“Lydia!” Mrs. Boyd thumped her cane on the floor. “How dare you suggest this is in any way related to your folly? Lady Montague’s school is new, but it will certainly provide Jane with a place that is both highly instructive and properly supervised.”
Lydia stared at her. Mrs. Boyd’s mouth clamped shut as she appeared to realize what she’d said. Lydia trembled with a flare of outrage.
“No.” Her fists clenched, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears.
“Lydia—”
“No. I won’t let you do this. I will not let you take Jane from me!”
Lydia crossed the room and slammed the door behind her. She drew in a long breath, her fingers tightening on her skirt, her blood racing through her veins.
The clock in the foyer ticked. Shadows swept across the stairs, reflected in the mirror, an ominous blend of dark and light.
Anger and hurt churned through Lydia, dredging up remnants of shame. She yanked open the front door. Once outside, she walked faster and faster until she was running, the night air stinging her face. She ran until her lungs ached, and then she slowed, gasping, pulling her arms around her body to hold in the hurt and block out the cold.
She sank onto the steps of a darkened town house, fighting to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.
Memories surfaced, but she ruthlessly shoved the images away, not wanting to see her mother’s emaciated frame, her father’s sallow, despairing expression, her grandmother’s fury.
Not wanting to see a pair of cold green eyes that could still cut her like glass.
She shuddered. The chill spread to the center of her heart.
After what seemed a very long time, she lifted her head from her knees. A layer of fog coated the sky, suffocating the moon and the light of the stars.
She rose and walked to Dorset Street. Several black cabriolets waited at a stand for hire.
A driver looked at her with mild curiosity before giving a short nod at her request. He ushered her into the cab and slammed the door shut.
Lydia closed her eyes as the cab began moving toward Oxford Street.
If p is a prime number, then for any integer a, ap − a will be evenly divisible by p.
The derivative of uv equals u derivative v plus derivative u times v.
“Twelve Mount Street, miss.”
Lydia opened her eyes. Light glowed in several windows of the brick town house. She was foolish to come here again. She knew that, and yet she asked the driver to wait, then approached the door and rang. No response. Her heart clenched. She rang again.
The door opened to reveal a straight-backed footman. “Yes?”
“Lord Northwood, please. I am Lydia Kellaway.”
“One moment.” He stepped aside to allow her to enter, then disappeared soundlessly up the stairs.
After a moment, a square of light appeared from the upper floor, and Lord Northwood strode toward her, each step so certain he appeared to be securing the ground beneath his feet. His lack of hesitation, the strength that radiated from him, made Lydia ache with the wish to possess such assurance.
“Miss Kellaway?” He frowned, glancing through the half-open door at the cab. “Are you all right?”
“I… I don’t have any—”
“Come inside. I’ll take care of it.” He gestured to the footman to pay the cab fee before turning back to Lydia. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come…” Lydia took a breath and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I’ve come to settle my debt.”
Did she feel the same?
She didn’t look the same. She was older, of course, the edges of her face harder, the curiosity, the anticipation extinguished from her eyes, from her movements. Replaced with tight composure.
Only once since Joseph had returned to London did he notice her falter—just after her father’s funeral when she’d been standing outside the church with the girl, who’d turned to wrap her arms around Lydia’s waist and sob.
Then Lydia had visibly struggled with her own tears. A crack in her self-possession.
Before the girl had pulled away from her, a mask of calm, of reassurance, had descended over Lydia’s face.
The girl. Jane. A plain name, though she was pretty enough. She was intelligent, too, if her letters were anything to judge by. However, he required more time to probe the actual depths of her mind.
“Sir? We’re here.” The cabdriver was peering at him.
He nodded, then flicked his hand to indicate the driver should return to his seat. “Back to Bethnal Green.”