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With a decisive nod, she adjusted the folds of her apron as if preparing for war. “Right, then,” she declared, her voice sharp as a musket crack, “let’s get on wiv it.”

Shifting her gaze to Belinda, Harriet saw not the woman her father had cast aside without a second thought, but one who had seized the opportunity given to her with quiet determination.

Belinda sat with her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, the very image of elegance. Though she was dressed modestly, her natural refinement could not be disguised. She had a way of carrying herself that spoke of someone who had once been accustomed to luxury and had learned, through necessity, to survive without it. The firelight flickered against her dark brown hair, gleaming where it was pinned into a neat coil at the nape of her neck, and her hazel eyes, once dulled by resignation, now held a spark of purpose.

Harriet had given her a way out, but Belinda had taken that path on her own terms. There was no simpering gratitude in her expression, no trace of self-pity. She was a woman who had been wronged, yes, but she would not allow the past to define her. She was forging ahead, stepping boldly into a new life, and Harriet could not help but feel a swell of admiration.

“Well,” Belinda said, tilting her head slightly, her voice smooth and composed. “Are we to sit here all day, or shall we set about putting you to rights?”

It was a simple question, but in it lay the firm resolve of someone who understood the necessity of resilience. Harriet had saved Belinda from ruin, but perhaps, in this moment, it was Belinda who might save her.

Even little Jem, the waiflike girl who had somehow wormed her way into Harriet’s heart with her artless affection, had pulled a chair over, though it was far too large for her slender form. She sat with a resolute set to her face, her mop of unruly hair barely tamed by the simple ribbon with which she had tied it back that morning. Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin, and her gray maid’s uniform only emphasized the fragile delicacy of her frame.

Yet despite her diminutive stature, there was nothing hesitant about her presence. She had the air of someone who had made up her mind and would not be swayed, her hands clenched into small fists atop her lap as if she, too, were bracing for a battle.

Harriet almost smiled. Apparently, her status as an important viscountess was not sufficient to cow her own staff into leaving her to her misery. Evaline had invited them in with her dainty concern, and Harriet’s band of rescues had gathered. Finch with her unshakable stubbornness, Belinda with her quiet strength, and Jem, the smallest of them all, who had chosen to plant herself firmly in solidarity as though she, too, would stand guard against Harriet’s despair.

Harriet stared at them. “I do not require a council of war.”

“Nah, what ye need’s a cuppa tea,” Finch said matter-of-factly, pouring a cup and thrusting it toward her.

“Ye should eat summat, m’lady,” Jem added, her usual meekness replaced by gentle insistence as she nudged the biscuits forward.

“Men are cruel,” Belinda declared, as if that alone would mend everything.

But Harriet’s chest ached because she knew that was not true.

Sebastian was not cruel.

He had never been.

Most of what had gone wrong had been her fault, or at the very least, a consequence of her own choices and the circumstances that had shaped her. Maybe the truth was that she had never deserved him. She had never been strong enough, never been honest enough, never been good enough. He had always been too good for her.

And now, she had lost him forever. The fire popped softly in the grate, and outside the painted room’s tall windows, the December afternoon was already dimming toward dusk, the sky the color of cold ash. No one moved to light the additional candles. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet settling of the coals and the breath of four women who did not know what to say next.

CHAPTER 14

Thin as a lobster I am grown,

Till scarce I by my friends am known;

I fix upon St. Valentine

To reveal this flame of mine.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

* * *

Richard took a seat, his fingers twitching toward his cravat before he loosened it slightly, an old nervous habit Sebastian recognized well. He cleared his throat, casting a sidelong glance at Sophia before exhaling heavily. The fire in the grate shifted with a soft collapse of coals, filling the brief silence.

“Some months ago—” he began, but Sophia lifted a hand, her serene features sharpening with quiet command.

“Lady Slight’s mistakes are her own to reveal,” she said, her voice cool but firm. “We will not discuss the specifics of what prompted her to seek you out.”

Richard pressed his lips together, giving his wife a wry look. “Yes, well. Quite right.” He turned back to Sebastian, squaring his shoulders. “What I can tell you is that Lady Slight approached me, asking for my help. She wished to”, he paused, searching for the right words before settling on, “become a better person.”

Sebastian frowned, arms still crossed over his broad chest, not entirely ready to be convinced.