In the bedchamber, Verity bent over the trunk. “There’s the dress you wore to the theatre, but it’s sadly crumped. Nothing else suitably modest unless you wish to don your page costume.”
“Absolutely not!” Henrietta laughed, but her laugh faltered at the pain etched on Verity’s face. “I’m most dreadfully sorry about your father.” She placed her arms around Verity and pulled her close for a hug.
After a moment, Verity drew away. She returned to the trunk. “How about this?”
Henrietta held up the green striped Polonaise with gold ruffles. “It’s garish but will do.”
“The color suits you,” Verity said in an unemotional voice as Henrietta stood before the mirror arranging the skirts.
Had Verity lost her spirit? It was understandable but to see her so down disturbed Henrietta more than she thought it would. “I don’t like to see you so distressed, Verity. I wish I could help.”
Verity’s breath hitched. “I am about to tell your father the reason I was in London.”
Henrietta discovered with surprise that she wished Verity wouldn’t. “He could be very angry.”
“I expect so, but your father is a generous and fair man,” she said over her shoulder as they returned to the parlor. “I hope he understands.”
“He cares deeply for you.”
“I would find that surprising. I certainly don’t deserve it.”
“What nonsense. Of course, you do.” Henrietta linked her arm through Verity’s when they reached the parlor. “You saved his life.”
“Your jewels made that possible.”
“But you found the man who helped us. My jewels would have been useless but for you.”
While the men remained upstairs, Henrietta roamed the garden, thinking about her father and Verity and how difficult and complicated it all was. The air was fresher here than in the city, sweetened with the fragrance of poppies, and a tang of the river. She strolled toward the fields rimmed by woodlands, then stopped. Far ahead of her, François strode purposefully into the trees. When he disappeared, she hurried to follow.
