His gaze shifted past her, and his eyes seemed to fill with gladness. She glanced over her shoulder where he looked, halfway expecting to see Sterling there. Instead, she saw a beautiful white lily.
“Where did that come from? I’d not realized the gardener had planted lilies. It’s rather late in the season for one to bloom.” She turned her attention back to her father. “Would you like me to pluck it for you, bring it nearer so you might enjoy it a bit more? I know they’re your favorite.”
He gave her a very small nod. She rose, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Papa. I’ll be right back.”
She walked to the table where she kept her slender cutters. She was often nipping off blossoms to share with her father. In a way she hated to cut the lily, knowing it would wither that much sooner, but she was willing to do whatever would bring her father joy.
“I do believe this is the most perfect lily I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning back to her father. Her heart caught, tears welled in her eyes. Even from this distance she knew. And she was left to wonder if it was truly the lily that had caught his eye or if he had seen something more divine.
She walked back to where he was, kissed his cheek again, and knelt beside him. “If I’d known you were going to leave, I’d have not left you to take that final step alone. Sleep in peace, Papa. Your journey is done, and I have a feeling mine is just beginning.”
Luke thought he’d always known the comings and goings in London, but since the night he’d gone to Dodger’s and confronted Jack, it seemed he was privy to a good deal more.
Fitzsimmons had to purchase a larger bowl for the table in the entry hallway, a bowl large enough to hold all the invitations that Luke was suddenly receiving: to balls, dinners, and afternoon recitals—as though he cared whether or not a man’s daughter could play the pianoforte. People acknowledged him on the streets now. Women asked his opinion on the selections they were considering in the shops if he happened to be in there perusing possible gifts for Frannie.
And they shared their gossip.
So it was that he knew Lady Catherine Mabry had spent the past month in seclusion with her ailing father. He also knew, within hours, when the dukedom had passed to her wayward brother.
Not calling on Catherine had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he’d not risk her reputation further. Speculation was rife that Lady Catherine Mabry had been spied in Dodger’s gaming hell. Conflicting rumors also abounded—that no indeed, it had simply been Claybourne’s latest mistress, a woman he had so little respect for that he dressed her as a servant. Luke never commented on either argument, in hopes that in time both would die a quiet death.
Marcus had assured him that was the best approach. Lord knew their family had suffered enough scandals that the man was fairly an expert on how to lessen the damage.
But still, Luke couldn’t ignore the death of her father.
The shades were drawn when he arrived at her residence late that evening. The butler led him to the withdrawing room where the casket rested. Catherine sat on a chair near it.
Several people were there. He recognized a few of the lords, the others he assumed were family, paying their respects. Catherine was dressed in black, her face haggard. She looked as though she’d lost weight.
He realized how hard the past month had been on her, and he cursed himself for caring more about society’s expectations than hers. In striving to protect her, he’d failed her.
He’d never known a deeper regret.
She rose as he approached and he took both of her gloved hands in his.
“My Lord Claybourne, it was so kind of you to come.”
“My condolences on your loss. I know your father meant a great deal to you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He died in his garden, surrounded by the flowers he loved so.”
“I suspect you were the blossom he loved most of all.”
She released a tiny bubble of laughter, and quickly covered her mouth while those surrounding them raised brows. “My lord, I’d not realized you were a poet.”
“When the situation warrants, I can rise to the occasion.”
He held her gaze for longer than was proper. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew that etiquette dictated that he go.
“Truly, Lord Claybourne, thank you for coming. Your presence here means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
“I wish I could do more.”
She smiled softly. Something must have caught her eye, because she turned her attention elsewhere. Her eyes widened, and she grew pale, as though she’d seen the ghost of her father. She pulled her hands free of Luke’s and took a step away from him. “Sterling?”
Luke turned to see an impeccably dressed man with blue eyes as hard as stones standing near. His hair and thick beard were a dark blond, the bronzed hue of his skin reflecting a man accustomed to the outdoors.
Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw Catherine’s head loll back, her eyes roll
