“No, she can’t.” Finn’s face was grim. “Iris is insisting we both remain in London, or that she goes ahead to Huntington Lodge without me, but I won’t let her go alone.”
“No, of course not. You’d go mad here in London, worrying about her.” Hyacinth was patting her palm against her forehead, as if she could shake loose a solution. “And Isla’s debut can’t be put off, either.”
Isla couldn’t withdraw from her season now—not after they’d gone to such lengths to persuade thetonto overlook the scandal. A retreat at this point would be disastrous. Thetonhad deigned to give the Ramseys a second chance. To squander it was a grave social offence, at best. At worst, it was an admission of wrongdoing.
Finn, who’d no doubt reached the same conclusion, was shaking his head. “No. I’m afraid it’s too late to withdraw now. Either she debuts this season, or not at all.”
“Surely something can be done?” But what? Hyacinth’s brain was spinning, and catching her thoughts was like trying to catch a carriage wheel broken loose from its axle.
She knew only one thing.
Iris loved Finn with all her heart, and Isla was Finn’s sister. Hissister. Lachlan and Ciaran—they were his brothers. Hisfamily. A family he’d always wanted, always wished for, ever since he was a child. It would break Finn’s heart to fail the Ramseys, and if Finn’s heart were broken, Iris’s heart would be, as well.
All this was to say nothing of Isla, who would be bitterly disappointed.
Hyacinth touched Finn’s arm. “Let me speak with Iris. I may be able to persuade her.”
Then I’ll work on persuading myself…
She had an idea, but it would mean week after week of balls and dinners, routs and musical evenings, lectures and art exhibits, and the entiretonstaring at her, whispering behind her back. And theywouldbe whispering. She was, after all, the only debutante in London who’d publicly accused a man of murder.
If she went ahead with her season, there wouldn’t be enough columns in all of London to hide her.
* * * *
It had been one of the longest days of Lachlan’s life, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning.
Isla’s season was over before it could begin, and Ciaran, who’d been tormented all night with dreams of Isabel Campbell, had sought to soothe his anger and despair by brawling with Lachlan in the grotto behind the rose garden.
Then there was Finn, who was so sick with worry over his wife he’d spent the past three hours hovering outside her bedchamber door, unwilling to enter because he didn’t wish to wake her, but also unable to stay away.
Lachlan pressed his arm tight against his side, and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. He needed to think what to do, but the blow Ciaran had landed on his ribs hurt like the devil, and his head was cloudy.
He ran a weary hand through his hair. Maybe they shouldn’t have come to London at all. There wasn’t anything left for them in Lochinver, but maybe he should have let Ciaran figure that out for himself. At least then there wouldn’t be this anger and bitterness between them—
“Oh, Mr. Ramsey. I beg your pardon.”
Lachlan turned, and despite the burning pain in his ribs, he couldn’t help the grin that curled his lips at the sight of Hyacinth Somerset.
She was wearing the most ridiculous gown he’d ever seen.
He’d seen for himself she had dozens of pretty gowns in her closet, but she’d chosen to wear a gray, shapeless thing, the neckline so high and tight she was risking another swoon, this time from lack of oxygen. If that weren’t bad enough, it was finished with a frill of lace that swallowed her chin. No doubt the sleeves were as tight and smothering as the neck, but he couldn’t be sure, because she’d finished her ensemble with some sort of short coat that looked so dark and heavy she seemed to be sagging under the weight of it.
He couldn’t see a single sliver of the pale, fine skin he’d admired yesterday, and not a single golden hair escaped the prison of pins jabbed into her skull. Every curve and edge and loose end of her had been trimmed, buttoned and tucked away.
She looked like a shorn sheep.
And still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“No, don’t go,” he said, when she turned to leave. “How does your sister do?”
“My sister?” She gave him a blank look, as if she couldn’t quite recall having a sister, and wandered into the drawing room in a daze.
“Yes. Yoursister, Miss Somerset. Lady Huntington.”
“She’s, ah…Finn is right about her, you know. She’s the most stubborn, willful woman in England. Yet she’s agreed, just the same.” Hyacinth let out a strange little laugh. “I suppose I didn’t think she would, but now she has, well…I’ll have to go through with it, won’t I?”
Lachlan frowned. What the devil was wrong with her? She wasn’t making any sense, and her face was leached of color. “Sit down, Miss Somerset.” He took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Now, what has Lady Huntington agreed to?”
