James bent forward, took her hand tenderly, and then pressed a kiss to her knuckles, as if they were in a ballroom and were parting after an enjoyable turn on the dance floor.
It felt far too much like a goodbye.
But before she could say more, the carriage rolledto a stop in front of Invermere. Mr. Tavish didn’t climb down this time. There was no luggage for him to help with. Lucy dug into her reticule for a few coins, and James handed them up to the man.
“Thank you, Mr. Tavish.”
“Be well, my lord and lady.”
As the vehicle rattled back down the gravel drive and back onto the country lane, Lucy’s heart sank. The scene she perceived through the ground floor window told her two things instantly: her aunt had returned to Invermere, and she was, as McKay would say, in a fine fettle.
In the gaslit room, she stood talking—shouting, more like—to a man Lucy didn’t recognize. She was so consumed with the confrontation that she didn’t notice the coach’s arrival and departure.
But Mrs. Fox did. She’d opened the front door and stood at the threshold, much as she had that first night.
“Shall we?” James said tightly.
Lucy didn’t take his outstretched arm, didn’t move. “I’m not familiar with that man.”
“Nor I, but I think I know who he is.”
“Do you?” Lucy searched James’s face and found nothing but anxious misery there.
“In all that’s happened, I forgot to tell you.” He glanced at her and then away again. “The surveyor most likely arrived today, and that man at the wrong end of your aunt’s wrath may be him.”
“Good grief.” Lucy strode ahead of him. Not because she didn’t wish to be seen being escorted byhim, but because she felt an instinct to rush to the aid of the hapless man standing quietly as her aunt shouted.
“Mrs. Fox,” Lucy said to the housekeeper as she entered.
The lady shocked her by laying a hand on Lucy’s arm to slow her. “Her ladyship is not taking any of it well. She’s in a great deal of pain, and I’ll urge you to remember that. Whatever comes.”
“Of course.” Lucy pulled her arm from Mrs. Fox’s, though the woman hadn’t clasped her firmly. Something about the implication that she couldn’t see her way clear to sympathizing with her aunt raised her defenses.
She loved her aunt dearly. Admired her. For so many years, she’d yearned to be more like her. Though as she approached the closed drawing room door, fear broke over her like a trickle of ice water down her back.
Never in her life had she been on the receiving end of her aunt’s displeasure, but she suspected she was about to be now.
She heard James’s footsteps behind her. She longed to feel his reassuring touch—his hand at her back, his lips against her cheek—but she knew he wouldn’t touch her now. Not yet. Not until they knew how things would be resolved between him and Aunt Cassandra.
“All will be well,” he whispered, and she adored him in that moment for trying to reassure her.
She adored him. Full stop.
Rather than step inside the drawing room uninvited, she knocked, and the raised voices on the other side quieted. Mr. Blackwood opened the door a moment later, shocking her, as she hadn’t noticed him through the window.
“The lass has returned,” he said with his usual joviality. “Look at ye, all cold and shivering. Let’s get ye near the fire.” He ushered her inside, his hand heavy on her shoulder before he shouted through the open door for Fox to have tea sent up.
Cassandra stood stock-still, staring at her, her green eyes, so much like Lucy’s own, were glossy, her cheeks ruddy. Loose strands of her red-gold hair had escaped their pins. Then she lifted her arms and opened them, as if beckoning Lucy to come to her.
She went, and Cassandra embraced her as she’d done each time she’d come to visit Hallston House or the family estate in Sussex. A tight hug, an all-enveloping outpouring of affection that always made Lucy feel safe and loved.
Cassandra eased back and held on to Lucy’s upper arms. “Look at you. My lovely niece.” She pressed a palm to Lucy’s cheek. “Are you all right?”
Lucy wasn’t sure if the question was the sort of polite inquiry one makes upon seeing someone after a long separation or if her face gave something away.
“I’m well.” Lucy couldn’t move her head without pulling away from Cassandra’s touch, but she flicked her gaze toward the man standing beforethe desk in the corner. He looked stoic but miserable, his mouth set in a straight line, shoulders slumped.
Aunt Cassandra must have noticed her glance because she released Lucy and took a step back. “Apparently, you’ve met Angus.” She gestured at Mr. Blackwood. “And I know you have not met Mr. Dickson because he descended on my home unexpectedly while you were in the city.”
