Page 87

“I was happy, too, when you were engaged to Anthony.” She broke off to draw more air. Continued. “My daughter, the new Duchess of Weston, banishing the old to hell. But he proved to be entirely his mother’s spawn. And now I learn that you . . .” Her hands clenched into fists. “You played the whore to the other son.”

It hit harder than the slap. Lavinia’s mouth curved reflexively. Tears stung but didn’t fall.

“Well then.” She whispered through her ghastly smile. “We’ve both learned something.”

She owed them nothing. Her mother. Her father. Nothing.

At that moment, the door flew open.

The maid who entered with the tray kept her head down. A pretty girl with a light step. She deposited the tray and skipped back to the door, disappearing with a twitch of her hips.

Beth. No, Nan. That was her name. The chit she’d dressed down on the platform in Bodmin. Lavinia stared after her.

“Darling.”

She felt the air stir, and her mother was beside her.

“Forgive me.” She took Lavinia’s hands. “Darling, I . . .” She broke off with a soft cry, lifting Lavinia’s hands higher.

A pause during which they both examined her rough knuckles, the dirt beneath her fingernails. Lavinia broke her mother’s grip.

“Put these on.” Her mother spoke urgently, tugging off her gloves.

“Why?” Lavinia took the gloves, tossed them on a love seat. She saw Nan again in her mind’s eye. The girl should be in Cornwall, in Fowey. With Cranbrook.

Suddenly, Lavinia’s body turned to lead. She watched as her mother sat, poured out two cups of tea.

“Sit,” her mother urged. “Let’s talk more calmly.” She patted the cushion beside her.

“He’s here,” said Lavinia.

“Of course not.” Her mother tsked. She added sugar to one of the cups and held it out.

Lavinia noticed how she cut her eyes at the door. What a liar she was. Like her papa. Like everyone. Except perhaps Neal. But with Neal, she’d lied enough for the both of them.

She wouldn’t think of it.

“Sit,” her mother said again, too sweetly.

“Cranbrook is back.” Lavinia swallowed hard. “He’s in London.”

Her mother’s laughter struck a false note. “Oh. Well, yes, he’s in London.” She returned the cup to the tray. “But he’s not at home. He’s at his club.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I thought you knew. Isn’t that why you came? To reconcile?”

“I came to find you.” Lavinia looked at the door. At any moment, it might open, reveal her disgusting groom. “I believed him in Fowey.”

“He returned to London at once.” Her mother frowned. “To hire police detectives. He fears foul play. Kidnapping. It breaks my heart to see him. He is terribly concerned.”

Now it was Lavinia’s turn to laugh. “Poor man.”

“He’s not a man.” Her mother struck the table with her bare hand and the service rattled. “He is a duke. He is your husband.”

Lavinia looked at the pale, slender fingers, the gleam of the wedding ring, the soft glow of the polished nails.

“He won’t be,” she said, surprised by the strength of her relief.