself. Why would he be? He had no business with Violet. Unless, of course, he was somehowinvolved in the saga of Hope’s missing diamond, in which case he would certainly be here.
Caroline cowered behind the fortress of William’s shoulders, as if he might lessen the blow of Henry’s presence—or his absence. She heard Violet’s voice — “ Our thief might be . . . someone with the cheek to steal a fifty-carat stone in front of five hundred people . . . but who? ”—and then the butler flung open
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