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“You did what?”

“After visiting the vicar. I asked Hendricks to take me.”

Ambrose felt his stomach sink. He had specifically instructed her not to venture there while the roads were so treacherous. He had also given Hendricks very clear instructions about the cottage, although he supposed that once Marina had made up her mind to go, the poor fellow had stood little chance of persuading her otherwise.

“I saw the glasshouse,” she said quietly. “And the cottage.”

Ambrose looked away.

Damn it.

He had hoped to have the worst of the damage repaired before she ever saw it. He had imagined that, by the time she returned to Crestdale, the windows would be replaced, the shelves restored, and the evidence of what those dreadful people had done would be gone. The glasshouse was another matter, of course. The carpenter had already warned him that the work might take until spring.

But he had thought he would have more time.

“Hendricks told me what happened,” Marina continued. “He said you were the one who found it.”

Ambrose nodded, remembering the sight of the broken windows and overturned pots. The sign, in particular, had filled him with a fury he had not experienced in years.

He could still scarcely believe that anyone would do such a thing.

“I am sorry you had to see it,” he said. “I had hoped to spare you that.”

She did not seem angry, which surprised him. He had rather expected her to demand to know why he had concealed the matter. Instead, she sat beside him with her hands folded in her lap, looking rather sad.

He found that much worse.

“I have already arranged for the repairs,” he continued, feeling an absurd need to reassure her. “The carpenter has begun work on the cottage. The glasshouse will take longer, I am afraid, but he believes it can be restored by spring.”

Marina nodded, although she said nothing.

Ambrose wondered whether she was thinking of all the plants she had lost. He had seen how lovingly she tended them, how carefully she inspected every leaf and stem. Some of the specimens in her glasshouse had clearly been there for years.

“The gardener has taken charge of those plants we managed to salvage,” he added. “He is attempting to revive them. I cannot promise anything, but he seems reasonably hopeful about a few.”

That caught her attention.

“Some of them might survive?”

“I believe so. You may speak to him yourself, if you wish. He can tell you more than I can.”

She looked so relieved that Ambrose felt a fresh stab of anger toward the people responsible. He would have given a great deal to have been able to tell her that everything was safe and waiting for her, just as she had left it.

Unfortunately, there were some things that even his fortune could not replace.

The books, at least, were another matter.

He explained that he had made a list of the volumes destroyed and had already begun trying to obtain new copies. Hendricks had been in London only the other day and had collected two from a bookseller. Ambrose believed they had arrived at the manor, although he had not yet had an opportunity to inspect them.

Marina stared at him.

“You have been replacing my books?”

“As many as I can identify. I cannot promise that every title will be available, but I shall do my best.”

He rather wished she would stop looking at him like that.

It was only a few books, after all. Admittedly, some were rather difficult to obtain, and he had spent a considerable amount of time corresponding with booksellers, but that was hardly worth mentioning.