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Annulment was not an option. Cranbrook had exploded at Anthony, accused him of conspiracy and adultery, threatened to storm Weston Hall and retrieve his property by force.

She’d been trying not to think of it. Trying and mostly succeeding, because . . . a literary career was an option. Or at least, Mr. De’Ath seemed to think so. He’d taken her manuscript and sent a note the very next evening inviting her to meet him and an interested party in Regent’s Park on Saturday afternoon. She’d rather think about that, her sensational second life as a woman of letters.

When Saturday came around, she hesitated only briefly over her decision. Anthony might have tried to forbid the venture. His encounter with Cranbrook had left him tight-jawed and furious, and inclined to think her some kind of Helen, and Weston Hall some kind of Troy under siege. But, as luck would have it, he’d left the house early. Off to mastermind some act of Parliament with a bunch of rowdies from the House of Commons. The hotheaded, irreverent boy Lavinia remembered now seemed to relish statecraft. And, to her shock, by all accounts, he was proving an effective statesman.

Everyone trusted the lord without drawers.

Lucy, who’d spent the morning pacing the halls in an absolute snit about the latest disparaging review racked up by her friend Gwen Burgess, took no convincing at all. She stomped after Lavinia and hurled herself into the carriage.

Traffic crawled all the way to the park. As soon as they’d creeped to a stop at the southern end, Lavinia threw open the door, bolting past the startled footman. By the water-lily house, she forced herself to pause so Lucy could catch up. They were late. She prayed to God they weren’t too late.

In a few strides, she outstripped Lucy again. She reached the conservatory and surveyed the circular garden, rings within rings. Couples strolled among the roses. A child wailed in his nurse’s arms.

“Miss Laliberté.”

Hallelujah. She turned.

Alan De’Ath sat on a bench in the shade of a mulberry tree. As she approached, he rose, snapping shut a small book.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked. Stupid question. Her eyes fell to the book in his hand. He’d been waiting long enough to begin reading . . . She squinted. Something in Greek. She felt her spirits sink. Greek was worse than Latin. What must a man of his learning think of her novel?

“The minutes flew by.” He dropped the book into a pocket and removed his spectacles, rubbing the lenses on his sleeve. Somehow, his gaze seemed sharper without them.

“By contrast, each minute in the carriage dragged for eternity.” She gave a bright smile. “We went scarcely one mile, but it felt like a trip to China.”

Her smile faltered. China. What an unfortunate figure of speech. She was nervous enough without reminding herself how inadequate she was to the flora, fauna, and language of China.

“Well.” She tried to recover, as Lucy finally reached them. “We’re here now!”

“Tout à fait.” There was only a hint of mockery in his voice.

At Weston Hall, he’d spoken with her exclusively in French until Lucy had broken in, scowling over her teacup. She’s not from France. It’s a pen name.

To which Mr. De’Ath had responded, with faux surprise: Ah, un nom de plume. But, Miss Laliberté, my compliments on your accent.

Her accent was decent.

His was downright Napoleonic.

Several times, as he and Lucy discussed art matters, she’d caught herself staring at him. He was so different from Neal, she could scarcely believe in their fabled friendship. He looked ten years older at least, bespectacled and bewhiskered, dressed in a plum-colored jacket and checked pantaloons. A wizened intellectual from some earlier decade.

Now that she saw him standing in the full light of day, she revised her opinion. Wizened did not apply. Formal, yes. Even priggish. Everything he wore was crisp and fine and stridently old-fashioned.

But he stood over six feet tall, equipped with shoulders broad enough to jam in doorways.

Scholarly pursuits didn’t work such miracles on a man’s physique. Was it all the swimming?

“I enjoyed your novel,” he said. “A fine example of the genre. Transporting, actually. All those images of the West Country and the billowing Celtic Sea.” His smile became brilliant. “It made me think I should take up an old friend of mine on his invitation to visit him in Cornwall.”

More color must be flooding her cheeks. At the praise. At the mention of the old friend in Cornwall. She had a connection to Neal in Alan De’Ath. She could tell him—right now—that she knew the friend he spoke of. But to what purpose?

Someday—next year or the year after or the year after that—she might surrender to impulse and go to the Varnham Nurseries in London, or even the Varnham Nurseries in Truro, try to surprise Neal at work, beg a walk, an hour of conversation, for friendship’s sake. He wouldn’t refuse. He was so bloody decent. He’d have bright-haired children by then, and a house filled with dinosaur bones and lilies, and Muriel, like Lucy, would be kind to her if she came barging in, far kinder than Lavinia herself would be if the situation were reversed. Enough time would have passed that it wouldn’t hurt, looking on from the outside, standing beyond that warm circle of regard, of love.

Lie. It would hurt like hot knives. She would have to fight the impulse with every fiber of her being. Now, with Mr. De’Ath, and later. She would have to stay vigilant.

“Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse. The English grated in her throat far more than the French. “And thank you for trying to help me publish it.”

“I do have a syndicator in mind.” Mr. De’Ath brushed at one of his snow-white cuffs and the gold cuff link glittered.