Felicity curled up beneath the counterpane and peered through the dim light provided by the flickering flames in the hearth that grew steadily weaker with each passing moment. The room would begin to chill soon, but she supposed it didn’t much matter.
Ian would feed the fire before he retired for the evening. He always did. Only so her toes wouldn’t grow too cold for comfort.
She had rather a lot of thinking to do. Rather a lot of odd, displaced emotions shaking about in her chest like too many birds stuffed into too small a cage, fighting to get out. Anger, she thought, was the largest of them. The one that wanted to punch and scream, to rail against the cruelness of the world, the injustice. To be surly and cross, to wallow in the unhappiness it wore like an extravagant evening gown; all glittering spite and sparklingmalice.
She’d done that for ten years already and it had ceased to serve her. In fact, it had only kept her rooted to the past, immobile, incapable of moving forward. She had been entitled to that anger, had earned it. And Ian—Ian had let her have it, let her wallow in it. With every action, he had affirmed her right to it. Acknowledged it. Accepted it. Even at her most furious, her most hostile and aggressive and volatile, he’d never suggested through word or deed that she wasn’t perfectly justified in it.
He’d let her lash out at him, had collected every bit of her vitriol, every ounce of her hatred, and just…held it for her. Owned it. She hadn’t realized how cleansing it had become, how freeing to have it siphoned off a bit at a time. To have other hands hold it for her, so it did not sit so heavily within her chest. Ian’s hands, singeing themselves on the heat of those smoldering coals, so that they burned her heart a little less.
In the dying light of the fire, a rogue glint—from an object half-buried beneath a handkerchief she had discarded upon the nightstand, and dangerously close to the very edge—caught her eye. The ring she’d forgotten; the one Ian had given her on the occasion of their wedding. She’d hardly spared it a moment’s thought since, and yet…and yet she suspected Ian had thought of it a great deal. Perhaps not only over the last few weeks. Perhaps for the last several years.
In retrospect, it occurred to her that she’d scarcely even glanced at it when it had, however briefly, adorned her finger. The only true impression it had made upon her was to have been unexpectedly underwhelming, and that only because of the incongruity of the rather plain band when contrasted with the opulence apparent in all other facets of Ian’s life. She simply hadn’t thought it of any particular significance. But now—
Curiosity won out. Felicity shuffled across the empty expanse of the bed, slid one arm out from beneath the tangle she’d made of the covers, and reached through the darkness for the glint of the ring on the nightstand. Cold gold fell into the clasp of her fingers, and she held it up before her eyes.
Four gems. Four tiny gems set into the band in a single line, and they looked…odd. Mismatched, of differing colors. An unusual ring to say the least, but then if Ian were to be believed, they weren’t of any particularly high quality. Probably the value of the gold, even thin as it was, eclipsed the value of the gems. It was impossible to tell, in such dim lighting, what sort of gems they might be.
Ah, well. Perhaps Charity would know. She’d received enough gifts ofjewels over the course of her career to have acquired a creditable acumen for identifying them. With a sigh, Felicity reached out to set the ring back upon the nightstand—careful, this time, to place it well away from the edge upon which it had teetered these last weeks.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Graves’ office isn’t far,” Ian said as Felicity settled onto the carriage seat across from him. “And I don’t expect this meeting to be one of any particular length. In all likelihood, we’ll have you back to the school in no more than an hour at most.”
He had meant the words to be reassuring, but she only gave a faint grimace. An aura of pathos hung about her, and in her dour black gown and worn grey coat, she looked remarkably like a martyr on her way to meet an inevitable and gruesome fate. At least her hair had not been pinned back quite so severely as she had been wont to do.
Her hands settled in her lap, fingers fluttering in fidgety nervousness. “Could he not come to you, instead?” she asked, though her gaze flitted toward the window of the carriage.
“He often does. But I’ve kept him rather busy just lately with a good number of business matters. He’s got at least three meetings that I know of today. Mr. Jennings is one—you recall him from the theatre?”
“His daughter better than him,” she said, and a fraction of the tension slipped from her shoulders. “Louisa. I rather liked her.”
“She liked you as well,” he said. “She paid a call earlier today, but of course you were not home to receive her. She said she was very grateful for what you have done for her cousin Dorothea.”
“Dorothea?” Her brows lifted. “But I did nothing much.”
“Louisa seems to feel that your interference on behalf of her cousin saved the girl from making a terrible mistake which might have ruined her. She invited you to attend the theatre with her again, if that would be of interest to you. Since you missed much of the performance the last time.”
Felicity pulled a face. “Will you and Mr. Jennings talk through the entirety of the performance once again?”
“As a matter of fact, I was not invited. It would appear that Louisa also finds discussion of business at the theatre in poor taste.” Ian managed a wry smile. “But Jenningsisfamously long-winded. Time being of the essence, Idecided it would be best not to take the risk that he’d talk straight through however much of it Graves has got going spare today. As it is, he’ll most likely be working well into the night, and still more over the next few days besides.”
A tiny wince. “I’m sorry to have caused trouble for him.”
“You’ve caused no trouble. Graves is paid an admirable wage for his efforts.” He lifted his hand to knock upon the roof of the carriage to signal the coachman to depart, and hesitated. “You don’t have to come,” he said. “I’ll keep you apprised of what is discussed. But if you would rather—”
“I would rather know now,” she blurted out, and her fingers flexed, jerking from where she’d placed them in her lap. “I would rather know now than to wonder for hours.” She drew in a long breath, held it deep in her lungs. One hand braced beside her on the seat. The other slipped surreptitiously into the pocket of her coat, fisting upon something within. “The girls are at their dancing lessons for the next two hours. So I have got the time,” she said, and sounded marginally calmer.
All right, then. It was her decision. Ian rapped upon the roof of the carriage, and as it lurched into motion, he inquired, “Dancing lessons?”
“At the assembly hall,” she said. “There isn’t a room large enough at the school to accommodate it, unless we wished to move the dining room furniture each time. Every young lady whose family intends to give her a Season has got to learn to dance. It’s simply a part of their education.” Still her hand was clenched in her pocket, and he wondered…
For the first time, he’d noticed her ring missing from its usual position, perched rather precariously upon the nightstand. At first he’d thought it had fallen off, but he’d scoured the floor and hadn’t found it. Was it even now in her pocket? Notworn, perhaps, but held close nonetheless?
He said, “You didn’t have a Season.”
“I didn’t have a family,” she replied. “Not enough of one, at least. Nor one of any social standing, or titled, or even well-heeled enough to buy my way into society.”
“But you learned to dance.” In preparation for a life she had not expected to lead, for London Seasons that would come and go while she remained in Brighton.
