Neville narrowed his eyes. He was the Earl of Collinsworth now, and everyone referred to him by his title, but she simply couldn’t. It reminded her too much of her father. “Have you been hiding out in Whitechapel, then? That’s where Thorne believed you to be. I was inclined to believe you asked my driver to take you there to simply throw us off the scent.”
“It doesn’t matter where I’ve been. It only matters that I’m here now.” To settle her affairs, and if she found herself trapped, Robin knew to scurry back to the Elysium Club and alert Finn as to her whereabouts. She knew nothing would stop him from coming for her, not this time. She jerked her chin toward her brother. “Get it written.”
He completed his task, tore the note from the book—
Robin gasped as though he’d just witnessed someone committing murder.
“It’s all right,” she reassured him. “It’s a special book for writing in and tearing paper from.”
Neville shoved back his chair none too gently, marched up to Robin, and extended the paper.
Robin, holding his hat and walking stick in one hand as any gentleman might, merely looked up at him and blinked. “Wot ye take me fer? A dimwit? That ain’t five hundred quid, guv.”
“It’s a banknote,” Neville said impatiently. “It’s worth five hundred quid.”
Snatching it from Neville’s fingers, she presented it to Robin. “You take it to a bank, and they’ll give you the money. We’ll do it once I’m done here. Now go find the kitchens and tell the cook that Lady Lavinia said you were to be given some biscuits and milk.” She had little doubt he was resourceful enough to make his way through the house, and since the butler had seen the lad arrive with her, she knew they wouldn’t toss him out.
With a nod, Robin took the paper from her, placed his hat on his head, and tapped the tip of his walking stick—a lion’s head—against the brim. “Thanks, guv. Ye ever need anythink, any errands run, ye let me know.”
Then he strutted out.
“Thorne has a walking stick like that, with a lion’s head,” Neville said, sounding somewhat perplexed by the notion.
“Yes. Robin told me Thorne had given the miniature one to him as a gift.” The lad had told her a good deal as they’d journeyed through London. He was quite the magpie once he got going. “I need to have a word with the dowager countess. Do you know where I’ll find her?”
“Just like that? You just come in here, demand I pay the lad, and don’t offer any explanation as to where you’ve been or why? We’ve been worried sick.” His tone reflected true concern.
“I wrote you every week to let you know I was well.”
“For all I knew, someone could have been forcing you to write the letters.”
She gave him a small smile. “Really, you must stop reading those ghastly stories about murders and such.” Her brother enjoyed the more gruesome tales.
“We’re not going to discuss my reading habits. I’ve spent more than three months telling people you were ill. I have no doubt most of London believes you to be on your deathbed. If it’s any consolation, I’ve received an abundance of condolences on your poor health. I want an explanation regarding what the devil is going on.”
“I’m sorry, Neville, but I told you I had doubts regarding my marrying Thornley. You wouldn’t listen. Mother locked me in my room on the night before I was to wed.”
Looking down at his polished shoes, he seemed contrite. “Yes, I learned of that later.” He lifted his gaze. “What you told that boy about the bank—you’re not leaving with him, surely.”
“I can’t stay. There’s so much you don’t know, Neville, but I wasn’t happy here. This isn’t the life I want.”
“It is the life to which you were born.”
“But that doesn’t mean it is the life I must live.”
“I don’t understand, Lavinia. What the deuce do you want?”
With a long sigh, she held his gaze. “To let go of the past. Now where will I find Mother?”
“In the morning room.”
Spinning on her heel, she headed out of the shelf-lined library, keenly aware of her brother following closely behind her, his faint sputtering reaching her ears. There was too much to explain, too much he wouldn’t be able to comprehend. He strongly resembled their father and every earl who had come before him and lived by their creed. Honor, duty, and respectability ruled. There was no room within their world for a girl’s tender feelings or a woman’s determined plans if they didn’t involve marrying a lord.
The wide French doors to the morning room were open and she swept through them in the same manner that her mother had once swept out of her bedchamber, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms—with vengeance and righteousness shimmering off her. Her mother sat on the bright yellow brocade sofa, sipping her tea. She did little more than arch an eyebrow at Lavinia.
“Where is my child?” she asked, coming to a halt in front of the low table that provided a barrier between her and the woman who’d given birth to her.
Neville, who had moved past her to be nearer to their mother as though he feared he might need to serve as her protector, staggered to a stop and stared at Lavinia. “Pardon?”
