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“I can believe in myself without you now,” said Anthony. “My father is dead.”

• • •

Lavinia stumbled backward when Anthony opened the door.

“How much did you overhear?” he asked, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“Enough.” Her gaze was feverish, and the color was back in her cheeks, too much color, blotches of hectic red.

“The engagement . . .” he began, and she dashed a furious tear from her eye.

“Do you think I care about a broken engagement? When you’re threatening my father with imprisonment?”

He stared down at her, jaws grinding. His family had been torn apart. Now he would be the agent of her family’s destruction.

Apology was inadequate. She was right: a broken engagement was the least of the ills about to befall her.

“Handle it however you will,” he said, as though she hadn’t mentioned her father. On that issue, he had nothing whatsoever to offer. “I won’t dispute any reason you give to break the banns.”

He bowed to her, no sorrow or fury on his face now. No, he felt his old mask sliding into place.

She clutched his sleeve as he started past.

“How is she?” she asked. “How is Effie?”

The question surprised him. Selfish, spoiled Lavinia Yardley—her care wasn’t only for herself.

The blue of her eyes looked darker, the lids smudged.

“I don’t know,” he said, and his honesty surprised him more than her question. “Her experiences have marked her deeply.”

Lavinia glanced away, nodded once, thinking, perhaps, of the role her father had played in producing those internal scars.

“You’ll help her,” she said at last. “You’ll help each other. I used to envy the two of you, the world you shared.”

He snorted. Lavinia had entered into their nursery games, imperially, a foreign queen demanding to be received in state.

Lavinia’s cheeks hollowed.

“You never wanted to marry me,” she said softly. His instinct was to protest, but the finality in her voice offered no room for it. “My father wanted it,” she said, and exhaled as the silence lengthened. The tears in her eyes looked hot, as though they’d burn more splotches on her cheeks if they fell. They didn’t.

“Is there someone else?” she asked.

He wanted to spare her this next humiliation. But she was studying him, her posture erect. She merited honesty.

“Yes,” he said.

She was ready for it. She stretched her elegant neck, inclining her head in faint acknowledgment, just shy of a congratulations. “You weren’t my first choice either.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Wait until the summer, at least, to marry her.”

A small concession, and in the circumstances, easily granted.

“She’s in no rush,” he said wryly.

Lavinia was staring at the door, and he knew the tumult of emotions on her face didn’t begin or end with him.

“You don’t have to go to him,” he said.

Her smile was terrible.