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“I beg your pardon?” The conversation had once again doubled back and become about Ina.

“Don’t think that I don’t have friends in Edinburgh who haven’t noticed how you schemed to entrap my son,” Gavin’s mother hissed, the hatred in her eyes unmistakable.

“Entrap him?” She hadn’t asked Sir Kier to attack her, just as she hadn’t asked for Mrs. Sullivan’s maid to overhear them in such a compromising position. But his mother was right about one thing: Gavin had been a victim too. He’d been the one forced to carry her back to respectability, compromising his own happiness and any future he might have had with another woman. A woman he actually loved.

Like the woman in the letters. He’d reassured her that he no longer felt anything for the woman he’d written them to, but, used as a weapon like this, the letters could hardly have done more damage.

“You circled him for years and snared him when you finally had the chance,” said her mother-in-law.

“I can assure you, that is not at all what happened,” said Ina.

“Just think, using Gavin to cover up your consorting with other men.”

“I don’t consort. I never consorted,” she bit out.

“And then there’s the matter of your so-called art.”

Lady Sophia had lobbed a direct hit straight to Ina’s most vulnerable spot. She could withstand blow after blow about her character. She was, after all, the daughter of Edinburgh’s most notorious flirt, and she knew people talked about her behind her back. But her art? That would always feel deeply personal.

“What’s wrong with my sculpting?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

Her mother-in-law either didn’t hear the implied warning there or chose to ignore it. “The very idea of a woman carving stone! Don’t think that I haven’t seen all of those nude statues people claim are art. It’s positively scandalous.”

There was nothing scandalous about the human body. The form and function of it were beautiful. She’d already known that before her marriage, but Gavin had shown her entirely new ways her body could arch and twist. She’d reveled in learning every inch of him, and savored as he did the same to her. Never would she apologize for any of that.

“I’m sorry you don’t approve of me,” Ina said, “but I refuse to be brought to heel by a woman like you. I came here with no thought but to be a source of comfort to you, although I now see that was a lost cause if ever there was one.”

Lady Sophia sniffed. “I will not seek comfort in the woman who would take my title and my home.”

“I have no intention of taking your home from you,” Ina said firmly.

“But you will,” said the older woman stiffly. “The dowager must move from Oak Park to Elmhurst Cottage to make way for the new baronet and his wife.”

Ina nearly laughed at the thought of making Oak Park her permanent residence. She’d never survive out here in the country, cut off from so much in this wretched, cold house that had seen such unhappiness. There was none of the bustle of Edinburgh, the carriages clattering along cobbled streets, the vendors hawking their wares along the Royal Mile, the trains steaming in and out of Waverley Station. Ina thrived on the constant churn of excitement and progress.

And then there was the matter of her people. She might be labeled eccentric in Edinburgh, but at least she had company. Even in her own little circle of Bohemians, there were Lana, Christine, and Anne. They were all unique and ambitious. They understood her.

Who would understand her out here in Ashington?

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want any of this,” Ina said with a shake of her head.

“Preposterous,” said Lady Sophia. “Every woman wants a title and a grand house. You’ll be respected across the county.”

“I don’t want it,” Ina repeated. She gathered up her sketchbook and jammed her pencil behind her ear. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to write.”

She was halfway across the room when her mother-in-law stopped her with a single question: “Don’t you want to know the rest of Grace’s story?”

Drat. Of course she did.

“Fine,” she said, clutching the sketchbook to her chest and resolving to leave the moment the story was done.

Something dangerous flashed in the Dowager Lady Barrett’s eyes. “Richard proposed to Grace first. She didn’t accept him initially. She was rather romantic at the time and insisted she’d never marry Richard even though she’d long been intended for him, but her parents sat her down and laid out clearly what her life would be like as the wife of a poor man. There would be no more seasons in London. No more French dresses. No more summers bathing by the seaside or balls or invitations to house parties. Her life would always be harder.

“Then Richard went to Newcastle and purchased a necklace for Grace. Seven perfect sapphire teardrops hanging from a collar of diamonds. He presented them to her, and when the young man found out, he was furious. He asked Grace if she would marry him even though he had few prospects. Instead, Grace accepted Richard and his sapphires, choosing wealth and her parents’ favor over the possibility of love.”

Lady Sophia was right. No one was innocent in this story. Grace had turned the young man away for a collar of precious jewels. The Cleverlys had been cruel. Richard had been opportunistic. The young man had been idealistic. And now no one had a happy ending to their story.

“I’m sorry for Grace,” said Ina. “I’m sorry for the loss of your son. I’m sorry for the young man. It sounds as though no one’s story ended happily.”