He didn’t turn from the view. “You lied to me, Abra. I’m very disappointed in you.”
His words broke Geneva’s heart. “It wasn’t her, my lord. The fault lies entirely with me.”
Abra gasped. “No! It’s not true.”
Geneva squeezed her hand and spoke over her. “Itistrue, Lord Westbridge. I found a letter from my mother addressed to the late Lord Pender. I was determined to confront him. I asked—begged—Abra to accompany me. But when we arrived, we learned… we learned he’d expired,” she finished on a cracked whisper as more tears welled. She blinked them back.
He turned then, peering down his hawkish nose, his gaze moving Geneva to Abra and back. “I see.” He let out a pained sigh, and Geneva knew grief from the depths of her soul.
“After the service, we shall be returning to London and you shall be returning with your mother and me, Abra.”
This was worse than losing Mama.
“But, Papa…” Abra whispered. “I couldn’t possibly allow Geneva—”
All the sternness Geneva imagined him leveling on his opponents in Parliament or any who dared treat Abra less than was her due showed in his face—brackets about his mouth, the creases in his forehead, the set of his shoulders. “That is all. And I’ll hear no further say on the matter.” He then turned that fierceness on Geneva. His countenance gentled. “I’m very sorry, my dear. But these are the consequences. I shall provide your fare back to London. As long as there is no more scandal, of course.”
Abra opened her mouth, but he put out a palm, staying any refute.
“Your mother is determined you marry Martindale, but you wish to marry Ruskin. Am I right on this?”
“Yes, Papa.” Her tone was barely audible.
“Ruskin has approached me, Abra. If you were to back out, I will have no other choice than to accept Martindale’s suit for you. Ruskin has yet to ask you for your hand, correct?”
She nodded, silent this time.
“Good. Then you see the predicament we face, my dear.”
Tears rolled down Abra’s cheeks with another, short, nod. Geneva squeezed her hand again, her own vision re-blurring.
Lord Westbridge abhorred making Abra cry, Geneva knew. He turned back to the windows. “That is all, then. You are excused.”
As so often, as one, they fled.
Once they’d reached their suite, Geneva shoved her tears aside. “I found a small chamber.”
“Absolutely not. I mean it, Geneva. I won’t hear of it.”
“But—”
The tracks of Abra’s tears had dried on her cheeks, but her fierceness matched her father’s. “I’ll not allow my stepmother to chase you out. You’re staying and that’s that.”
“All right,” she agreed, thinking of that shrew being able to walk in at will. “I’ll stay.” With Geneva about, Lady Westbridge would think twice of raising her hand against Abra.
Another thread rippled through Geneva. Finding those empty chambers had flooded her with ideas and renewed enthusiasm for locating her locket.
And also because Abra had made an excellent point—whyshouldMr. Oshea wish to help her? He didn’t even know her.
“I’m still going to tell Papa,” Abra promised softly.
Geneva hugged her. “Remember this, darling. If Ruskin doesn’t come through, you’ll always have No. 26 Berwick Street at your disposal.”
A short burst of unified tearful laughs spilled through the chamber.
Chapter Fourteen
The ballroom hadn’tbeen utilized for anything outside of Isabelle’s pianoforte playing since the Middle Ages. And, while Aunt Verda had modernized the huge room by replacing the flooring and adding more lighting, Noah couldn’t help feeling it would have been warmer with old-fashioned rushes tossed about. There were tables strewn around for seating, and long tables at one end were laden with lamb, pheasant, beef, and a wide variety of vegetables and fruit. Even single servings of custard were displayed on a smaller table for the taking.
