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Brendan lowered himself onto the chair across from her again, the old leather sighing beneath his weight. He folded his hands between his knees and waited, the silence taut between them like a line of thread stretched to snapping.

“I wish … you had chosen me,” Lily said at last, her voice small and tight. She did not look at him. “All my life, I just wanted someone like you to notice me. To choose to wed me. To …”

She pressed her lips together, swallowing the rest. Then, with a sudden rush, she added, “I cannot even walk the halls of my home without one of the Johns, and now that … viper … has invaded …”

Her eyes filled with tears, and Brendan’s breath caught at the sight. She looked so young just then, so heartachingly burdened for one who should be basking in the glow of a new marriage. He felt the ache in his chest like a bruise being pressed from the inside. She had done so much for him, borne so much. He could not deny that she had every reason to feel wronged.

And that made everything more complicated.

Do I feel genuine affection for Lily or is it simply gratitude?

Certainly, such a truth could not be uncovered in a matter of days. He needed time. He needed to breathe. But if he could have said the right words, if he could have offered her comfort without the burden of false hope, he would have done so gladly.

“I am sorry for everything you have had to deal with,” he offered quietly.

At once, Lily’s features hardened. She looked away. Brendan realized, with a twist of dismay, that he had said the wrong thing. Perhaps she had hoped for different words he did not yet have the certainty to give.

“Sophia has invited me to Saunton Park, so I need not live with my parents,” she said, her voice brittle. “She said I could stay with them at Balfour Terrace until they leave London, so I believe … I shall accept her offer.”

Brendan felt a quiet thud of disappointment. He did not want her to go. But after everything she had endured—Harriet’s intrusion, the ever-present danger, the gossip—it was not his place to protest.

He had asked too much of her already. She deserved sanctuary.

“That would be wise,” he said, his voice even.

A flicker of something—hurt? Or was it disbelief?—passed across Lily’s face. She seemed surprised by his swift agreement. And unhappy. He sensed it, but could not name it. He had no notion what words might reach her now.

When the time was right, when the danger had passed and he had made sense of what was blooming inside him, they could speak again. Perhaps then, he would be worthy of her honesty.

Chapter

Fifteen

“The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fear of disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and to do good service to his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

AUGUST 1, 1821

Michaels directed the maids to pack Lily’s trunks, a sour expression carved deep into his lined face. His mouth was pinched, his eyes full of judgment as he oversaw the proceedings with the sort of officious gloom that now seemed the prevailing atmosphere of Ridley House.

What a blessed relief it would be to quit the place. She longed to escape the constant weight of unease, the need to glance over her shoulder every few minutes, wondering whether Michaels or one of the identically suited Johns would emerge from some dim alcove with hostile intent.

After providing her instructions to the staff, Lily left them to their tasks and descended the main staircase to take breakfast, the toe of her slipper tapping softly on each polished tread. First John followed a pace behind like an echo, his breath audible in the hushed stillness, a heavy-breathing shadow cloaked in ill-fitting livery.

She and Brendan had parted ways the previous night without so much as a proper farewell. After agreeing she would remove to Sophia’s home, Lily had penned a short note to her cousin and then taken her dinner upstairs on a tray. She had eaten alone, her food grown cold from neglect while she sat cross-legged in her nightdress, staring into the fire. Brendan had remained downstairs, and if he had come up at all, it was sometime after she had finally drifted into an uneasy sleep just before dawn. She had stirred once to the muffled creak of Second John pacing outside her chamber door, the sound constant and dull.

It had been a miserable night. Her mind had turned in relentless circles, berating her for allowing herself to fall in love with a man who had been compelled into marriage with her. How foolish she had been—how utterly naïve—to believe she could wage a campaign for his affection without sacrificing her heart in the process.

Entering the breakfast room, Lily halted briefly on the threshold, letting her eyes sweep the space with muted hope. The tall windows were unshuttered, letting in the pale spill of morning light across the polished floor, but Brendan was nowhere to be seen.

A quiet disappointment unfurled inside her. She had wished, absurdly, that he might be here. That perhaps, with the light of day, things might have softened between them. But it seemed that even parting would be conducted at a distance.

She crossed to the table, her slippered feet soundless on the Aubusson carpet. They had not discussed when or where they might reunite, but she supposed it must wait until this wretched murder business was behind them at last.

I am not admitting defeat, she reminded herself, straightening her shoulders as she pulled out her usual chair.

This was merely a retreat. A pause. A chance to plan for the future without fear dogging every step or wicked widows turning up in her home uninvited.