Mary-Ann nodded once. “Thank you.”
Lydia swallowed. “Will I be arrested?”
“No,” Mary-Ann said simply. “But you won’t be trusted. Not again.”
Lydia gave a single nod and turned to go. Just before she reached the door, she looked back. “You’re not the girl he thought you were.”
Mary-Ann held her gaze. “No. I’m not.”
Lydia’s voice was quiet. “You’re stronger.” She paused and took a breath. “And smarter.” She turned to leave.
“Lydia,” Mary-Ann said softly. “As a parting gift, you may keep the dressing case.”
Lydia blinked, the briefest trace of emotion passing over her face. Then she nodded, grateful, but quiet. She left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Mary-Ann stood still for a moment, her hand resting on the back of the chair Lydia had never used. The silence settledaround her, not empty, but earned. They had underestimated her. All of them.
She whispered, “Thank you, Hamish,” and turned toward the window, where the evening light had just begun to shift.
Outside, the lamps had already been lit along the lane. Mary-Ann drew on her gloves, the folio now locked away, and turned her steps toward Sommer Chase, where the future she had once planned was waiting to be reclaimed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was Fridayevening, and the wind off the sea carried the scent of salt and coming dusk. Mary-Ann arrived at Sommer Chase just as the lamps along the drive were being lit, her gloves still in hand and the hem of her cloak lifting with each step. The house rose ahead of her in warm silhouette, its windows glowing, not with grandeur, but with welcome.
She paused at the threshold, her hand resting lightly against the frame. This place had once belonged only to Barrington. To the Brigade. To causes larger than herself. But now it welcomed her too—not as an outsider, but as someone who had earned her place within its walls.
Inside, she found Quinton and Barrington in the study. The lamps had been extinguished, and the tall windows stood open to the soft spring air. The men sat comfortably but alert, the weight of unfinished business still resting between them.
No words were spoken at first. The folio had been reviewed. Agreements, quiet and firm, had been made. There was nothing more to explain.
Then, without warning, the front door opened, and Mrs. Bainbridge breezed in as though summoned by fate itself.
“I’ve done it,” she declared, sailing into the room with a folded invitation in one hand and a triumphant expression on her face. “We’ve settled on a date. Barrington and I are to be married in September, the Saturday following The Masked Ball at Ravenshade.”
Quinton blinked. Barrington looked up slowly from his chair.
“You’ve chosen a date,” he repeated flatly.
Mrs. Bainbridge dropped a kiss onto his brow. “It was either that or let your mother do it, and frankly, I prefer civil war to ducal meddling.”
Mary-Ann, still seated near the window, let out a breath of laughter. “Does this mean the list is final?”
“Heavens, no,” Mrs. Bainbridge replied. “But the date is. And I’ve only told your father, the duchess, my aunt, the bishop, and three out of four of your groomsmen.”
Barrington sighed. “I assume I’ll be informed of the venue at some point.”
“If you behave,” she said sweetly, then turned to Mary-Ann. “Darling, will you help me choose the fourth groomsman?” Barrington keeps suggesting men who’ve been shot at.”
“And survived,” Barrington added mildly.
Mary-Ann smiled as their banter carried through the room. It was absurd and lovely, and for the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel heavy with decisions. It felt full of life again.
*
Later, after thehouse had quieted and the last bit of light slipped from the horizon, Mary-Ann stepped out into the gardens behind Sommer Chase.
