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Audrey’s brow furrowed, and she glanced toward Julius, a question in her eyes.
“The guards from Markham House,” he explained, his tone low. “They each call themselves John, for reasons of secrecy, I presume. A habit amongst their sort to obscure identities.”
She drew in a slow breath, letting it fill her lungs before rising from the settee. Her limbs felt heavy, the weight of anticipation as real as the iron latch on the birdcage. Stooping, she gathered both it and her modest valise, her movements precise, controlled.
“It would seem,” she murmured, “we are ready to depart.”
Julius stepped forward, a sudden intensity in his gaze. “We need to speak. About the future. The plan I mentioned.”
Audrey paused, then offered a small nod, though the muscles of her face barely moved. Her mind was in no fit state for practical conversation. She was overwrought, her heart bruised and tender as if it had been physically pummeled. Discussing scandal and consequences was more than she could bear at that moment. All she wanted was solitude. To be allowed the silence in which to mourn.
“In the morning, perhaps,” she said softly. “It has been a long day.”
It was all she could manage by way of explanation.
Julius’s gaze softened. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers. “May I assist you with that?”
But she pulled back, clutching the birdcage more firmly. “I can manage,” she said, not unkindly. She needed to reacquaint herself with solitude. Papa was gone, and Julius would soon return to his London diversions without her. “Shall we?”
He inclined his head in assent, though a shadow passed behind his eyes. He lifted a hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, the gentle sweep of his fingers sending a tremor through her spine. Audrey steadied herself, refusing to allow tenderness to unravel her composure.
Together, they descended the wide staircase. Each footstep echoed against the marbled silence of the house. A hush lingered between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Audrey cast a sidelong glance at Julius, noting the pensive set of his jaw. But she was too occupied with her own sadness to wonder at the cause.
At the base of the stairs, Patrick appeared as if summoned, already reaching for the great oak door.
Audrey halted in the threshold. Outside, the lamplight caught the honey-toned façade of Lord Stirling’s townhouse. The street shimmered with the hush of night, slick with dew and silence. The sight pierced her, so familiar and yet foreign, as though she were waking from an exquisite dream to the cold reality of morning.
She gripped the valise and birdcage tightly, anchoring herself in the present. The weight steadied her. It gave her something to feel besides despair.
This moment mirrored the night she had arrived in London—still grieving, still hollow. But now, she was not merely a daughter in mourning. She was a woman forever changed. A woman who had given her heart and must now leave it behind.
Audrey squared her shoulders and stepped into the night, not glancing back at the man beside her. Let him return to his adventures. Let her return to Stirling and the solitude that awaited. The glorious dream was over, and it was time to wake.
