Nora nodded. “Precisely.”
Gwendolyn leaned backward into the soft squabs but kept her gaze hard and trained on Nora. “The very last thing I want in the entire world is to hurt your cousin.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming.” Nora’s voice wavered. She knew she flicked her fingers too close to flames.
“No but. That is the only truth that matters.”
Ada cut across the space between them, laid her hand on Gwendolyn’s where it had settled on her knee. “We do not want you hurt, either. You do not seem to like us—”
“I do.” A clipped answer that would, perhaps, not do much to convince the sisters otherwise.
“But you do not befriend us,” Ada finished. “Not truly.”
“No matter what we try,” Nora said.
Ada’s hand slipped away as she returned fully to her seat. “I suppose we broach the subject to say… if you need help, we are happy to provide it. Help with Jackson or… in any other capacity.”
She knew that well, and the truth of it slammed a hammer into her gut each and every time she thought of it. If they knew, they would gather round her, all the Cavendishes—even the ones she’d looked on with suspicion or treated with coldness—they’d think of her as theirs and do everything to protect her.
She’d tried to speak to Henry several times, to tell him. But she’d always gathered the words back in and pressed them deep into silence before she could lay them before him, hurt him. Better that way. Better to move forward with a blank past than to haul it out into the open—an old trunk, molding and filled with bats—to set before all eyes in the harsh light of day. Better to treat their kindnesses with glares and indifference than to hurt them with her scandalous past.
Lonely.
But better.
“Thank you.” The tone of Gwendolyn’s words lacked the gratitude she felt deep in her bones. She would never take them up on their offer, but she would always,alwaysappreciate it. They cared for Jackson as she did, and she appreciated that, too.
The sisters smiled, nodded, but the carriage ride to the Cavendish townhouse where they dropped her off remained mostly silent, punctuated with too-chipper observations about their shopping expedition.
Gwendolyn alighted and watched the carriage rumble off to take the women to their happy homes and loving husbands.
Something she’d never have.
She pushed back her cloak as she stepped inside. The Cavendish terrace in Mayfair was clean and new. It’s many rooms piled one on top of the other in the narrow space, and the family within its walls tumbled one over the other day in and day out, sunbeams bouncing off the walls. It was an easy place to shake the winter chill from her bones.
It could do nothing for the hot coal in her reticule, though, the way it had swept the past back into her life, as if the old her had suddenly taken up residence once more in her bones.
Gwendolyn’s likeness had been on every front page. Her name on everyone’s lips. She’d become infamous for an unfortunately unforgettable slice of time. She wished time and distance had wiped her from London’s memory, from the ton’s memory. It mostly had. But there were many who still recognized her, forced her to remember, to relive. It always sent violence into her fists. Made her want to strike out, prove to them she’d changed. London held no peace for her.
She needed to return to work as soon as could be, leave England and put her past behind her. The woman the letter was addressed to, after all, no longer existed. Lady Mary Lytemore may as well have sunk beneath the waves of the Thames, her bones blending with the silt and mud, washing ashore for mud larks to make treasure of.
She needed to speak with Lord Eaden. She needed to move. She required a new task. She’d remind Lord Eaden how pressing his current research was and leave. Soon.
“Ah, Miss Gwendolyn.” Mr. Cranston, the butler, wafted down the stairs on swift feet. “Lady Eaden is taking tea in the drawing room should you like to attend her.”
She snapped her gloves free of her fingers and looked at the clock—almost noon. “Thank you, Cranston, but I must speak to Lord Eaden. Is he about?”
“No, but he should return any moment now.”
“Thank you. I’ll wait in his study.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Another trip was just the thing. Soon, she’d be safely away from England and the monsters around every corner. Just as she preferred it. Better to live day by day when you had no true future. But first she’d burn the letter that wanted to drag her back into the past. Yes, a perfect plan.
Her stout steps dragged down the hall. While another trip meant another short span of time safe from the sharp teeth of her past, it also meant the constant temptation of the warm, always-waiting arms of her employer’s nephew. And the heart he kept ever ready in his palm, stretched out to her alone. No matter how much she wanted it, no matter how much he saw his desire for it in his eyes, she could no longer pretend they had a future together. Or even a single day. Or even a midnight, brief and silent and soft.
Were his cousins right? Did she hurt him merely by remaining at his side, refusing to take what he held out so willingly? Did the letter in her reticule threaten him? Everyone she loved? What had he written? The dread knifed through with curiosity almost made her stomp up to the Marquess of Preston’s London home to demand answers. But that home held no good memories for her. Only fear. What if he grabbed her and held her captive?
