Cami swallowed and mustered a smile. “There are many kinds of courage, Felicity.”
Felicity went first to her own room in search of a small valise, something a woman could manage on her own. Alone in the quiet attic, Cami withdrew the length of red ribbon from the drawer of her worktable and secreted it in her writing desk, spooling it alongside the sheaf of ink-stained paper.
So, this was the end of their story. Without even a proper good-bye, just a kiss that should never have been.
There were worse fates for a would-be heroine, of course. She had always known that.
Firmly, she closed the lid of her writing desk and snapped shut the latch.
* * * *
Though it was midmorning, Gabriel approached Trenton House with the same sense of nervous dread as a man keeping a dawn appointment. But marriage to Felicity was his last chance to better his odds. He knew the cards his opponent held.
When he reached the steps, he trotted up them. His choices were too few to allow him the luxury of hesitation. Still, as he waited to be admitted, questions lingered in his mind. Would his uncle’s charge of treason find purchase among the men whose good opinion Gabriel had never cared to court? Could Adele somehow be saved, or must she join the lengthy tally of lives he had ruined?
And why, why had he tortured himself with the taste of Camellia’s lips?
Gall, wormwood—those were his portion. Everything bitter. Nothing sweet.
He had to knock twice before the door was opened, and even then the butler ushered him in with an air of distraction. “I’m sorry, my lord. I do not think the family is at home today.”
Not at home? Patently an untruth, of the sort butlers all over town were no doubt being asked to utter this fine day. Gabriel’s reputation had largely spared him from having to communicate, or rather not communicate, with those in good society. Now, however, he would have to learn how to tell such pointless, polite little lies. He cleared his throat and removed his hat. “Mr.…Wafford, is it not? Please do me the very great favor of telling Lady Felicity that I have something to say which I believe she—or at least, her family—will be eager to hear.”
“I—” Denial swelled the man’s chest, but it could not quite push out his doubt. Even—no, especially—the servants must know of the expected proposal of marriage. The butler teetered visibly on the brink of indecision: follow orders to deny all visitors, or follow orders to encourage Lord Ash? With a crisp bow, he decided on the latter course. “Very good, my lord. Will you come up?”
They passed the drawing room, where Gabriel had first met Lord Trenton’s unfortunate sister. He had not anticipated an introduction to her cousin as well. But then, who could? The door was open, and he paused to allow his eyes to wander about the empty room. There Camellia had stumbled. There, for the first time, he had touched her. And there she had sat and scorched him with those brilliant eyes and that wicked, wicked tongue.
Wafford cleared his throat, rousing Gabriel from his reverie. “Lady Merrick and Lady Felicity are in the breakfast room, my lord.”
Gabriel turned sharply on one heel and followed.
Felicity and her mother could be heard talking—perhaps arguing would be the better word—through the closed door. With a resigned expression, Wafford tapped a warning, opened the door for Gabriel, and announced him. The breakfast table was littered with the morning post, newspaper, and dirty dishes. The smell of eggs and kippers still hung on the air. When he entered, Felicity rose and curtsied. “Lord Ash. I was not expecting you this morning.”
Lady Merrick shot him a scathing look. “Well, I was. After last night, I trust you’re here to propose to Felicity at last.” At those words, embarrassment flared in her daughter’s eyes, but the countess either did not see it or did not care. Gabriel made no attempt to reply. Did they know what had happened between him and Camellia?
“Your attentions have given the impression that you intend to marry my daughter,” the countess continued. “But after your uncle gave her the cut direct last night, I’m sure every tongue in Mayfair is wagging.” Fury stiffened Gabriel’s spine, though he kept his face impassive. Trust Uncle Finch to find a way to make things worse. “If you do not come up to snuff soon, her reputation will be ruined. We will be ruined.”
“If we are, Mama,” Felicity said, her words considerably more measured than her mother’s, “it will have been my brother’s doing, not Lord Ash’s.”
“All Stephen did can be undone with his offer,” Lady Merrick countered, with a jerk of her chin in Gabriel’s direction. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said with a hard look for him as she marched from the room.
“Please forgive her, my lord,” Felicity said when she had gone. “My mother is not feeling well. Coffee?” The offer caught him off guard, but surely he could afford to observe the pleasantries, to delay the inevitable for a moment more. The servants had also disappeared, so at his nod, she poured him a cup from the urn on the sideboard, then gestured him to a chair. “We’ve had a bit of…excitement this morning,” she explained as she resumed her seat. Though the coffee was just this side of tepid, he drank without complaint. “My cousin received an urgent missive asking her to come home.” Felicity gestured to a letter half buried by the sheets of newsprint littering the table. “She left this morning.”
“Oh?” He aimed for indifference to the news but knew he shot wide of the mark. Camellia was returning to Ireland? He had no right to feel disappointment—to feel anything. Her situation in her uncle’s household was far from ideal. And last night, she had spoken true, truer than even she
