Chapter Twelve The Right Woman #4
He kissed her. Slowly. The gallery disappeared.
The past did not. That was important. Nothing could erase it.
Adrian had existed. The hurt had happened.
Sebastian had made mistakes. So had Clara.
Love had not rewritten their histories into something cleaner.
It had simply given them somewhere honest to go next.
When they parted, Clara looked at her younger self in the miniature.
“I feel sorry for her.”
Sebastian’s hand remained at her waist.
“Why?”
“She has no idea.”
“No.”
“About Adrian.”
“No.”
“About Mama.”
“No.”
“About any of it.”
Sebastian was quiet. Clara smiled faintly.
“But she will be all right.”
“Yes.”
“She becomes rather formidable.”
“Appallingly.”
Clara elbowed him. He laughed. Then she placed the miniature carefully back in its case.
“Where shall we put it?”
Sebastian considered.
“Not in a drawer.”
“Agreed.”
“In our room?”
The word caught her. Our. Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
He took her hand. They walked upstairs together.
Three weeks later, on a wet Thursday evening in October, Augusta, Lady Winterbourne sat at the head of her dining table and concluded that happiness had made everyone insufferable.
Clara and Sebastian had remained at Bellamere.
Eleanor had accepted a new position that Augusta considered beneath her talents.
Beatrice was beginning, slowly, to ask questions about Rupert Lancing that she should have asked before accepting his proposal.
Arabella had acquired a lease for two rooms and was absolutely not opening a gaming establishment, which Augusta believed precisely as much as the statement deserved.
Sophia remained private. Eliza remained more private. And Cecily had not arrived. Augusta noticed the empty chair. She noticed everything.
“Should we wait?” Eleanor asked.
“No.”
Arabella reached for bread.
“Excellent.”
Augusta glared.
“You could pretend concern.”
“I am concerned. I am also hungry.”
Supper continued. Ten minutes later, Hargreaves entered. He did not normally interrupt once dinner began. Augusta looked up.
“My lady.”
“Yes?”
“Cecily, Lady Vale has arrived.”
Augusta’s hand paused.
“At this hour?”
“Yes.”
“Show her in.”
Cecily appeared almost immediately. One glance was enough. Something had happened. Her gown was perfectly respectable. Her hair perfectly arranged. Her face was pale. Too pale. Augusta rose.
“Cecily.”
The conversation at the table stopped. Cecily shut the dining-room door herself. That was unlike her. She crossed the room.
“Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
Augusta looked toward Hargreaves.
“Bring another place.”
“No.”
Cecily’s voice shook. Everyone noticed. She removed one glove. Her hand was trembling. Augusta became very still.
“What happened?”
Cecily reached into her reticule. She withdrew a folded sheet of paper. No seal. No address. She placed it beside Augusta’s plate.
“Someone left this at my house.”
Augusta unfolded it. One sentence. Nothing more.
You should have died with him. The room chilled.
Arabella stopped moving. Eleanor’s face went white.
Sophia looked sharply toward Cecily. Eliza lowered her eyes.
Augusta read the words again. Her late husband.
Lord Vale. The marriage London had dissected from the day it was announced.
The death people whispered Cecily had caused. Augusta folded the paper.
“Who delivered it?”
“I don't know.”
“When?”
“This evening.”
“Has there been anything before?”
Cecily hesitated. Too long. Augusta’s gaze sharpened.
“What else?”
“Nothing like this.”
“That was not my question.”
Cecily looked away. There would be time for the rest. Augusta reached for the bell pull. Cecily looked up.
“What are you doing?”
Augusta rang.
“Hargreaves will arrange a carriage.”
“I have a carriage.”
“You are not going home alone.”
Cecily’s chin lifted.
“I do not require protection.”
“Naturally not.”
Hargreaves entered. Augusta turned to him.
“Send for Major Mercer.”
Cecily stared.
“Augusta.”
“Naturally, you do not require protection,” Augusta repeated. “Which is why I shall arrange some.”
For the first time that evening, Arabella smiled.
Only slightly. Cecily did not. Augusta looked again at the folded note.
Then at the woman standing before her. The Last Chance Club had never been intended as a matchmaking society.
Augusta remained determined about that. It existed because women abandoned by ordinary society occasionally required somewhere to come before deciding what happened next.
Clara had come here angry. Beatrice came uncertain.
Eliza came silent. Tonight Cecily had arrived frightened.
Augusta rose and crossed toward her. She took Cecily’s cold hand.
“Sit.”
This time Cecily obeyed. Outside, rain pressed against the windows of Winterbourne House. Inside, seven women drew their chairs closer. And somewhere across London, Major Nathaniel Mercer was about to receive a summons that would change his life.
The End
Book Two: The Widow Nobody Dared to Court