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Neal had a strange, spinning sensation. It reminded him of when he and Jenni would twirl in the field until the horizon rushed toward them and the ground flew up beneath their feet.

The world made no sense. He understood less than he had before, about Lavinia, about her husband, about how her story of heartbreak squared with the reality.

But one thing was certain. She was in danger.

That knowledge leveled everything.

The duchess was giving orders to the coachman when he broke in.

“Forget this Anthony.” He met the duchess’s eyes. Long eyes. Their gaze was disquietingly sharp.

She wasn’t a woman to take commands, from anyone.

“You said Lavinia’s husband is a beast.” His voice rasped. “If he hurts her . . . If we don’t intercede in time . . .”

He’d never experienced such a violent fury. It burned inside him. His very teeth felt like coals in his mouth.

“We go there first,” he said. “We stop him.”

The duchess stared at him, hands on her hips. She nodded and turned back to the coachman. A moment later, she was springing into the carriage, calling over her shoulder.

“Hurry, then.”

Chapter Twenty

There was no reasoning with Granite-face and Tweed, the thugs. Granite-face had forced her from the lecture hall, and Tweed had helped pen her in the carriage. Tears had no effect. By the time they’d bundled her into Harcott House and locked her in the yellow sitting room, Lavinia’s eyes were dry. She felt calm. Even as she screamed and pounded the door. It might have looked and sounded like hysteria, but she knew the difference. Part of her remained cold and untouched, calculating.

She wanted her mother to hear. She wanted to give her mother one last chance to disappoint her.

Or to surprise her.

To fly to her rescue.

After a time, she stepped back from the door and stood, neither disappointed nor surprised. If the past year had taught her anything at all, it was to surrender expectations. She’d learned her lesson at last.

Lucy’s parents were dead, and hers were living. But she’d become an orphan too, albeit of a different stripe.

When the key turned in the lock, she didn’t move, simply watched the door swing open, steeling herself.

Not Cranbrook.

The silhouette was feminine.

She broke in an instant, the word borne from her throat on a sob. “Maman.”

“She’s not here.” Nan didn’t enter the room. She held the door and beckoned. “Quick. He packed off the filth from his study, which means he’ll be down any moment.”

The pretty maid twisted to look over her shoulder, and Lavinia saw a flash of her flushed face, all rebellious agitation.

It was to be the chit to the rescue, then.

Lavinia was on her heels out the door, but the girl turned sharply, heading deeper into the house. Away from the front entrance.

Sensible move. If discovered aiding Lavinia’s flight, she risked her position, her reference, perhaps more.

Lavinia caught her hand, which was fisted around the housekeeper’s heavy key ring, stilling its jingle. She pressed it, too tightly, and felt Nan’s thin fingers grind on the metal.

“Thank you,” she said.