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Mrs. Hart’s mouth thinned. “I brought him over hoping you would go to him,” she said. “Instead, your daughter went first, and you never seemed to have the courage to follow.”

Mother flattened her lips as if she were holding something dreadful behind them. The carriage rattled on for several breaths in tight silence. Then, very slowly, she exhaled.

“When I first learned I carried you,” she said at last, voice low, “I thought I would never forgive my parents. They forbade the match, and then—when there was no hiding the consequences—they hurried us into marriage and called it mercy. They made me wed Pierre in a little chapel as if it were a penance instead of a joy, and then they dragged me away from him as soon as they decently could. It was…” Her throat worked. “It was just as bad as if he had died. I lost him—and my parents’ trust as well.”

She stared down at her gloved hands, twisting the fingers together.

“They said it was a lesson,” she went on. “That this is what happens when Beaumonts forget who they are and try to mix with men who sell sugar instead of buying it. When you had the mumps as a baby, your grandfather stood at the foot of your cot and told me it was ‘the curse on the child for her mother’s mistakes.’ He said it quite calmly, as if he were discussing the weather.” A brittle smile ghosted across her mouth and vanished. “So I learned. Different classes must not mix. It causes trouble that does not stop with one generation.”

Pepper’s eyes stung. “Then why,” she whispered, “did you never go to find him? When we were in London. When he was only a street away. Why did you not go?”

Mother’s gaze flicked to hers and away, as if the direct question hurt. “Because it stopped being about me,” she said. “I had a daughter. A girl who limped and would already be counted deficient by the ton. If I added baker’s bastard to your ledger, they would never let you forget it. The cycle would go on and on.” She swallowed. “I thought if I groomed you properly, gave you every lesson, every chance, I could at least give you a respectable future. One untainted by my scandal.”

She glanced at Florence, pain and apology tangled together. “And there was my sister. Florence deserved better than to be dragged through the mud with me. We left the scandal in France along with your father, or so I told myself. I thought that was what it meant to be sensible.”

Pepper’s head spun. “I thought I was…stealing him,” she whispered. “From you. Every smile. Every bun. Every time he called me ma fille, I thought I was taking something that wasn’t mine.”

Mother shut her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them again, bright with tears and fury both. “No,” she said hoarsely. “You were taking what I had been too much of a coward to give you.”

Her gaze slid to Mrs. Hart. “And all of this, behind my back.”

“I became your lady’s maid when I was a widow at twenty,” Mrs. Hart said. “I had loved and lost in less than a year. Nobody else, so I thought, would understand your pain. I wanted to build something that might one day ease it. I did not do it to hurt you, my lady. I did it because you were drowning and refused to call for help.”

“You tried to bring my not-quite-respectable husband closer,” Mother said flatly. “Understood.” Her mouth twitched, almost—almost—a humorless smile. “Your intentions were pure. Your methods…” She shook her head, like a woman scolding a dear friend for a dreadful but well-meant recipe.

Silence pooled in the carriage again, broken only by the rhythm of the wheels and Pepper’s uneven breathing. Outside, hedgerows flicked past in a blur of green and gray. Inside, four women sat with years of secrets between them and nowhere to go but forward.

Mother drew herself up, the old Beaumont steel settling over the tremor in her hands. “I will answer for my own mistakes,” she said. “For letting fear of Society weigh more than your right to know your father.” Her gaze snapped back to Pepper, pinning her. “But you will answer one question in return.”

Pepper’s throat closed. “Any,” she whispered.

Mother’s chin lifted a fraction. “Tell me,” she said, each word clear and sharp as glass, “the truth about you and Wyndale.”

The carriage jolted over a rut. Pepper’s stomach dropped with it.

Outside, the pale morning pressed close to the windows.

Inside, four women held their breath.

Chapter 28

At first light, the mews behind the rented house off Marine Parade lay cold and colorless, as if Brighton itself were holding its breath.

Reed already waited by the gate, hat in hand, his breath a thin white ribbon in the air.

“The Beaumont coach,” he said. “It left a few minutes ago.”

Chester’s stomach dropped. He swung up into the saddle, his palm stinging as it closed around the reins. “Which road?”

“Toward London.” Reed hesitated. “You’ll not catch them easily. They’ve a lead.”

Chester didn’t answer. He only drove his heels in.

The stallion surged, hooves pounding like a second heartbeat. Wind tore at Chester’s open coat, slapped his hair into his eyes, flung salt and dust against his teeth. He let it. He only cared about the ribbon of carriage dust on the horizon—about the one thing that refused to come closer fast enough.

Yesterday’s Pavilion still lived behind his eyes—laughter snapping like whips, his mother’s fury, Darley’s grin—and the gossips could keep every rotten second of it. This morning belonged to what he could still catch.

A dark coach rode the horizon. No crest. No courtesy. Only speed. Chester lowered over his horse’s neck and drove on.