“Should have expected that,” Jackson said. “Go in guns blazing? Like a story from the American wilds?”
“I suppose we’ll have to.”
The door opened again, and the butler bowed them inside. “You are welcome here. This way.”
“No guns, then,” Jackson murmured, almost sounding disappointed.
Gwendolyn’s heart became a hammer in her chest as they stepped inside. She wiped her palms on her skirts.Brave. Be brave. She was cornering her monster in its den, and she would win. She had to.
“It seems too easy, Jackson,” she whispered. “For him to have just let us right inside.”
Jackson’s breath tickled her ear as they followed the straight-backed butler down a short hallway. “Everything appears quite normal. I’d be surprised to find a torture chamber here.”
He’d likely be surprised to find that the most acute tortures took place in broad daylight, in the most fashionable of places, behind hissing fans and cold palms.
The butler opened a door, and two people stood as Jackson and Gwendolyn walked in.
The man, in dull, scuffed hessians and a brown jacket, strode forward. His black hair was a tad too long, but his eyes… they brimmed over with kindness. Except for that detail, he looked terribly like Daniel.
Yet he was not the old marquess.
He bowed. “Lady Mary. I recognize you from the trial.”
She curtsied. “And this is my betrothed, Mr. Cavendish. I am sorry, but I do not recognize you. I am looking for the Marquess of Preston.”
The marquess shot his hand through his hair. “I’m the Marquess of Preston. Have been for four years now.”
Four years. The old marquess had died four years ago, and this one was his son, her husband’s brother. Unexpected, that. A shock she did not know what to do with.
“This is my wife, the marchioness.” Preston held out a hand to the only other person in the room—a woman with yellow hair and a kind smile.
She strode forward and reached for Gwendolyn, holding her hands out palms up.
Unsure if it was the right thing to do, Gwendolyn took her hands, and when the woman closed her fingers around them with a smile, she knew she’d chosen right.
“Please do call me Evelina. A tad unusual and informal, but we could have been family.”
Jackson pulled Gwendolyn closer to his side, as if he feared the mere suggestion would make it true.
“I do not mind informality,” Gwendolyn said. “In fact, I would prefer being called Gwendolyn. It is my middle name, but it is what I have called myself for the last several years. I… I must admit I’m a bit shocked. I had not expected such a friendly greeting. I had expected to see your father here. I received a letter…” She sat on the sofa Evelina indicated, Jackson sitting beside her.
The man and woman who took seats on the sofa across from them, holding hands and sharing speaking glances, were so far from the villain she’d imagined, she felt almost numb.
Evelina’s brows drew together, a faint frown pointed at her husband. “What did you tell her in your letter, John, to scare her so much?”
“I don’t remember exactly, just that she should come. I’ve been rather nervous about this meeting. I thought my letter would have explained everything, but the note you sent back, Lady Ma—excuse me—Gwendolyn, suggested I’d upset you mightily.”
“What did you write to him, Gweny?” Jackson asked low near her ear.
“Oh. A few very carefully chosen words.”
“She told me to go to hell,” the marquess said.
“Ah.” Jackson chuckled. “Sounds like her.”
“I thought your father had written the letter. It was him I wished to hell.” She winced, glanced at the marquess. “Apologies, but—”
“None necessary, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly where the old reprobate is.”
