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Pippy shook her head, which only made the ache blossoming behind her eyes worse. “It’s not so much he travels often as he stays…permanently. We’ve not received word of his return.”

Galahad—she pushed the old nickname from her mind—Lord Weymouth’s brows rose slowly. “Ah, I see.”

Pippy knew not what to say, so she simply nodded. A strong gust of wind picked up her skirts, and she stepped to the side to keep from revealing more than was proper.

Lord Weymouth doffed his hat and bowed. “My apologies. I should not have kept you out in this cold. It was a delight to see you again, Lady Phoebe. I hope it will not be another twelve years before we are reacquainted.”

“The pleasure was all mine, my lord.” It wasn’t, but politeness dictated the response.

He gave her a parting smile and disappeared down the pavement. Could he see she was on the verge of tears? Is that why he was eager to be away? Blast it all, she thought. But then quickly recanted the language. Her mother would not approve. Even considering Pippy’s current situation.

“Lady Phoebe?” Marcus, the footman who had accompanied her, jumped off their carriage as it stopped in front of the shop. Why could he not have appeared moments earlier? He eyed the small package in her arms. “Is there more inside the shop?”

Her cheeks burned again, but she smiled as if nothing was amiss. “No. This was all I required today.” She stood and waited as Marcus opened the door and handed her up. Once inside the carriage, Pippy rested her head back and allowed hot tears to sear a path down her face.

Why must today be the day her father’s account was in error? Why must Miss Kensington and Lady Mary have been in the shop when it happened? And why had she seen Galahad—of all people—when she was in such a state?

She took a handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. If she’d learned anything, it was that trouble rarely traveled alone. It seemed for her, at least, it came in triples.

She watched out the window as London passed by, and her brow creased. Had the problem with Papa’s credit simply been a mistake? She pulled off her glove and bit at the nail on her little finger.

There had been several times over the past year when her father had forgotten her pin money. Their meals of late had grown lighter, with meat appearing less often. She’d thought it was part of his grief over losing Mama just over a year ago. But could there be more to it?

She leaned her temple against the cool window. Both the London house and their estate, Wraithmoore Park, had reduced their servants.

Good Heavens. She sat upright. Could they really be under the hatches?

She melted into the squabs, pulling her pelisse tighter. The brick had gone cold, leaving the carriage comfortless. How long did they have before the whole of the ton knew? Or did everyone already know, except her?

Her mind drifted to Galahad—Lord Weymouth. Did he know? If he didn’t, he would soon enough. She bit at her finger again.

The carriage pulled up in front of their Berkeley Square townhouse. The door opened, and Marcus handed her out.

Pippy looked up at the creamy stone facade. How much longer until they had to quit London altogether?

She slowly made her way to the front door. What did she do now? Did she pretend not to know? Speak to her father? It’s not as if there was anything she could do about the situation. Speaking to him would only embarrass him. And what good was there in that?

Her shoulders sagged. She needn’t decide her course immediately. She needed to think. Besides, her father had little patience for watering pots. And the notion that he was the cause likely would not change his mind.

Pippy handed off her bonnet and gloves to the footman and turned toward the staircase. She needed the privacy of her chambers.

But the butler stopped her. “Your father asked to see you upon your return, my lady.”

Pippy swallowed. “Can it not wait, Cooper? I’ve had a trying day and wish to rest.”

Cooper’s stoic face gave no hint of what she should expect. “He was quite insistent, my lady.”

Pippy looked to the ceiling. “Very well.” She lifted her little finger to her lips, but dropped it when Cooper raised a brow. The habit would appall her mother. It was ironic, was it not, that it was her mother’s death that had started the habit?

She straightened her spine. It could not be put off any longer. The staff knew she was home. And in truth? Her nerves could not stand the unknown much longer.

She stopped in front of her father’s study door, but she did not knock immediately. Taking several deep breaths, she raised her hand and rapped three times, then nibbled at her little finger as she waited for an answer.

She bit off a piece of nail and winced when it pulled free. The skin was red and bleeding. When had she bitten it so low? It throbbed with each pulse of her heart.

She scolded herself. It must stop. What kind of suitor wanted a wife with bleeding fingers?

Her brow furrowed. Finding a husband had become more important than ever.