their frantic rush to Hertfordshire and his mother’s death.
Poor Lila had just fallen into her bed for a nap, a tear-stained mess once again, and Jo had stayed with her, reading to her until the young girl’s breathing had finally become rhythmic and even. Sleep—much-needed—had claimed her at last.
And now, as she emerged from Lila’s room, the housekeeper Mrs. Crisply informed her there was an unexpected guest who had been seen into the public salon where they entertained visitors.
“A guest?” Jo repeated, frowning. “We have only just returned to Town.”
Mrs. Crisply shook her head, her displeasure evident. “I do believe the lady in question was asking for the master of the house in particular, Mrs. Decker. I thought to let you know.”
The lady in question? Misgiving filtered through Jo at once.
The housekeeper’s subtle disapproval was not lost upon her. Although Mrs. Crisply had been running Decker’s house well before he had married her, Jo had nevertheless connected with the efficient, kindly housekeeper from the moment she had become the mistress of Decker’s townhome. And she heartily appreciated Mrs. Crisply’s warning. After all, though the woman was circumspect and would never carry tales, Jo suspected she must have seen some things which would give her cause for concern during her tenure and whilst Decker had carried on as a bachelor.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crisply,” Jo told her. “I will see to this unexpected visitor.”
Even if it was the very last thing she felt like doing. Still, a question prodded her, undeniable. Why would this woman, whomever she was, seek an audience with Decker in particular?
Jo made her way to the salon in automaton fashion. But as she approached the room, the familiar sound of Decker’s baritone reached her, mingling with a distinctly feminine voice. Puzzled, she stopped just short of the open door, where she had a perfect view of Decker standing far too near to a lovely woman she had never seen before. There was something undeniably familiar about their mannerisms toward each other.
Jo paused, understanding that somehow this woman was no stranger to Decker. That they knew each other. The fiery-haired beauty was saying something in a low, entreating tone.
He said something in return. Jo thought she heard a name. But surely not. No, it could not be…
“Nora,” Jo heard him say.
He would hardly be addressing this unexpected caller by her Christian name. Would he?
“I know how you must feel, Eli,” the woman said, speaking in such a low tone, Jo could only discern portions of what she was saying. “I do not blame you… I am angry with myself. The last ten years have been penance. I have been waiting…” Awful, ugly suspicion intruded upon Jo’s thoughts. This was no ordinary caller, was it?
Dear, merciful heavens.
Her mind spun with denial. No, no, no.
Jo looked upon the woman, the familiarity in her manner, and she simply knew. She knew it was Viscountess Tinley, the woman Decker had loved long ago, the woman who had jilted him and broken his heart, left him jaded and guarded. She knew it was the same woman whose letter had distressed him so much that he had fled the breakfast room looking pallid, with a thin excuse.
The letter he had continued to keep a secret from Jo.
His mother’s illness and death had taken precedence over Jo’s feelings. She had tamped down all the hurt, all thoughts of the letter, all the feelings of inadequacy and doubt that letter’s arrival and her husband’s subsequent reaction to it had caused. Wounded feelings could mend, after all. Life and death were far more important.
But now, it all returned in a frenzied rush.
And Decker was not railing at the woman or ordering her to leave. He had not stormed from the room. He had not taken note of his own wife standing near the threshold, gazing upon the vignette before her with dawning horror.
Because he was too caught up in the woman.
Here was the personification of all Jo’s fears.
The man she loved did not love her. Her husband did not love her. He was keeping secrets from her. And now, his past had returned in vivid, beautiful form to haunt her. To tear him away from her forever.
She had a choice to make. She could either intrude upon this cozy scene, or she could walk away. Her heart thundered. Her mouth went dry. She wrestled with the decision, more uncertain of anything than she had ever been in her life.
“I hardly revile you,” Decker was saying, but some of