Chapter 30
The drawing room at Lady Eversley’s Brook Street residence was a hive of restrained elegance.
A handful of guests had been chosen with precision—for their taste, their titles, and just the right touch of gossip.
A crackling fire kept the February chill at bay, and the scent of hyacinths drifted from cut-glass vases on every side table.
Everything shimmered: the conversation, the candlelight, the carefully curated calm.
Lady Eversley’s niece played the pianoforte—a modest, elegant tune that floated gently above the chatter.
At her side stood Miss Fournier, a lace fichu softening the cut of her day gown, her posture easy but her gaze distant, focused on the notes ahead.
“Just one more,” someone urged.
Lady Eversley smiled. “We must convince Miss Fournier—she’s our only true nightingale.”
William saw the young woman hesitate. Then Lady Julia—Ashford’s sister, and from what he had gathered both confidante and staunch ally—leaned close and murmured something in her ear.
Whatever it was made Miss Fournier laugh, low and smooth.
Then she nodded once and turned back to the pianoforte.
When she began to sing—this time a different tune, soft and clear and undeniably French—the room fell quiet at once.
William cradled his glass of brandy, amusement tugging at his mouth, for just then Ashford entered through the open doorway. The man halted as though struck, his expression caught between devotion and disbelief as he stared at her.
The young woman’s voice was all smoke and honey—not loud, but impossibly rich, the kind of tone that wrapped itself around you and didn’t let go.
It was a chanson about longing, old and wistful, her vowels pure and floating, each note precisely shaped but entirely effortless.
By the time the last note melted into silence, the room was still. Then: applause. Murmurs. Laughter.
Lord Harwood clapped once, then leaned forward. “Miss Fournier, if I may say—that was utterly transporting.”
The Duke of Morleyne smiled faintly beside him. “My mother was born in Rouen. She would have cried, hearing that.”
Miss Fournier inclined her head gracefully, eyes dancing. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”
“Not at all,” Morleyne said. “I believe you’ve cast a spell over us all.”
Harwood chuckled. “If you haven’t already commissioned a portrait, I suggest you do. That moment deserves oil and canvas.”
“Perhaps two,” Morleyne added. “One for each rival patron.”
Miss Fournier laughed—light, elegant, a touch mischievous.
Oil and canvas indeed, William thought. The memory rose unbidden.
He had already seen her portrait—not in silks and lace, but as Titian’s Venus come to life.
Not reclining in solitude on velvet cushions, but as a flesh-and-blood woman, flushed with sleep, warm in her lover’s cot.
She had lain naked beside Ashford, pale limbs tangled in sleep, chestnut hair spilled across his arm.
He had traced the line of her spine with a gloved finger, had cupped the firm curve of her bottom, amused when she stirred and murmured another man’s name.
She had been no society lady then, no ‘nightingale’—only a servant girl he’d thought ripe for the taking.
And yet later, he had watched the same woman kneel on the blood-stained floor of a chapel, fierce with love as she vowed herself to a man who proved unworthy of her.
But that kind of devotion could not be faked. He had been blind.
That man, now General Ashford, stepped further into the room. William regarded him with cold disdain.
“General Ashford,” Lady Eversley said warmly, rising to greet him. “What perfect timing.”
William could not help himself; he glanced up and smirked. “Ah, the general returns—just in time to find the troops already deployed.”
Ashford nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the girl. “Lady Eversley. Gentlemen.”
A storm was brewing. Had he been as plain in his jealousy of Jane as Ashford was now of his peasant girl turned lady? The thought shamed him. In his mindless fury he had poisoned their time together—those precious moments before he bound himself back to duty.
Lady Julia swept in smoothly. “Shall we go in to luncheon?”
There was general assent. Morleyne offered Christine his arm. But before she could move, George spoke again—firm, clipped. “Miss Fournier. A word. As your guardian.”
The room stilled. Christine turned slowly, one brow raised. “Of course.”
William took a slow sip, hiding the burn of contempt. Guardian. How craven, to call himself that—he who had fathered a child on the woman. He muttered into his glass, “How terribly paternal of you.”
Lady Eversley, unruffled, offered a gracious nod. “We’ll await you in the dining room.”
The company filed out. Miss Fournier remained, poised against a settee, while General Ashford moved closer, his jaw tight, his eyes hot with jealousy.
William did not linger. He set his glass aside, bowed perfunctorily, and followed the rest toward the dining room.
He did not need to hear the words that would pass between them; he already knew their tenor.
As he crossed the threshold, his thoughts turned inward.
Ashford’s cowardice was plain, and William condemned him for it.
Yet the condemnation curdled into self-loathing.
Was he any different? He, too, hunted for a wife who would fit his ideal of a duchess, while the only woman who mattered was left dishonored and abandoned.
He remembered Jane’s body soft beneath him, her laughter, her fierce intelligence—but had she ever loved him? Or had it been only passion, a last bright rebellion before she resigned herself to the solitude of her post?
Christine’s devotion had been absolute; she had clung to Ashford even when all hope seemed lost. He envied it, and yet it filled him with dread. That kind of love consumed everything it touched. Would Jane ever feel so for him?
He entered the dining room amid the hum of polite chatter, but he heard none of it. Only Jane’s voice, sharp and tender all at once, reminding him with every step that he had already squandered what no duchess could replace.
* * *
He sat through the meal, speaking when he must. Smiling when it was required. He barely tasted the food. Lady Philomena wasn’t there. He was almost grateful.
The conversation swelled and faded around him—remarks on Parliament, the price of grain, a wager on a new singer at Covent Garden. He gave the appropriate responses. Laughed, once. But by the time dessert was served, the walls had begun to close in.
He rose earlier than was strictly proper, claimed weariness, and left without waiting for the rest. The cold outside met him like a slap. Good. Let it.
He did not call for his carriage. He walked. Not to clear his head—he’d given up on that—but to keep his feet moving before his resolve faltered.
Jane stayed in his blood, unwelcome and constant.
She could never be his duchess. She lacked the name, the breeding, the polish.
To marry her would be to invite disgrace, scandal, the slow erosion of everything he had fought to restore.
For one moment, she had made him forget why that mattered. He would not forget again.
He turned the corner into Hanover Square. By the time he reached his townhouse, he knew what he would do.
The coals in the grate gave off only a faint glow, but he didn’t ring for more. He sat down at the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and dipped his pen. The words were easy. Duty always was.
Lord Clifford,
I hope this finds you well. I write regarding your niece, Lady Philomena...
* * *
The drawing room at Lord Clifford’s townhouse was smaller than Westford’s own, but no less grand.
Winter light glanced off a crystal chandelier, scattering pale reflections across walls draped in soft blue damask.
A porcelain clock chimed delicately on the mantel.
A fire glowed with quiet industry. William had arrived punctually, but not early, and was shown in by a liveried footman.
Lady Philomena rose as he entered, setting aside her cup with a smile that struck him as both gracious and calculated.
Her gown was of ivory lace, laid over blush-toned silk the color of champagne. The cut was more daring than before, her figure shaped by a bodice that revealed the full curve of her breasts, veiled only by a trace of embroidered netting. It was not vulgar. It was precise. Meant to entice.
He noticed, but felt nothing. Not even the faintest stir of desire. It had been that way for months. Only one woman could move him now. The rest were shapes, words, motion. Nothing else.
He told himself it was temporary. That in time, with a proper wife and proper distance, the restlessness would settle. His body would remember its duty. It had to.
Lady Clifford, her aunt, rose with elegance and dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Blackmeer. A pleasure.”
He bowed. “Lady Clifford. Lady Philomena. You honor me.”
“We are so pleased you could join us,” Philomena said, her voice warm, composed.
She gestured to the chair beside her. “We were just discussing the opening at the Italian Opera. They’re reviving Giulio Cesare in Egitto this season.
I know it’s out of fashion—everyone clamors for Rossini these days—but I’ve always preferred the gravity of the baroque. ”
Lady Clifford’s eyes softened as she picked up her embroidery frame.
“I confess my tastes have always run to the Handel oratorios—Messiah, in particular. Still—pay me no mind. You’ve far more engaging matters to discuss than an old lady’s fondness for Handel.
” With that, she withdrew from the conversation without leaving the room.
“Oh, yes. Having a general in our midst would be a terrible waste if we didn’t learn all the particulars of the war,” Philomena said, smiling as she poured his tea.
William sat, accepted the cup, and said dryly, “If you’d prefer talk of bloodshed and troop shortages, I can certainly oblige.”
Philomena’s lips quirked. “I would. If you will forgive the taste.”
He inclined his head. “Very well. Salamanca, then.”
For the next quarter of an hour, they spoke easily—too easily, perhaps.
Philomena had read widely. She knew the geography of the campaigns, the names of generals, the structure of supply lines.
She asked about the mood of the men, the reality of the field—how officers kept discipline, how quickly the wounded could be moved, whether any real command existed once the guns opened fire.
William found himself answering with more honesty than he had intended.
She listened with keen intelligence, never gasping, never sentimental, never turning her head at the mention of blood or chaos.
Only when he described the heat—the stench of the dead on the plains of Badajoz—did she draw in a breath.
“A friend of mine,” she said, “was widowed after that siege. She said the letters stopped coming, and then the officials came instead. She never forgave the silence.”
“There is always silence,” William said. “Even when one survives. You cannot explain it. And if you try, the truth sounds like madness.”
Philomena’s gaze held his. “But you remember it.”
“I remember all of it,” he said.
Her expression was unreadable. “That is why I would rather hear the truth from a man who saw it, than the pretty lies they print in the broadsheets.”
He set down his cup. “Your candor does your father credit.”
She gave a slight shrug. “He prefers daughters who do not speak so plainly. But Uncle indulges me, though he makes a show of protest.”
William allowed a flicker of amusement to rise. Her charm was precise—never careless, never coy. She was a woman who measured every move. And for the first time, she had chosen to impress him not just with polish, but with flesh.
A deliberate shift, then. He recognized it for what it was. And admired her for it.
“The Westford box will be ours for whichever evening you choose,” William said at last. “For the Giulio Cesare revival you mentioned.”
Philomena’s smile was immediate, though perfectly controlled. “Then I shall be forced to admire your taste as well as your timing.”
“You flatter me, Lady Philomena. But I hope you’ll agree to join me.”
“Gladly,” she said. “Though I warn you, I shall be humming arias for days afterward.” Her tone turned lightly teasing. “And of course, my aunt will accompany us. She would never forgive me if I went to Handel without her.”
“Of course.”
Lady Clifford looked up from her needlework. “I feel so blessed. I haven’t heard a proper baritone since the war began.”
William offered a polite nod. “Then I shall make the arrangements for your preferred date.”
Philomena tilted her head, as if appraising him anew. “You surprise me, Lord Blackmeer. I had thought you a man too soldierly and rigid for Italian opera.”
“I have my contradictions.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
He rose not long after, bowed to both ladies, and made his departure with the usual courtesies. His footsteps echoed sharply in the corridor as he left the house, his coat flung over one shoulder.
She was flawless. Exactly the sort of woman he had always believed he should want. And yet, as he crossed back into the gray afternoon, it was Jane’s voice that followed him—not in anger this time, but soft with all the things she had never said. And now, never would.