No.
This could not be happening.
"Anthea." Gregory's voice was sharp now, concerned. "Tell me what is wrong."
"Poppy," Anthea managed, her voice coming out strangled. "She ran away. With Henry. To Gretna Green."
Silence.
Then Gregory was moving, snatching up the letter and reading it himself, his expression growing darker with each line.
"When?" he demanded. "When did they leave?"
"I do not know," Anthea said, and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. "Yesterday. During the wedding. She said she was there but—" Realization crashed over her like a wave. "The footman. He said he saw her at the back of the church. She must have come to watch, to say goodbye, and then?—"
She stopped. Could not finish the sentence.
While she had been dancing and celebrating and confessing her love to Gregory, her sister had been running away. Eloping. Destroying her reputation and future prospects because Anthea had failed to protect her.
"We have to go after them," Gregory said, already moving toward his own chambers. "Now. Before they reach Gretna Green."
"What is the point?" Anthea asked dully. "She said it is already done. They probably married hours ago."
"Then we bring them back and I get them a proper special license," Gregory said firmly. "We salvage this before the scandal spreads too far."
He disappeared through the connecting door, and Anthea heard him shouting for his valet, for the carriage to be prepared, for?—
She could not focus on the words. Could barely think past the roaring in her ears.
This was her fault.
She had been so distracted by her own happiness, so caught up in Gregory and their newfound love, that she had completely failed to notice her sister was planning something desperate.
The signs had been there. Poppy's odd behavior. Her distraction. Her disappearances. Anthea had noticed—had even wonderedabout it—but she had pushed the concern aside. Had told herself everything was fine. Had been too busy falling in love to pay proper attention.
But don't come crying to me when you inevitably fail.
Beatrice's words echoed in her mind, vicious and vindicated.
She had failed.
Failed to protect Poppy. Failed to see what was happening right in front of her. Failed at the one responsibility she had taken on—keeping her sisters safe and helping them find happiness without scandal or shame.
Veronica's wedding had been perfect despite Beatrice's interference. Anthea had been so proud of how everything turned out, so confident in her ability to manage her sisters' futures.
And all the while, Poppy had been planning to run away.
"Anthea." Gregory had returned, now fully dressed. "You need to get dressed. We are leaving in ten minutes."
"I cannot," Anthea whispered.
"What do you mean you cannot?" Gregory moved closer, his expression shifting from urgency to concern. "Anthea, we need to?—"
"I failed her," Anthea said, and her voice broke on the words. "I was supposed to protect her. To keep her safe. To be better than Beatrice. And I failed."
"You did not fail," Gregory said firmly. "Poppy made her own choice?—"
"Because I was not paying attention!" Anthea's voice rose, shrill with panic and self-recrimination. "Because I was too distracted by you, by us, by my own happiness to notice my sister was planning something desperate. What kind of guardian does that? What kind of sister?"
