“What?” Caroline asked. “But why?”
Her mother halted her worried pacing. “My dear, if he has returned town, then the actress as well. Can you imagine the speculation we will all suffer should we have the misfortune to attend the same function?”
Her father interjected once more. “And knowing the insatiable hunger for gossip and scandalous spectacle, how many hostesses in the City will likely attempt to arrange just such a tableaux?”
The truth of that settled like a heavy weight upon her shoulders, pushing her down, almost as if she were sinking not to the floor but into it. Trapped. Because they were correct. On all counts they were correct. And whatever had happened, whatever strange connection to Julien Harcourt that she had experienced that evening, when they stood sequestered behind his study door, would remain only that. A brief interlude spawning a thousand questions that would never be answered.
Chapter
Four
The Next Day
Julien Harcourt did not call upon Lady Lyndehurst impulsively. He did very little impulsively, and it was precisely that reputation for measured action and quiet deliberation that secured him an audience within the hour. The matter at hand did not require spectacle, nor did it require temper. It required clarity, precision, and a willingness to make consequences understood without ever raising one’s voice. He was particularly well suited to that sort of task.
Lady Lyndehurst received him in her morning room, a space as orderly and composed as the woman herself, and he wasted little time in addressing the purpose of his visit. Miss Verity Langford sat beside her aunt, posture rigid, her gloved hands clasped tightly enough to betray the strain beneath her affected composure, and though her expression suggested wounded dignity, the color high in her cheeks spoke far more plainly. Julien did not trouble himself with pleasantries. He spoke of the rumors circulating through society, of their consistency, of their authorship, and of the damage they had done to his sister’s reputation. He did not accuse outright, not in so many words,but neither did he leave room for misunderstanding. When Lady Lyndehurst attempted to dismiss the matter as the idle chatter of young ladies, he allowed that perhaps it was so, but added—calmly, evenly—that young ladies learned their speech from somewhere, and that he was not without knowledge of matters which, if brought to light, might prove equally diverting to those same gossiping minds.
He did not linger on those matters. He did not need to. The mention of Hampshire was sufficient. The suggestion of debts, of carefully maintained appearances, of realities less comfortably concealed, required no elaboration. The effect was immediate. Miss Langford’s composure faltered entirely, and though Lady Lyndehurst held hers, there was a sharpening in her gaze that acknowledged, if not agreement, then recognition of the position in which she found herself. Julien outlined his expectation with the same quiet precision: the rumors would cease, they would be corrected, and they would be corrected publicly. It was not a request. It was a resolution. Lady Lyndehurst, practical above all things, did not mistake it for anything else. Instructions were given without delay, her tone cool and implacable as she directed her goddaughter to undo the damage she had so carelessly wrought. Julien inclined his head once, accepting the outcome without satisfaction, and took his leave with no further comment. The matter was resolved. There was no need to remain and observe its aftermath.
He did not return home.
Instead, he turned his horse toward Ashworth House, the decision made with the same clarity that had guided every step of the morning. The business with Lady Lyndehurst had been necessary, but it had never been his true purpose. That lay elsewhere, and now that the immediate threat had been contained, there was nothing to prevent him from acting upon it. He rode with a steady pace through the streets, histhoughts aligning themselves with a certainty that admitted no further delay. He had waited long enough. Longer than prudence demanded and far longer than inclination had ever advised. What he intended now was not reckless, nor was it ill-considered. It was, in truth, the most straightforward course he had allowed himself in years.
He would call upon her under the most ordinary of pretenses. There would be nothing remarkable in it, nothing that might invite speculation or give rise to further gossip. He would assure her that the matter of Miss Langford had been addressed, that the rumors would not survive the day, and that her name—and Eleanor’s—would be restored without lasting harm. That alone would justify his visit. It would be expected. Proper.
It would not be the purpose of his visit.
The truth of it settled in him as steadily as the rhythm of the horse beneath him. He had been prevented from speaking to her once already, thwarted at every turn by well-meaning interference and a degree of orchestration that might have been impressive under different circumstances. He had no intention of allowing it to happen again. He would not approach her in a crowded ballroom, nor attempt to carve out moments in the midst of company determined to intrude upon them. He would speak plainly. Directly. Without ambiguity or pretense. He would tell her that he wished to court her, that his regard for her was neither recent nor casual, and that if she would allow it, he intended to pursue her properly, openly, and with all due respect to her circumstances.
The thought did not unsettle him. It did not feel precipitous or ill-timed. It felt inevitable.
By the time he reached Ashworth House, his course was entirely set.
Something was wrong.
The impression came to him before he had even dismounted, a subtle dissonance between expectation and reality that did not immediately resolve itself into anything tangible and yet could not be dismissed. The house stood as it always did, its facade unchanged, its presence as orderly and respectable as any in the street, and yet there was an absence to it that did not sit easily with him. The usual movement was lacking. The windows, though not shuttered, seemed closed more tightly than the mildness of the day required. The entire place held a stillness that was not, in itself, remarkable, but which, taken together, suggested something amiss.
He handed off the reins and mounted the steps, his expression composed, his thoughts already adjusting to the faint unease that had begun to take hold. The door was opened promptly, but not by the butler. A younger footman stood in his place, his posture correct but not entirely at ease, and the uncertainty in his expression confirmed what Julien had already begun to suspect.
“Mr. Harcourt,” the young man said, bowing. “My apologies, sir, but the family is not at home.”
Julien regarded him steadily, the words settling without immediate response. “Not at home,” he repeated, his tone even.
“No, sir.”
There was something in the delivery—too quick, too prepared—that drew his attention at once, and for a moment he considered pressing the matter then and there. Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch, not long, but long enough to sharpen the discomfort already present in the young man’s bearing.
“And when do they return?”
“I could not say, sir.”
Julien held his gaze a moment longer, then inclined his head slightly, accepting the answer without comment. “You may inform Miss Ashworth that I called.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed.
He remained where he was, his attention fixed upon the polished wood, the quiet recalibration of his intentions occurring with a swiftness that might have been admirable had it not been so deeply unwelcome. The plan had been sound. The timing appropriate. The opportunity, at last, within reach.
