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“Oh,” Simon said, having apparently been convinced enough by his own lie to be mildly surprised by this news.

She gestured for his hat. “He is attending Miss Morgan’s musicale.”

“Right. That was tonight, wasn’t it?” His face heated as a lie to himself became a lie out in the world. “I admit I am not the ideal audience for musicales. I sent my regrets.”

“Lady Harcourt will be delighted to see you, though.”

Yes, but would Miss Brown be delighted to see him? Almost certainly not.

“How is the countess of late?” he asked.

“Largely unchanged from when you last saw her.” Mrs. Saunders led the way out to the back garden where the lady in question—and her companion—were sitting at a table under a small but stately beech tree. He studied them for a moment before his presence was announced. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought they were mother and daughter, the way they sat together yet did not converse, each woman absorbed in her own pursuit, Miss Brown penning a letter and the dowager painting at an easel. There was an air of quiet amiability about them, of familiarity, as if they had passed many a summer afternoon in this fashion.

“My lady, Miss Brown,” Mrs. Saunders said, and Simon regretted that his presence was going to upend the serene scene.

Indeed, Miss Brown fumbled her quill and quickly slipped the letter she’d been writing into an envelope and the envelope into a book.

The women turned, and as Mrs. Saunders finished announcing him and took her leave, Simon almost had to laugh at the identical looks of bewilderment on their faces.

The dowager was bewildered because she was trying to place him. He was accustomed to that.

“Marsden, you say?”

“My lady,” he said, going to stand before her and bowing. “Yes, though you may remember me more readily as Archie’s school friend Simon. And my brother James—or my father before him—as the Earl of Marsden.”

The lady made a vague noise of agreement, but Simon knew from experience that she didn’t remember him. The points of reference he’d given—his family, and, more tragically, her own son—were out of her reach today, as they had been most days recently.

Miss Brown’s bewilderment, however, was less easily parsed. She hadn’t expected him, and now that he was here, she probably he no idea what to expect from him.

He wanted to tell her that he had come in peace.

“Have you met my friend, Miss Brown?” the dowager asked. It was a good day, then, relatively speaking, if she knew Miss Brown. To hear Archie tell it, she had of late often mistaken Miss Brown for her own mother.

“I have indeed.”

“She is very pretty, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” Simon said, praying that the burning sensation in his ears and cheeks was not accompanied by a telltale redness. They had navigated exchanges like this before, the dowager’s affliction having relaxed her sense of propriety. If she’d asked this question two days ago, Simon would have agreed easily—for it was a true statement—unafflicted by burning skin, and they would have moved on.

Also, Archie would have been here.

“I am sorry you missed his lordship,” Miss Brown said, moving the conversation—thankfully—on to less fraught topics. She spoke stiffly, though, as if she were in an uncomfortable social situation, which he supposed she was.

Simon, willing himself to affect an air of affability he did not feel, said, “My main objective was to visit the countess.” He smiled at the lady, who looked happy enough. “And my secondary objective was to return this to you, Miss Brown.” He set Pride and Prejudice on the table, hoping she would understand that what he truly meant was that he wanted to set things right between them.

“I am sorry that I forgot to give this to you last time I saw you.” He paused, wondering if he should say more. Why not? It wasn’t as if the dowager was going to pick up on his hidden meaning. He repeated his apology with a few words omitted. “I am sorry about the last time I saw you.”

He spoke softly, but she heard him. He could tell by the way she tilted her head, as if she were contemplating a puzzle. It was a pose he recognized: She struck it when she was thinking intently.

She did not, however, say anything; no absolution was dispensed. He wished she would speak. He refrained from squirming under her regard, but it was a close thing.

“Did you read that book?” the dowager asked, and if there were undercurrents of … something swirling beneath the surface of his conversation with Miss Brown, the dowager’s bright, cheery tone confirmed that she had indeed been oblivious to them.

Simon cleared his throat. “I did. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I am curious which of Miss Austen’s books Miss Brown might recommend next.”

“Mansfield Park, I should think,” Miss Brown said, and he was startled by her voice, though he had wanted nothing more a moment ago than to hear it.

“I wonder,” Simon said impulsively, taking the book back and flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for, “if you meant to leave this inside, Miss Brown.”