were lost to me. That I’d stay at Thorne Manor even after I died. That I’d see you again that way, when you returned. That you might even see me . . .” He rubs his hands over his face and shivers. “Fortunately, it did not come to that.”
I hug him fiercely, my head on his shoulder. I’d thought the same thing . . . while hoping that even if we were separated forever, he’d have moved on and found peace, no matter how much I’d have desperately loved to see him again.
He hugs me back and kisses the top of my head. I reach up and kiss him properly, a deep one that chases away the memories of that terrible, uncertain time.
“It could have been a maid,” I say as we part. “A living maid, who alerted me to the issue and then slipped through a door I didn’t see in the dark.” I roll my shoulders. “Either way, that particular young woman seemed fine. It’s Lottie that matters.”
“And it’s Lottie I’ll speak to August about, posthaste. Let us go find him now.” He glances at the photograph. “Best not to tell him this is here.”
“I won’t.”
William speaks to August alone. While August is hardly the sort to blush and stammer at the mention of sex—even in front of a woman—he is still a man of his time, and this conversation will go better without me to hear it. Particularly if the answer is not to my liking. I can’t imagine August shrugging off Lottie’s dilemma, but he might have already decided against offering her a job at his London home and instead just promise to have the housekeeper and other staff look out for her.
I needn’t have worried. The matter is settled in the time it takes me to freshen up in the lavatory. August will offer Lottie a position, and if she agrees, she can quit Courtenay Hall right after the holidays and depart with August and Edmund. The earl will be livid, of course, but it’s not as if he gets on with August anyway. Also it’s not as if Tynesford can threaten to cut off August’s allowance—he did that when August married Rosalind—or threaten to keep him from visiting Courtenay Hall—access is part of August’s birthright. So while I feel bad about giving the brothers one more point of friction, William assures me August is only too happy to whisk an innocent girl from his brother’s lecherous clutches.
From there, we depart. August offers to smuggle us into his quarters for the night, but I can only imagine what kind of scandal would erupt if we were spotted sneaking out in the morning. No, we gratefully accept a hot flask of tea from the cook, and then we are off for the journey home.
Once again, William makes good on his promise of an intimate diversion. Or he does after I assure him I am quite awake enough and warm enough to enjoy it. We find a sheltered spot, ensure the horse is comfortable and then get comfortable ourselves in a bed of blankets. It is a wonderful interlude, snow just beginning to fall around us, the night clear and bright with stars . . . though admittedly, I don’t notice either until I’m lying there afterward, cuddled with William and staring up at the sky.
The next thing I know, I’m waking in bed. Obviously, I fell asleep. Equally obviously, William did not—he drove us home and carried me up to our room. I remember none of that, though, and I wake snuggled deep in blankets.
I lift my head and find myself looking into Enigma’s green eyes as she stares at me accusingly. Then I see the sun through the windows. Bright midday sun.
I blink and reach for my modern-day watch on the night stand. It’s almost noon. I blink harder, and I’m pushing myself up when William enters with a steaming breakfast tray.
I smile. “Breakfast in bed again? Careful, I could get used to this.”
“I am merely providing necessary sustenance for the long and busy day ahead.”
“Busy . . .” I say carefully. Even sitting up sets my entire body groaning, as it whimpers that it would like a few more hours of rest, please.
“Yes, busy,” he says as he sets down my tray. “We have a terribly full day ahead of us. First, a sleigh ride. Then charitable visits. Then supper at the curate’s. Then either caroling or attending the Sir Hugh’s evening of charades.”