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He hovered near the door, his massive frame stiff with restrained fury. When a man was as large as himself, he could not afford to let his emotions overtake him. Losing his temper had consequences. He had spent years perfecting control, knowing that if he so much as shoved another man in anger, the force could send them sprawling.

But blast it, he wanted to pummel Richard.

The pacing. The nervous energy. The guilty fidgeting with his cravat.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

He waited. Waited for one of them to speak. Waited to hear whatever excuse Richard had prepared for his betrayal. But mostly, he waited because if he spoke first, he could not trust himself to do so without his anger boiling over.

Sebastian’s brows lifted in surprise as the countess’s voice, cool and unwavering, cut through the tension in the room.

“My husband has informed me of the misunderstanding that occurred at Hyde Park,” she said, folding her gloves with precise movements before setting them aside. “He has explained to me at great pains that he cannot share the details of his conversations with Lady Slight. And I have informed him that it is time for Lady Slight to forgive herself and that you, Lord Sebastian, are the only one who can help her do so.”

Sebastian stared at her. This was not the quiet, docile gentlewoman he had assumed her to be. There was steel beneath her polished exterior, a formidable strength in her tone that caught him off guard.

Intriguing.

He flicked a glance toward Richard, who looked both miserable and relieved that his wife had taken the lead in the conversation.

Sebastian’s temper, which had been coiled tight as a spring, slowly began to ease. He stepped further into the room, his large frame filling the space. Sophia’s blue gaze remained steady, assessing him with a frankness that left no room for pretense. “Sit.”

He arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You need to hear the truth,” she said, unruffled by his towering presence. “And you need to decide if you are a real man, one who can take the good with the bad when it comes to the woman you love. Because people are not perfect, Lord Sebastian, and it takes strength to accept both their virtues and their failings.”

Sebastian hesitated, then slowly sank into the nearest chair. The leather creaked beneath his weight, the fire beside him casting warmth he did not yet feel.

For the first time in hours, he was willing to listen. He was relieved, if he were honest, that someone had appeared to take control of the situation that had been spiraling since he had found the painting hanging in Harriet’s bedchamber. The countess made both him and, apparently, her husband feel like poorly behaved children with her firm tone, but if it calmed the terrible tempest running through him, he was all ears.

* * *

Harriet curled deeper into the corner of her settee, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold the broken pieces of her heart together. She should have known better. She had played a dangerous game, and now she had lost. Worse, she had lost him.

She had been granted a second chance at happiness, and had wrecked it as thoroughly as she had that final day together when they had celebrated St. Valentine’s. She was a bad person to the core, doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness because of her terrible nature. Perhaps it was in her blood, Bertram Hargreaves’ ultimate revenge for trying to escape his influence to become a better person.

The quiet crackle of the fire was soon drowned out by the sound of determined footsteps. She barely had time to swipe at her damp cheeks before the door to the painted room swung open.

Evaline entered first, a determined set to her mouth. Behind her, Finch carried a heavily laden tray, Jem trailing behind with a second. And Belinda, who should have known better than to fuss over her, shut the door firmly behind them, sealing her fate.

Harriet sighed. “I am fine.”

No one responded. Instead, Finch set down the tray with an air of finality, the delicate china clinking softly. Jem hurried forward, arranging plates of refreshment and bowls of sugar lumps beside the steaming pot of tea. The young maid might not have perfected the etiquette of an upper-class household, but she had certainly learned her way around a tea tray.

A plate of biscuits sat in the center of the table, arranged neatly beside a dish of preserved cherries and a small bowl of clotted cream. The little York biscuits were delicate, round confections, golden brown, and lightly dusted with fine sugar. Harriet had always relished their crisp exterior, which gave way to a buttery, crumbly center, the richness melting on the tongue with just a hint of lemon zest and nutmeg. Today, Harriet doubted even the most perfect pastry could soothe the gnawing ache in her chest.

Evaline, Finch, and Belinda exchanged a look of silent conspiracy. Then, as though they were a single organism, they pulled chairs closer and sat.

Evaline sat poised on the edge of her chair, the very picture of refined delicacy. She was draped in a soft wool gown of dove gray, its high waistline accentuated by a narrow band of embroidery, and the pale blue ribbons of her sleeves trailed as she idly toyed with the fabric of her skirts. Her fine-boned hands smoothed over the folds with an absent grace, as if she were composing herself.

Her golden curls, always so artfully arranged, framed her face like the delicate filigree of a porcelain doll, and her pale blue eyes, so wide and guileless, were filled with something Harriet suspected was guilt. When Harriet shot her an accusatory stare, Evaline threw her a small, helpless smile, followed by a look of apology that was entirely too innocent to be genuine.

“I thought you needed reinforcements,” she admitted, her voice as gentle as falling snow. “To aid you against your own decline.”

Harriet exhaled sharply, glancing at the assembled women. Finch, Jem, and Belinda, all sitting together like a united front. It seemed her stubbornness had been outmatched.

Mrs. Finch sat with the air of a battle-tested general surveying the field, her generous figure unyielding as if she had been carved from the same stone used to fortify castles. She was a woman built for endurance, her ample frame wrapped in serviceable brown wool, the severe lines of her bodice accentuating the breadth of her shoulders. If Napoleon himself had stormed the sitting room, she would have met him head-on with nothing more than a sharp glare and an ironclad sense of duty.

Her face, weathered by years of managing unruly taverns and unrulier patrons, was set in the stubborn lines of a woman who had never once lost an argument and did not intend to. Her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line, though her dark eyes, shrewd and knowing, carried a glint of something softer. Not sympathy, for Mrs. Finch had no patience for self-pity, but an unspoken understanding. She had seen the wreckage men left behind, and she was not about to let Harriet sink beneath it.