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Returning to London. She’d not thought much about it until Richard had said he was looking for a house there. She’d waited for a thrill to zip through her. Something like disappointment had settled in her stomach instead. She’d no more wander the rooms Richard had designed, no more look out into the garden he’d planted with her in mind. He belonged in the country with the children and the boats and his woodshop and his brother. He was as comfortable as a king here, and she could not imagine him being so cozy in the loud, crowded streets of London.

She wished she was not so comfortable at Slopevale. She’d walked through morning mist the past two days to work on her contracts in his study. Richard had sat nearby, his silent companionship filling her with a soft sort of joy.

She didn’t want to leave him. And that tilted her world off-center, knocked the air out of her. She could not stay and leave behind Selena and her aunt and uncle. She could not stay and abandon the contracts she translated for her father. Impossible. Besides, men were flighty creatures, even Richard.

Hated her one moment, adored her the next? Unlikely. Or rather, very likely and very likely to end badly when he shifted back toward hate. She’d be left alone again. Best to keep things lighthearted. Nothing too deep, nothing too permanent.

A line of a song floated to her, the words coming haltingly to her lips. “Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever. One foot on land and one on shore, to one thing constant never.”

True. Men were terribly inconstant. Deceivers. And yet she squirmed. The description did not fit Richard. He had never deceived her. Never pretended to like her when he didn’t. His struggle not to like her had been clearly evident the whole time as well. The kiss at Edmund’s funeral. His apologies in the gazebo. And even when he had refused to tell her what had happened between Selena and Martin, he had kept his promise to her cousin. He had told Beatrice that her cousin could provide the answer. He’d remained constant and truthful, even when abrasive. The copy ofQuixote… his study… and what had he said?

I never hated you.

She might be sick. Her stomach roiled. Her head pounded.

“Are you unwell, Miss Bell?” Peterson asked, scratching the back of his neck and then opening his palm to scratch the inside of it.

“I’m afraid so.” Quite queasy. She would return to London after the wedding tomorrow.

The door flew open. “There you are, Beatrice,” Richard hissed. His hair stood straight up, and he heaved each breath as if he’d only just stopped running. He waved her closer when she shot to her feet.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Beatrice said, rounding the table and abandoning her papers. Peterson didn’t seem to care that she was abandoning him. Too busy scratching behind his ears like a dog.

And Richard… He’d come for her. She’d hurt him, and still he’d come.

But standing in the hallway, every muscle stiff, he had not come for reconciliation.

She stepped into the hallway and whispered, “Is something amiss?” She’d missed him last night in her bed. Had wanted nothing more than him curled around her, sprinkling kisses on her nape.

“It’shim,” Richard whispered, leaning close to share the secret. “He’sdisappeared.”

Daniel. “Any chance he’s fleeing the country?”

“He’d never do anything so considerate.”

“What should we do?”

“I think it’s time to tell John.” His gaze flicked down the hall, toward the door that led to his brother’s study. “I was hoping perhaps you might…” He scratched the back of his neck, but the movement had nothing to do with itchiness. “I think I need your help. Evie and John might panic, and I need someone to keep them calm. John is going to be quite,quiteangry with me. Perhaps he’ll reconsider decapitating me if you are there.” He was already moving up the stairs and up another flight of stairs and all the way down the hall.

She followed. “Where are we going?”

“To check on the children. I do not think Daniel would hurt them, but if I can reassure John the children are safe before telling him the news, perhaps he’ll spare me.” He stopped before a door and swung it open. Beatrice ducked, to see under his arm.

“Oh my,” she said at the same time he said, “Bloody hell.”

“Uncle Richard!” Lucy bounced to her feet and ran to him. She grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the middle of the nursery where Daniel sat on a rug, one small boy on either side of him. Daniel wore a nursemaid’s bonnet perched atop his head, an apron tied haphazardly around his waist, and he held the tiniest teacup Beatrice had ever seen in one hand, pinky raised.

He lifted the cup to Beatrice. “You’re just in time for tea.” He mouthed the wordshrew, hiding half his lips from the children with his teacup.

Beatrice walked carefully into the room behind Richard, whose forced and frozen smile seemed more fatal wound. Better than a scowl and a roar. At least this way he would not scare the children.

“Where are Miss Bishop and Miss Pope?” he asked.

Daniel sighed. “Well, you know, I brought them a little bit of tea earlier. They enjoyed it. Must have had something in it to make them awfully tired though. They’re asleep through there.” He nodded toward a door where the children’s beds likely lay.

“You drugged the nursemaids.” Richard did not appear to be asking a question. “John is going to kill you, and I am going to help him.”

“Who am I going to kill?” John asked.