Captain Henry Ashford had not changed since their last meeting in Porto. He was brown-haired, clean as if the sea had washed him permanently, hazel eyes that made most people tell him the truth without quite intending to. He wore a coat that hadbeen well cared for rather than often replaced and carried contentment like a light pack even when it was heavy.
“You came,” Edward said, “god be thanked.”
“I would not miss the entertainment,” Henry said, deadpan, then leaned nearer. “You look as if you mean it.”
“I mean to try,” Edward said.
“Good.” Henry’s glance flicked briefly to Isla, then away with exquisite tact. “She has courage,” he added.
“Meaning she needs courage?” Edward asked in a bantering tone.
“My dear chap, I couldn’t possibly say yes, of course.” Henry replied blandly.
They exchanged the nonsense of men who have spent years saying difficult things to one another and now find themselves in a place where nothing needs be said. Edward felt more relaxed in the presence of his old friend.
Perhaps Isla could be prevailed upon to help find him a suitable wife. He can’t be a bachelor all his life.
When he looked for her, Edward saw Isla with her brother. They sat at a table, heads together. Several empty glasses surrounded Alistair. Isla was speaking to him earnestly. Her head turned as though aware of his attention.
She does that. A preternatural skill, to sense the attention of others.
This time though, she looked away almost immediately, lowering her head more, speaking more intently. Edward frowned. It looked like two conspirators.
Or a loyal sister trying to persuade a drunken brother that breakfast is not the time for indulgence in drink.
But doubt was a worm that gnawed at him. Henry nudged him toward the corridor that led to a small morning room. It was a pocket of privacy where one could hear oneself think.
“I’ll be quick,” Henry said, closing the door. He looked suddenly less at ease. “There’s talk.”
“There is always talk.”
“This kind will not die.”
Edward’s mouth thinned. “Say it, then.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “There’s a story I have heard whispered. Chewed over, you know how the old cows grind the cud of gossip. Says that a year ago your lady and her brother tried to fix an earl … Dorset … no, Devon … one of the D’s anyway, into marriage to smother some local scandal. The story goes that they failed and the man escaped north with his virtue intact and his purse lighter.”
The room did not move. A clock ticked. Sound seemed to step backward, to make space for the air which expanded with tension. Edward looked past Henry to the small watercolor his mother had hung here thirty years ago, a coastal scene framed by driftwood, a thing his father had called sentimental and she had kept anyway.
“Do you believe it?” Edward asked.
“I do not like it,” Henry said carefully, “and I do not like the mouths that savor it. But I cannot pretend I did not hear it. I cannot pretend you oughtn’t.”
“Who carries it?”
“A pair of Bellingham’s friends, and men who want to be thought his friends,” Henry said. “The tone was wrong though, toopleased with itself. It made me think they were not the original authors of the rumor. Only its common copyists.”
Edward could not fault him and did not try. Anger rose, not at Henry, but at the sick satisfaction of the invisible choir. That included his mother, who had seeded the room with enemies and called it society, and at himself, because doubt found a place too easily in a mind trained to test every spar for rot.
He thought of Isla on the terrace, steady under the Dowager’s knife. He thought of Hyde Park and the way she had not preened when she won. He thought of the kiss that had felt like decision. He thought of Alistair laughing with a decanter at his elbow.
“You see why I came,” Henry said softly.
“I see.” Edward’s voice was dry, “and I am grateful.”
“I would rather lose your favor than leave you ignorant,” Henry said, “but I would rather keep both.”
“Do you remember any more of the name?” Edward asked.
