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Her lips curved ruefully. “Failure. The house remains mine whatever my circumstances. I may live there alone all my days, and I fear failing Lady Warrington, and the care she gave it for so long.”
They walked on, the distant voices and the rustle of leaves and the birdsong filling the quiet between them. He said nothing for some time, and Viola began to feel she had spoken far too openly for so brief an acquaintance.
“I do not think you will fail, Miss Trent.”
The softness of it startled her.
“You have already taken the responsibility to heart. Many a young lady, many a gentleman, given the same gift would not have done so. They would have thrown a grand ball by now, triumphant, caring nothing for what had gone before. You are still lost in the wonder of it — nay, the shock. You understand what the house means, and what it means to have been given it. That is why I am certain you will not fail.”
The fervency in his voice, the sheer certainty of it, drew a long breath of relief from her before she had thought to hold it back. It nearly made her smile. Her shoulders came down, the tightness in her chest easing, and she found she could look into his face without difficulty now. “To hear you say so, my lord — when I know the house was something you had thought to call your own — is valuable indeed.”
“I might — ” He stopped, frowned, shook his head, and brought his gaze back to hers. There was an intensity in his blue eyes that gave her pause, that set her heart quickening in a way she did not understand. “This is bold, Miss Trent. But you have said you wish to find the reasons behind Lady Warrington’s kindness, and I feel the very same, the more so for that letter. Might we not discover the reason together?”
Viola blinked. “I — ”
He stopped and turned to face her, taking her hand in his, his eyes earnest upon hers. “I assure you, it is not because I seek to challenge her decision, nor to persuade you to exchange the house for my one in Scotland.”
She pressed her lips together, a tension drawing about her chest again — though not the same as before. It did not come from worry over the house, but from the strange warmth beginning to rise in her as she held his eyes.
“You have no reason to believe me, I know,” he went on, with a slightly rueful smile, “after our last conversation, and my brother’s remarks at the ball. But the letter Lady Warrington left you is proof enough that she was clear in her own mind.”
Something shifted in Viola at the words. To be believed, to be trusted, steadied her more than any easy reassurance could have done.
“Let me come alongside you, so that you are not alone in it,” he said, taking the smallest step closer as Hannah made a faint, indistinct sound behind them — whether to urge acceptance or refusal, Viola could not tell. “We can find the truth together. Think what I know of Lady Warrington, what I can tell you of her. I am certain we shall discover all of it, in time.”
Her heart gave a small, unsteady turn, and she nodded. The smile that spread across his face drew her own lips upward in answer. “Very well, Lord Carrington.” He offered his arm again. “I accept your offer of help.”
“Capital.” He said it with feeling, walking on with Hannah still a few steps behind. “Thank you, Miss Trent. I am grateful for your trust.”
“And you for mine,” she replied, and felt, for the first time since she had come to London, the weight she carried grow a little easier to bear.
He took his leave at the park gate, and the sisters walked on toward the carriage in a silence that lasted precisely as long as Hannah could make it.
“For a gentleman you did not trust an hour ago,” she observed, to the middle distance, “you have granted him a remarkable number of minutes.”
“Hannah.”
“I say nothing. I am a model of discretion.” Her sister tucked Viola’s hand through her arm, and her voice softened beneath the teasing. “He behaved well today — better than I looked for. I only ask that you remember the house makes you a prize as well as a target, and that you cannot yet always tell the difference between a man being kind and a man being clever.” A pause. “Though I will own that when you stumbled, he caught your arm before I had even seen you falter. Clever men are rarely so quick.”
Viola said nothing at all, and was glad of the bonnet that hid her face.
CHAPTER 9
Lord and Lady Rothermere’s ball was always an excellent affair, if a little dampened tonight by the chill that had crept in to spoil what had been a fine summer’s day. Julian stepped inside with relief, glad of the warmth that drove off the cold threatening to nip at his fingers, and handed his hat and coat to the waiting footman.
I wonder if she will be here this evening.
The thought surprised him. Even as he greeted his host, his mind lingered on Miss Trent and their walk that afternoon. Her brown eyes gave away every thought that crossed her — a most expressive young lady, whether she knew it or not.
The ballroom opened before him in light and sound, the chandeliers scattering their glow, the chalked floor already half ruined by the dancers. Ladies in silk moved through the cotillion, conversation and laughter rose all around, and gentlemen gathered in knots to speak of the young ladies present before going to claim their dances. Julian drew a long breath and let it go, and a smile came to him unbidden. Somehow, in winning Miss Trent’s agreement to work alongside him, he felt more at ease, more able to enjoy the evening. The restlessness was gone. In its place was a clear path forward, one he was certain would lead to understanding, however long it took.
“Brother. There you are.” Brookmire clapped him on the back, grinned, and pressed a glass of brandy into his hand before lifting another from a passing tray. “You look — ” He tilted his head, considering him. “More like yourself, I think. Has something happened with Miss Trent?”
“In a way.” Julian sipped his brandy. “Not as you might suppose. She accepts nothing of what is written in that letter.”
Brookmire frowned. “You were already convinced it was a falsehood. So this only confirms it.”
“It does.”
