His jaw tightened, and he gripped the handles of his satchel until his knuckles glowed white. “What kind of man am I that I cannot keep my sisters safe? What kind of guardian allows foul things to happen to those most important to him?”
He heard her first, softly padding toward him across his bedchamber rug, and then her hand was on him, small and flat against his back, attempting to ease with a single touch the rigid tension of his muscles.
“I have failed them over and over again,” he said, “and I deserve to feel ripped apart, inadequate—”
“No.”
He spun around and grasped her hand, held it tight against his chest, so very near his angry heart. “I will kill the man.”
“No.”
He dropped his chin to his chest. “I am not thinking clearly. But Iwillkill him. Or”—he shook his head, trying to think—“make him marry her. It will come down to what she wants.”
She pulled her hand from his grasp and cradled it against her chest like a wounded bird. “You need not do this alone. You need a clear head for what you are about to do. Look at me.”
His gaze skittered away. He could not look at her sheltering her hand as if his touch had wounded her.
“Look at me.” When he did, she reached out, hesitant fingers just brushing against his chest. “You love your sisters, and that will save them. You carry your mistakes, and that will save you. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He grasped her hand and held her knuckles against his lips, eyes pressed so tightly closed they seemed like prison doors holding back the weary guilty-hearted.
“I will come with you,” she said, allowing the touch, the almost kiss, “and we will face this difficulty together.”
He dropped her hand, eyes open and clear and determined. “Pack a few items. We leave in a quarter hour. If you are not ready, I leave without you.”
She ran, spilling out of his chamber and into the hallway, her footsteps slapping into oblivion as he finished packing.
He couldn’t take her.
But he wouldn’t stop her, either. Probably couldn’t. He knew well her determined spirit; it was so very like his own.
He snapped the satchel closed, threw on his greatcoat, and was in the mews behind the house moments later. The head groomsman was already readying a coach and four, and another groom took his bag and stored it behind the coach.
“There will be another,” Samuel said before pulling himself up into the coach.
“Samuel! Wait!” The coach door flew open, and June appeared, lanky limbed and round-eyed. “You’re not going alone, are you?” She sat next to him.
“You cannot go, Beetle.”
“I know, but I do not like to think of you alone. It’s why we told Lady Emma. Her sisters say they go to her when there is trouble. I hoped she could help, too. You’re not angry, are you?”
“No. Not with you.”
“With Lady Emma? You’ve avoided her forweeksnow.”
“Not with her, either.” He patted her cheek. “Do not worry. I will find your sister.”
June threw herself at him, hugged him tight, her arms lost in the folds of his greatcoat. “You and Lady Emma will take care of one another.”
“We will. And you—do not leave the house, do you understand? Speak to no one but your sisters. Do not speak of it in front of servants.” Who likely already knew.
She nodded against his chest, and he hugged her more tightly.
“Tell no one about Felicity.”
“Never.” She threw herself out of the coach and disappeared.
And a new figure stepped into the empty space of the coach door. Emma, holding her own satchel tight before her, a large bonnet pulled down low over her face. Samuel leanedout, offering a hand, a silent invitation to step with him into madness.
