inn for miles around.”
At Betsy’s nod, his father opened the window and shouted to his coachman, and the vehicle lurched into movement.
“Dieu soit loué!” Grégoire said, under his breath.
“Lady Boadicea, are churches a particular interest of yours?” the marquess asked.
Jeremy stared out the window at the gathering swirls of snowflakes while his father and Betsy talked about churches they had visited. He had decided never to see his father again. That seemed childish in retrospect and yet—
His ownership of a blackened soul was not childish. Next to him, Betsy’s warm hip—or at least all the skirts that bunched up next to her hip—pressed against his greatcoat.
That slight touch inspired a flash of desire so intense that he felt it in the back of his teeth, along with an inexplicable dose of comfort.
The carriage wheels were muffled by snow as they trundled along the cobblestones. At some point, spring would come. Robins and wood pigeons would sing again. Hawthorn would blossom.
“If this snow keeps up, we’ll have to spend the night in Wilmslow,” his father said, twitching aside the curtains. “Hopefully the Honeypot has enough rooms. Apparently, there’s another inn as well. Not the Fox & Hound, a more interesting name than that.”
“My aunt is fond of the Gherkin & Cheese,” Betsy said.
“That’s the one,” his father said. He turned to Grégoire. “We’ll let you out at the Honeypot; if the duchess and her party are there, send to us at the Gherkin. If not, take a carriage and join us.”
“Dropping off a groom would be sufficient,” Grégoire said sulkily. “Or you could simply wait for me while I inquire about Her Grace.”
The marquess looked at his nephew down the length of his nose. “One does not keep a lady waiting in a chilly carriage.”
Betsy burst into a flurry of small talk, as marked as if butterflies suddenly fluttered all around her head. She peppered the marquess with charm, but Jeremy had known him a lifetime. He saw a puzzled light at the back of his eyes. Betsy was hiding herself so well that his father was confused.
They pulled up to the Honeypot. Grégoire got out of the carriage and disappeared into the blowing snow.
“That boy soured while you were at war,” the marquess said, tapping a hand on his knee. “Mayhap he talked himself into a belief the title was his.”
“Did you notice that his mention of a Vauxhall print was close to a threat, Jeremy?” Betsy said, as the carriage set off for the Gherkin & Cheese.
She used his first name before his father—and the marquess took note. With an effort, Jeremy wrenched his mind back to Betsy, who was explaining the times when the Wildes had discovered acquaintances were selling sketches, or even just ideas for them, to stationers in London.
“The prints travel all about the country on tinkers’ carts,” she was saying. “They have plagued my brothers.”
“Was Grégoire with you at Vauxhall when you fell ill?” his father asked.
“No,” Jeremy replied. “You and I haven’t spoken in many months,” he added. “Have you been well?” The marquess looked older, his nose beakier, his eyes paler blue than a year ago.
“Yes. Other than the fact I have worried about you.” He turned to Betsy. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable by answering so truthfully. I can see you are my son’s dear friend.”
“I am honored,” Betsy said.
The carriage was quiet for a moment. Jeremy and his father hadn’t spoken since shortly after he staggered off the boat from America, shuddering at the faintest sound, waves of shame and grief cutting him to the bone on a daily basis. They had quarreled within days of his landing in England, and after that, Jeremy couldn’t face him.
“You are so bloody effective,” Jeremy said, forcing the words out of his mouth. “If you’d been there, in the colonies, the whole thing would have been done right. You’d have brought your men home.”
The marquess shook his head, his eyes unreadable in the dim light in the carriage. “There is no right in war. There’s only what happened.”
“I followed orders,” Jeremy said, a swell of bitterness riding his tongue. “You wouldn’t have followed orders. It wasn’t fair of me to blame you for it.”
The marquess frowned.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jeremy said. “You would have marched your men out of there and discovered that the colonel in charge had fled. Your men would be home with their wives now. I just kept running across that field, from side to side.”
“Had I taken an