was sorry, only to find her married to another. Emotion twisted through Christopher’s gut. Pity for Deborah. And for him. A lifetime of pain.
Whatever had happened to his blithe proposal of each discreetly following their own heart?
“You are thinking she might love this man,” Lucy blurted. “She doesn’t.”
Christopher tried to smile. “I thank you for saying so, but with respect, you cannot know that.”
Lucy waved one dismissive hand. “Of course, I can. She is my sister. I don’t say she never knew him or never liked him, because she never mentioned him in my hearing. But she does not love him. Ever since she met you, she has loved you. It was clear in her face from the moment she first spoke of you, and it was there in what she said and didn’t say. I know from her words to me about Sir Edmund that she understood love as I did not. And I know she got that understanding from you. I see it in her eyes whenever she looks at you, in her voice when she speaks to you or even about you. Why are men so blind?”
Total silence echoed around the parlor. Everyone stared at Lucy in surprise, no one more so than Christopher.
Lucy smiled wryly. “You think because I am selfish and petulant that I am unobservant?”
“No,” Christopher said. “I think you are like Deborah. There is a great deal more to you than meets the eye.”
“All appearances to the contrary, I want happiness for her. None of this was her fault, from the trouble in London to my broken engagement. It is Deborah who always looks after us. Perhaps it is time I returned the favor.”
Christopher reached for his glass and paused. It is Deborah who always looks after us… Could she somehow be trying to look after him? If Lucy was correct—and God, how he wanted her to be correct in this—Deborah loved only him, and this Crosse fellow was some other trouble from her past.
How many troubles did she have? Was this not most likely to be connected to the scandal? Could Crosse be something to do with the princess? With Barden? Or the other ladies who had been with her that night?
He raised the glass to his lips and drank the rest of it down before glancing at the children. “Did you like this man? Crosse?”
“We never spoke to him,” Giles admitted. “But…”
“No,” Lizzie and Stephen said together.
“No,” Giles agreed. “He was cold and smug, and he made Deborah…as we saw her.”
“His eyes were dead,” Lizzie said.
Christopher’s breath caught. He set down his glass and rose. “I’m glad I came, but I think I need to go home now. Thank you,” he added, encompassing all of them. “You will let me know of anything you might notice?”
“Don’t worry,” Giles said. “We’re keeping an eye on him.”
“Giles!” Their mother frowned.
“Well, we have clearly helped,” Giles argued.
“You have,” Christopher said, “and I’m grateful. But don’t get too close to this man, at least until I see him.”
“Are you going there now?” Giles asked eagerly, as though meaning to accompany him.
Christopher hesitated, torn between competing needs to confront the man who might be threatening his wife and to be with Deborah to protect and reassure her.
“It’s too late to go calling on people, now,” Mrs. Shelby stated.
And Deborah had already been alone in her chamber for the better part of two hours. “I need to go back and speak to Deborah,” he said firmly. “Your Mr. Crosse will keep until morning.”
“Make her speak,” Lucy said unexpectedly, rising to walk with him to the door. “Don’t let her fob you off or change the subject. She is good at that.”
“I rather think she is.” Christopher bowed to Mrs. Shelby and left the parlor.
Lucy accompanied him to the front door.
He glanced at her. “You know, Letchworth is not the only chance you will ever have. You are, in many ways, quite a catch.”
“Neither of us was honest, even to ourselves.”
“Perhaps you should start again. And see if there is something you like. You might be surprised.” He held out his hand, and she gave him hers. “Thank you, Lucy. Good night.”
He retrieved Nightshade from the garden fence to which he was somewhat insecurely tethered and rode back through the quiet village for home.
It was dark now, and there was little moonlight, so as he reached the outskirts, he urged Nightshade off the road, into the lee of the last cottage, while he fumbled in darkness to light