Evelyn looked away, touched. “That is kind of you to say. Yet some of her words hold truth.” She bit her lip, unable to keep her pain from slipping into her voice. “I do not belong here. My family hovered only at the edges of society. I was not raised to be a duchess. My knowledge of etiquette is lacking—or feels so. I…” Her throat tightened. “I cannot deny that your mother speaks some truth. I am not suited to this world, to the position in which I find myself.”
Gemma was silent, and Evelyn braced herself, fearing she might agree. But when she met her eyes, what she saw there was not judgment but compassion.
“You should never have been subjected to her cruelty,” Gemma said softly. “I am so very sorry. But you are wrong on one point: a lack of training in etiquette does not render you unfit to be a duchess. You are wise and brave and kind. You risked your life for my brother, and society repaid you with scandal. Yet you bore it with courage—attending the ball in spiteof the slur upon your name. I admire you, Evelyn. If dignity and strength of character are the measure of a duchess, then you were born to the title.”
Evelyn stared at her, astonished. Tears welled and blurred her vision.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She reached for Gemma’s hands. “You cannot know what those words mean to me.” Her heart ached with relief and gratitude.Acknowledgement, that was what she had needed—more than anything. “Thank you, Gemma. You are very kind.”
Gemma smiled. “Well, that is the first time I have heard that as a compliment and not as an implied weakness.” She grinned. “William, of course, would never say that. But my mother...” she sighed. “I truly think she believes that kindness is a weakness. She is... her life has hardened her.”
“Well, I am more than grateful for the kindness that you have shown me,” Evelyn said with full sincerity.
Gemma smiled, and Evelyn found herself smiling back, her spirits unexpectedly lifted.
They spoke for a few minutes of lighter matters before Gemma excused herself, remarking that William would soon return from London. When she had gone, Evelyn sat alone in the drawing room, her thoughts racing.
She felt steadier—more herself. Whatever the Dowager Duchess chose to say, Evelyn would remain who she was. Whatever came, she would not abandon her own nature. That, she realised, was what mattered most.
She leaned back, feeling stronger than she had all day, grateful for the comfort Lucy and Sebastian’s sister had offered her.
Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas rode toward London. Rain spattered his face, sharp drops stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see the road ahead. He swore good-naturedly at the weather, though the memory of his unexpected meeting with Miss Harwick the previous day buoyed him.
“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured to his horse, patting the stallion’s neck. “A miserable day to be out, but we are nearly there.”
He narrowed his eyes against the drizzle. Another mile, and he would reach his destination. His purpose was simple: fetch Sebastian—or at the very least, have a frank talk with him.
He needed to understand why his brother had shut himself away in London for nearly two days. Evelyn was visibly unhappy; their mother had begun to complain of the estate business piling up on Sebastian’s desk; and the entire staff whispered concerns about the Duke’s absence. If Nicholas could simply learn when Sebastian meant to return, perhaps everyone might rest a little easier.
Four carters blocked the road ahead, their wagons laden with fresh produce and hay. Nicholas swore again. That was the trouble with London—everything grown on the surrounding farmlands had to be carted into the city, and it slowed the roads to a crawl. Carriages and coaches could stand still for long stretches while hay for London’s endless horses, along with wood, coal, vegetables, fruit, wool, cheese, and milk were brought in. On market days, the delays were even worse.
“Dash it all,” he muttered. His horse snorted as though in agreement.
Nicholas had hoped to be in London before luncheon, but by the time the road cleared and he was able to press forward,midday had already struck. Church and cathedral bells rang out joyfully as he rode through the bustling streets. Men and women strolled the pavements despite the drizzle; some returning from the park, others seeking an inn or public house for their midday meal. Ladies and gentlemen in greatcoats and pelisses brushed shoulders with traders and carters—London’s lively chaos spread before him. Near Hyde Park, he allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps, if fortune favoured him, Miss Harwick might enjoy a walk after luncheon.
But first, he reminded himself, he had to find Sebastian.
He turned at the crossroads and rode down toward the club Sebastian frequented.
The entrance hall was cool and dim, even compared to the grey day outside, and Nicholas blinked as his eyes adjusted. His horse, Night Star, was stabled, and he thought that he had seen Stormcloud in the stables not too far down, which was a good sign. Sebastian must be somewhere within the club, or at least close by.
In the dining room, with its dark mahogany furnishings and west-facing windows letting in a muted wash of light, Nicholas glanced around. Sebastian was nowhere in sight. Irritation pricked at him. If his brother were anywhere in London at this hour, surely it would be here? He turned toward the proprietor, who hovered nearby as though anticipating an order.
“I will dine here,” Nicholas said. “Whatever the kitchen serves today will suffice.” He hesitated. “Is my brother—the Duke of Brentfield—presently staying here?”
The proprietor nodded. “He spent the night in the rooms upstairs, my lord. He breakfasted here, departed for business in Westminster, and I expect his return for luncheon.”
“Grand,” Nicholas breathed.
He took a seat near the back and waited for his meal—and for Sebastian.
Five minutes passed. Nicholas stared at a discarded newspaper, not truly reading a word. His thoughts were too full of unease.
A commotion at the door made him look up. To his surprise, Mr Wilton, the family solicitor, stood there. Ordinarily, a solicitor would not be admitted to a club of this exclusivity, but Mr Wilton was the second son of a baron, which afforded him tenuous entry. Still, Nicholas watched him with interest as he settled near the back and requested luncheon. A moment later, another man—the son of a baron, with a notably dissolute reputation—came to join him.
Mr Wilton called for brandy, which was already loosening his tongue. His voice grew loud and slightly slurred. His companion hardly attended to him, his gaze drifting lazily about the room. Nicholas, though not accustomed to eavesdropping, sat only two tables away. Mr Wilton’s rising volume made it impossible not to overhear—and when Nicholas heard his own family name, his attention sharpened.
