“Good day, Mr. Bastin.” She lifted her reins, and Jack watched as her mare trotted down Upper Brook Street with a concoction of fury and sorrow coursing through his veins. He had been foolish to break his rules—rules he’d put in place to protect himself from further betrayal. But no matter, he did not need love. Sweet revenge would soon be his.
*
Even before hisurgent rap sounded at her door, Ottilie heard Henry clamber up the stairs and call out her name.
She debated on whether or not to open the door. She didn’t want to speak to anyone, and her tear-stained face would scare Henry and provoke an onslaught of questions.
“Ottilie?” Henry knocked again softly. “Are you in there? May I enter?”
Placing her last pair of gloves into her travel case, she closed the lid and latched it as if sealing off another chapter to her life. Because, she realized, she was. After this moment, everything in her life would change and nothing would be the same again.
Henry’s knock and pleading voice sounded again. “Ottilie? I’m not going to leave until you let me in and tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”
She opened her mouth to say she was fine and would see him later for luncheon or tea. But the urgency in his voice gave her pause. Henry never visited her in her bedroom. Whenever he wanted to speak with her, he would request her presence elsewhere—the drawing room, library, or garden. But this time, concern clearly outweighed decorum in his mind, and she knew that sending him off with platitudes wouldn’t suffice.
Ottilie pushed herself to her feet and went to open the door, allowing Henry an unobstructed view of her tear-streaked face.
“What on Earth happened to you?” Henry stepped inside. “Bastin said you were feeling poorly, so he escorted you as far as Upper Brook Street, but then you refused to let him see you home.”
“What he said is true. Don’t blame Jack. I insisted he return to his friends.”
Henry shook his head. “This kind of thing won’t do, Cousin. I was worried. Bastin seemed—” His gaze fell to her travel case. He stared at it for a moment before turning to look at her questioningly. “Are you going somewhere?”
“To Oxford. I need to speak to my stepfather.”
Henry ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “I don’t understand. Has something happened to him?”
Ottilie shook her head.
“Then please do me the courtesy of explaining what is going on.” Henry’s tone revealed his frustration. “First you run away from our riding party and now I find you, in tears, with your bags packed, on the verge of departing London. Were you even going to tell me you were leaving?”
“Of course,” Ottilie said. “Look, I’m sorry. I just need to speak with my stepfather, and it can’t wait.”
Henry frowned. “Have you started communicating with him again? Is he expecting you? Why the sudden urgency?”
Ottilie squeezed her hands together. “It’s rather a long story. You’d best come and sit down, so I can explain.” She walked to the bay window seat and ensconced herself on its silvery-blue velvet cushion. Henry followed and perched on the edge of the cushion beside her. He remained silent as Ottilie gazed out the window at the blooming garden below and collected her thoughts.
“I wish you would tell me what’s wrong,” Henry said after several minutes. “Bastin seemed agitated when he rejoined the riding party. Did the two of you quarrel?”
Ottilie forced a smile. “Of course not. I hardly know him. What could we possibly have to quarrel about?” She turned back to the window and bit the inside of her lip. She hated lying to Henry about Jack, but at least she would not have to do so anymore.
“I don’t believe you. Something happened, and I mean to find out what upset you. If you won’t tell me, then Bastin must.”
Ottilie turned to Henry. “How much do you know about my father?”
Henry blinked in surprise at the shift in subject. “The same as you, I suppose. He was a rake and a heavy drinker who gambled away his money. And—” Henry snorted—“according to my mother, all these bad attributes stem from his talent for writing poetry.”
“I received the same information, but there’s a lot more to the story.”
“Oh?” Henry raised his eyebrows.
Ottilie took a deep breath before saying, “My father didn’t die when I was three. He died of syphilis when I was eight, after spending five years locked away in an asylum in East Sussex.”
Henry paled. “What? Who told you this?”
“Your mother.”
“To what end? Why would she spring this on you now?”
