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The people he might be with.

Stanley, one of the footmen Brendan had mentioned, approached to place a plate before her. He withdrew without a word, but his presence was a subtle reminder of everything unsettled in the house. She supposed his role was one reason the second John still stood at the door, silent and immovable.

Lily raised a trembling hand to her brow, her fingers cool against skin too warm with suppressed feeling. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She fought to master them.

She would not—could not—allow herself to break in front of the servants.

But the thought rose, unbidden and merciless. Was it possible that Brendan was with Lady Slight?

Chapter

Thirteen

“Prohibit the taking of omens, and do away with superstitious doubts. Then, until death itself comes, no calamity need be feared.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

JULY 31, 1821

Twelve hours had passed, and Lily once again found herself seated in the breakfast room.

Alone.

Outside, the rain battered the windows, the heavens still weeping as they had done through the night. The sound was relentless—sometimes a steady rhythm, sometimes a sudden lash—as if the sky itself shared her unrest.

It took much to dim her generally buoyant spirits, but Lily had discovered that being startled by the sudden presence of the two Johns, coupled with her husband’s complete silence since she had fallen asleep in his arms on their wedding night, was quite enough to accomplish the task. Add to that the dreary weather, and her hopeful mood had been entirely vanquished.

Sleep had evaded her, vanishing every time a floorboard creaked or the windowpanes rattled. Each unfamiliar sound had startled her awake, heart pounding, despite knowing that Second John stood vigil nearby. His muted pacing along the corridor did nothing to soothe her; rather, the soft, rhythmic footfalls added to the haunted quality of the night. It was as though she had wandered into a ghost story, one in which she herself was the abandoned heroine.

Their first evening together had been perfect. A promise. A beginning.

And now her heart ached with disappointment.

She had enjoyed Brendan’s company more than she had dared to expect. She had enjoyed their tender intimacy. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that it marked the start of something meaningful, something shared.

But now?

She could not rid herself of the suspicion that he had left her to seek out someone else. Someone he had known before her. Someone polished. Sophisticated. Intimate with him in ways Lily could only imagine.

Perhaps their night together, which had felt magical to her, had merely been forgettable to him. Perhaps she was dull by comparison. She was unschooled in seduction, lacking the practiced confidence of a certain widow.

Perhaps she was being a ninny.

It has been a day and a half since I last saw my husband. Surely, I am permitted a touch of melodrama.

Lily let out a soft groan and leaned her head against one hand. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. At this point, even the presence of First John no longer moved her. Her distress was plain, and she no longer cared who witnessed it. It was exhausting to be observed, to live beneath constant surveillance like some sort of prisoner.

Last night, she had retreated to her room and shut the door against Second John. She had tiptoed about her chamber, afraid to make noise, as though he might hear through the door. This morning, she had risen beyond caring. She could not pretend to composure forever, not while being ignored by her husband and shadowed by strangers.

She reached across the table and drew the small stack of news sheets toward her. Wesley had presented them when he showed her in, and Lily suspected it had been an act of sympathy. A thoughtful gesture, and one that had made her feel, if only for a moment, seen.

She sipped her tea and scanned the pages, willing her thoughts elsewhere. There was coverage of Town affairs, still abuzz with commentary on the coronation and King George IV’s latest appearances. A few items of political import followed, none of which held her attention for long.

Moving the top sheet aside, Lily reached for another. This one was of a more frivolous sort, one of those gossipy broadsheets she rarely read. She began to discard it when a single line caught her eye, halting her movement and nearly causing her to drop her tea.

Her hand trembled.

Setting the cup carefully onto its saucer, she pushed it away and bent over the page once more, reading the line again—slowly this time, though her heart was already racing.