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No murders, no enforced courtships, no hasty weddings, no reluctant or unfaithful husbands, no fear. Just a normal conversation between two normal people.

“Only if you join me,” she replied, gesturing to the tray.

“Oh no, milady! It is not permitted.”

“Wesley, I … order you to sit down and have a cup of tea with me.”

Wesley stared at her, his eyes wide as he thought about it. “Very well, milady. If that is what you wish.”

“It is.”

He nodded, moving forward to place the tea tray on the table by the settee. Then he glanced about the room before walking over to collect a tumbler from the drinks cabinet. Returning, he sat across from her, perched awkwardly on the edge of the armchair as though ready to spring to his feet at any moment.

Lily straightened up on the settee, lowering her feet to the floor, and leaned forward. Placing the strainer over the cup on the tray, she poured her tea and then raised the teapot toward the footman. Wesley placed the tumbler down.

“I hope it is acceptable for me to use this? I only brought the one cup.”

She could not care two pennies about what became of her husband’s crystal tumblers after what she had witnessed in the library. “It is suitable.”

Moving the strainer to the glass, she poured his tea for him. The orange-brown tint made her mouth water in anticipation, and for the first time in days, Lily felt a genuine moment of peace. These past weeks had been a kind of slow torment, and it felt so wonderfully commonplace to sit quietly and take tea.

Sitting back, she sipped the hot liquid, and the tension slowly began to melt away. Soon, she would have to confront Brendan with the remnants of their marriage and decide how to piece together her shattered hopes, but that moment was not now.

Wesley raised his glass and sipped, visibly ill at ease. Lily supposed it was fortunate he wore the gloves of his livery, as the glass must have grown quite warm from its contents.

“How long have you worked at Ridley House, Wesley?”

The footman lowered his glass and cleared his throat. “A few years, milady.”

“So you never met the baron before the coronation, I suppose.”

“No, milady. But I did not meet his lordship even then. I was away for several days. My brother married in Yorkshire. Mr. Michaels generously allowed me the time off, and I returned the morning the baron was found.”

Lily vaguely recollected that Brendan had mentioned this on the afternoon of their wedding. “I never met the late baron either. His death certainly created a pickle for those of us left behind.”

Wesley appeared unsure how to respond. “Yes, milady.” He raised his glass to sip his tea again, and Lily suspected it was to avoid further conversation.

She sipped her own tea, flinching slightly and spilling a few drops when a distinctive knock sounded on the door she had locked.

“Lily, we must speak.”

Sighing, Lily set her cup down and offered Wesley an apologetic glance. The footman looked positively relieved to rise. Bowing, he walked away, tumbler in hand, and exited through the concealed door, which he quietly pulled shut behind him.

She crossed the room. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned the key and stepped aside.

Brendan must have heard the click of the lock, for the handle turned, and her rogue of a husband entered.

Brendan was rather proud of how he had handled Harriet, but he had not the faintest notion how to explain the matter to Lily, who sat stiffly upon the settee, her arms folded across her chest and her expression mutinous in the golden rays of sunlight slanting through the drawing room windows.

The amber light played across her features, illuminating the fine tension in her jaw and the dull sheen of unshed tears. The sharp line of her shoulders warned him against attempting any tender overture.

He could hardly blame her, not after what she believed she had witnessed in the library.

“I did not invite Lady Slight into our home,” he said at last, his voice lower than he intended.

“That did not seem to be a problem.”

Her tone was cool, flat as a pane of glass. It sliced through the awkward silence between them. He shook his head, resisting the urge to pace.