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“It is only necessary to have courage, for strength without self-confidence is useless.”

Giacomo Casanova

SEPTEMBER 3, 1821

Audrey descended to breakfast nursing a persistent ache behind her eyes. The night had passed in restless silence, her mind tangled with anxious contemplation. She had lain awake, her gaze fixed upon the shadowed canopy above her bed, tormenting herself with regrets, chief among them her failure to speak with Julius about the so-called plan he had mentioned. A plan to rescue her from scandal. A plan she now feared might have been her only hope.

Perhaps, had she known what his intentions were, sleep might have visited her. Instead, her thoughts had spun in relentless circles, weaving worst-case scenarios with no answers to soothe them.

Upon ringing for her maid, she had been startled when a different girl had appeared. Young and unfamiliar, the new maid had hesitated in the doorway as Audrey frowned in confusion. A few questions had revealed that her original maid had given notice and departed several days earlier. The news had rattled her more than she had expected. Had the girl left to distance herself from Audrey’s tainted reputation? Or was it a silent condemnation of her continued absence from society?

The implications were clear enough. Belowstairs must be positively humming with gossip. She had returned under a pall of disgrace, and such occurrences frequently unsettled the domestic staff. It was not uncommon for servants to seek positions elsewhere when scandal disrupted a household. Audrey could only hope her folly would not cause undue trouble for Lord Stirling when he returned.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she walked toward the breakfast room. A figure in livery stood at attention in the hall, a footman she did not recognize. It must be one of the newly arrived guards from Markham House. The man was a shade too short for a footman, his coat sleeves too long, his stock rumpled and askew. He wore the uniform with the unease of one unaccustomed to it. Yet there was a quiet ferocity in his bearing, a readiness in the set of his jaw that marked him as someone not to be trifled with.

She passed him without a word, entering the breakfast room with cautious steps. Within, another footman stood beside the gleaming sideboard, this one she recognized. Audrey offered a weary nod before collecting a plate. She spooned out a modest portion of eggs and fruit, her appetite scarce but her need for sustenance stronger.

Dropping into a chair with an unladylike sigh, she cast a longing glance toward the door. She had half hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that Julius might already be waiting, coffee in hand and explanations at the ready.

Lord Trafford, she corrected herself. They were once again in the realm of formality and public decorum.

But he was not here. And she was left to sit alone, the air thick with silence and a thousand unanswered questions.

Would he even speak to her now that they had returned to society? Had he rethought his supposed plan? Was it simply gallantry spoken in the hush of midnight but forgotten with the dawn?

The logistics of her situation loomed like storm clouds on the horizon. Must she wait for the Earl of Stirling to return before she could depart London? There appeared to be no other option.

Ought she notify someone of her return? Should she pen a letter to Lady Astley with some tidy fiction about an extended sojourn or a bout of illness?

Audrey pushed her eggs about her plate, appetite lost to the swell of anxiety rising in her chest. The path ahead remained obscured, and all she could do was wait, though for what, she could not yet say.

She was loath to announce her return. Doing so might serve as an unwelcome invitation for Lady Astley to descend upon the house in a flurry of disapproval and self-righteous scolding. The thought of being spirited away under the arm of that indomitable dragon to endure forced chaperonage was nothing short of a nightmare. And entirely futile. The damage was already done.

Audrey’s fork hovered above her plate, appetite still elusive, when the earl’s footman, one of the few familiar faces in the house, cleared his throat discreetly. She looked up, startled from her grim reverie.

“You have correspondence, Miss Gideon.” He stepped forward and extended a silver salver bearing a single letter.

With a distinct sense of dread, she reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the parchment, just as a familiar voice rang out from the threshold.

“Aud—Miss Gideon!”

The name was nearly exclaimed, the voice uncontainably buoyant.

Julius stood in the doorway, radiant as ever in a unapologetic coat of purple silk that caught the morning light in elegant waves. It was, objectively, an extravagant choice. Yet to her weary eyes, he appeared magnificent. Or perhaps it was merely her deep yearning to be near him that made even his most absurd finery feel like home.

Heavens above, I must leave London.

“We are to speak this morning about”—his glance flicked meaningfully toward the lingering servant—“the situation.”

Audrey managed a smile, the pounding in her head ebbing slightly in response to his presence. “Please, Lord Trafford, have you taken breakfast?”

“Not yet,” he replied, making his way to the sideboard. With a few quiet words to the footman, he arranged for privacy. The servant departed, closing the door behind him, leaving them alone in the room for the first time since returning to society.

Grateful for the moment, Audrey turned her attention to the letter. Now that Julius was near, she found herself eager to learn its contents, whatever they might be. If they contained ill news, at least she would not have to bear it alone.

She unfolded the page with the delicacy of someone disarming a trap, her eyes darting at once to the signature.