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Harriet giggled, fluttering a hand toward the window. “Lord Moreland’s daughter … or niece … or something or other. From across the street. The little hoyden attempted to intimidate me, but she was scarcely larger than a squirrel. I set her in her place, of course. As if anyone would take the word of a child over that of a well-established widow—of an important viscount, no less.”

Miss Abbott had tried to convince Harriet to assist him?

What did that mean?

If the girl had been attempting to trap him into marriage, why would she have asked Lady Slight to step forward as a witness to his innocence?

The headache surged anew, sharp and immediate. Brendan lifted a hand to rub at his temple, seeking relief. It never paid for him to be ill-tempered, yet this wretched week had shredded his composure. Now he had accused a selfless young woman of dishonorable motives, and the shame of it struck with stunning force, like a blow to the chest. Dragging in a ragged breath, he turned and sank into a spindly gilded chair, the carved legs creaking beneath his weight.

“Miss Abbott attempted to have you step forward as an alibi?”

“Miss Abbott! That was her name!” Harriet declared with a triumphant little clap. “Hardly a miss—more of a child, muslined up to her chin. I would not leave the house in such a peagoose concoction. So prim, it was nearly ecclesiastical!”

The widow’s laughing chatter struck like clashing cymbals against his already frayed nerves. Brendan raised his fingers to his temple again, the effort of restraint pressing down like a vice.

“How did you reply to her request?”

Harriet giggled again. “I put her in her place, I will have you know. I told her that if she made any such accusation, I would deny it entirely. She even had the gall to threaten me with your coachman as a witness, but I pointed out that the only thing he could attest to was that he had delivered you to the residence across the street. I did not need to say it aloud, but it was clear she would imperil her own reputation should she press the matter further.”

Brendan bit back a groan. The mystery of Miss Abbott’s decision was now resolved. She had concluded that the only way to shield him from suspicion was to imply that he had spent the night in her company rather than in Lady Slight’s home. Rather than think her bold, rather than be humbled by her courage, he had accused her of deliberate deceit.

He had not thought the week could descend further into disgrace, but the realization of his own failing struck deep. He had always prided himself on fairness, on weighing character and conduct evenly. And yet …

“Were you not concerned for me, Harriet? Would you have allowed me to hang?”

The widow, too occupied with her own performance to have noticed his rising dismay, suddenly started at the question. She sprang to her feet and hurried toward him, taking both of his hands in hers. “Of course not, Brendan! I knew you would find a solution. You are an intelligent man with powerful connections.”

So, yes. The widow would have continued her untroubled pursuits while he faced trial and execution.

He recalled how he had questioned his choices in the moment he had found the baron’s lifeless form. Since then, he had soothed himself with the illusion that Harriet had not known of his situation, that she had cared more deeply than she had ever expressed. But the truth now stood plain.

The one person who had risked her standing—her very future—to aid him had been a young lady who barely knew him at all. Miss Abbott was no schemer. She was a warrior, wrapped in muslin and integrity, acting not for affection, but for what was right. Lord Moreland’s willingness to let his daughter govern her own fate now appeared entirely reasonable.

And I am an idiot. A vain, shallow idiot. The sort of man who finds the soulless Harriet alluring.

He had wronged Miss Abbott grievously. And he must make amends.

But how?

Lily had been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling for several minutes. Her prideful storming from the drawing room had sustained her only until she had crossed the threshold of her bedroom, at which point she had hoisted herself onto the coverlet and collapsed in a state of numbness to consider her future.

The ceiling’s plaster roses blurred above her as her eyes welled, but no tears came. Her mind felt like a sodden wool, heavy and slow.

A knock at the door barely registered. “Go away!”

She could not bear another moment of Mama’s remonstrations. She knew it came from a place of love, that Mama was distraught over Lily’s abrupt change in circumstance, but she had no strength left to absorb her mother’s stricken regrets. Her certainty that Mr. Ridley would come up to scratch and rescue her from scandal had come to nothing, and she was hollow with disappointment.

The handle clicked, and a familiar red-blonde head peeked around the edge of the door. “I really would rather come in.”

“Sophia!” Lily sat up with a gasp, the tears rushing at last. She burst into sobs at the sight of her best friend.

Her cousin hurried to her side, perching on the edge of the bed and drawing Lily into a warm embrace. The scent of rosewater clung to Sophia’s muslin sleeve, and the soft rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room besides Lily’s crying.

“Shh, Lily. Everything will work out.”

“You heard?”

“Of course! I would have come sooner, but Miles had colic, and I was up with him and the nurse all night.”