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Letters spilled across the white brocade that topped the bed, some in Yasmin’s looping hand and others in his. From the look of it, Lydia had flipped letters onto the top of the bed.

Two minutes later, a footman was brushing letters to the ground with a broom.

“I apologize, my lord,” Duckworthy said, his voice quavering. “I’d have never imagined that Lady Lydia would do such a thing. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I’m sure she didn’t mean to cause harm.”

Giles didn’t agree, but he did know that Lydia wouldn’t have spent much time considering the ethics of the situation, any more than his mother used to when launching her lawsuits. Lydia wanted to win, and that meant eliminating Yasmin by any means possible.

He heaved a basket filled with crumpled, dusty letters into Addison’s chaise.

Jake settled into the corner. “Having enraged my wife a time or two, I have some advice to offer.”

The last thing Giles wanted was advice. But he was in the man’s vehicle. “Yes?”

“On your knees,” Jake said flatly. “On. Your. Knees. Your bloody sister stole Yasmin’s letters, but you didn’t follow your fiancée to the country when you didn’t hear from her, did you? You wrote more letters, but you didn’t get in a fast carriage to see if she’d been taken ill.”

“I knew she wasn’t ill.”

“How?”

“My sister read the gossip columns aloud at breakfast. Yasmin was often mentioned.”

“Most of the news is made up from whole cloth,” Jake pointed out. “One of our guests—not knowing of your secret betrothal—told the dinner table the other night that you were stitching up a marriage with Lady Stella. I don’t suppose that made Yasmin very happy.”

“I didn’t let myself think of Yasmin being ill,” Giles said, the truth wrenched out of him. “I thought she wanted to break our engagement, that she might have chosen another man. I had to keep my sister’s betrothal afloat, so I planned to join her the moment Lydia married.”

They were silent for a few minutes.

“I feel sorry for Pettigrew,” Jake said.

“She likes him.” It was a lame excuse, and Giles knew it. “They both like dogs.”

“It was his choice,” Jake said. “More the fool he. Still, you’ve got a steep hill ahead of you. My point is that Yasmin should matter more than your dignity.”

“I see.” He did.

“Don’t read her letters now,” Jake suggested. “Do it together.”

The carriage jolted on. Jake braced himself in a corner and went to sleep with the ease of a man who often spent days on the road. Giles stayed awake, allowing himself to recognize the cold feeling he felt as terror, stark terror.

He fully expected a wheel to come off. A milk cart to cross the road. A horse to go lame. Instead, Jake’s carriage pulled into an inn and smoothly changed to a fresh team. He and Jake used the necessary, then climbed back into the carriage, devouring the roast chicken handed over by the innkeeper.

Jake entertained them both by telling the story of how the Duke of Trent managed to marry his brother’s fiancée. Giles nodded here and there, watching the mile posts flash by. His heart was thumping a rhythm that spelled out the name of his betrothed.

The name of the woman he loved.

Chapter Thirty-One

When Jake Addison’s carriage bowled through the tall gates that surrounded his country estate, Yasmin was in the drawing room alone. Cleo was working in her study upstairs.

She was seated at the window, practicing a crochet stitch that made it easier to create strings adorned with scraps of silk. One of Merry’s sons wanted a kite with twelve tails. It would never take flight, in her opinion, but that wasn’t relevant.

Her host’s chaise was a sleek green vehicle built for speed. She saw it coming from far away as it swept down the long avenue lined by elms. She watched Giles climb from the carriage, shake himself, and stride into the house.

She began trembling and put her crochet work to the side.

Giles walked into the room carrying a covered basket. He pushed the door shut behind him without a word. He was pale, his eyes tight and shadowed, his jaw hard, a pulse beating in his forehead.

Yasmin didn’t smile, an errant bolt of pride flaring up her backbone. “I see that your right hand has not been amputated,” she said, because a lady needs to claim some self-respect. “I thought perhaps injury had prevented you from answering my letters.”