As Flora sat in the drawing room, awaiting word of the confrontation with Durand, Sir Liam Malloy sank down beside her. “I’ve come to say farewell,” he said. “I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.”
“Before the bonfire and celebration?”
“Well, Guy Fawkes is not a particular holiday for an Irishman. Some of my countrymen wouldn’t mind seeing the English parliament blown sky high.” He smiled to show he was joking. “Not I, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So, I wanted to take my leave of you. And just to inquire.”
“Yes?” Flora asked when he hesitated.
“Well, there’s been no…announcement. I wondered if, in fact, there might be a chance for me after all.” He leaned forward. “I could stay on.”
“No. My sentiments are the same.”
“Ah. Too bad.” He gazed at her. “So there will be news of your engagement soon?”
Flora felt she owed him the truth. She nodded. “I’ve written my mother.”
“Ah,” he repeated. “And you are very happy?”
“I am.”
He examined her. Flora shifted under his gaze. “You’re quite certain?” he asked.
“Sir Liam.” She was, Flora insisted to herself. It was just that so much had happened in the last few days. Soon she would feel the elation she’d seen in others. Lady Victoria, for example, her brain wryly suggested.
“None of my business. Yes, I know. Would that it were.”
“I hope you have a pleasant journey,” said Flora firmly.
“More likely a cold one.” He rose and stood before her. “If you should change your mind, you need only send one word.”
“I shan’t.” She wanted to be kind, but not encourage false hopes.
Sir Liam shrugged. “Well, perhaps I shall see you in the spring in London. I plan to be there for the season this year.”
At this moment, that seemed a long way off. Flora simply smiled.
“Good-bye,” said the Irishman.
“I wish you well.”
“And I, you.” He offered her a bow and a smile before walking away.
Frances Reynolds came around the back of the sofa and plumped down on it. “Is Sir Liam going away, too?” she asked.
“Yes. In the morning.”
“Everyone’s leaving.” The younger girl let out a long sigh. “It’s quite flat here now, isn’t it?” She’d been making this observation often since Mr. Wrentham’s departure.
“The fireworks are coming up.”
“I daresay they’ll be disappointing. It will probably pour rain.” Seeming unable to sit still, Frances rose again and wandered off.
Lydia Fotheringay swept through the drawing room doorway and rushed over to their hostess, who was talking with several of her friends, Harriet Runyon among them. Ignoring the others, Mrs. Fotheringay grasped the countess’s arm and pulled her away, launching into what was clearly a tirade, even from a distance. It must be finished then, Flora thought. Anthony Durand had been thrown out. Offstage, as it were, from her perspective. She felt a little like a bit player observing the main action from the wings of the theater.
Harriet hesitated in the center of the room, looking as if she wanted to intervene. But in the end she couldn’t match Mrs. Fotheringay’s effrontery. She came to sit with Flora instead. “I wonder what’s gotten into her?” she said.
There could be no doubt who she meant. “Mr. Durand was caught cheating at cards and thrown out,” Flora replied. She didn’t know if she was supposed to keep this fact a secret. No one had bothered to tell her. She wasn’t going to. She’d tell whomever she pleased. Or, just Harriet, perhaps.
“Lord Robert managed to prove it?” The older woman sounded impressed. “There have been rumors for years.”
Flora looked at her. Even Harriet, who liked and respected her, didn’t think that Flora might have had a hand in Durand’s downfall.
“And of course it doesn’t occur to Lydia Fotheringay that public protests will merely increase the gossip about him.”
“Quite oblivious,” said Flora.
Harriet frowned at her. “That’s very good news, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“And yet you seem downcast.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Not downcast,” Harriet agreed. “Resentful? Impatient?”
“Why would I be?”
“Why indeed?” Harriet examined her face for a long moment. “I would expect to be joining you in celebrating a happy conclusion to our visit, my dear. You are engaged. A despicable man has received his just deserts. I know how you value justice. I don’t understand what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Nothing should be. Harriet was right. And if a dispiriting sense of powerlessness still hung over Flora, well, she was being ridiculous. Yet that inner voice nagged. Would it be like this for the rest of her life? Would Robert always want to act for her? Capably. Lovingly.
“Flora?” said Harriet. She looked concerned.
“I’ve written Mama, and we’ll tell everyone once she’s had a chance to receive my letter.”
Harriet kept gazing at her.
“Do you think you should help the countess?” It was a diversion, but their hostess did look as if she could use an ally. Lydia Fotheringay had backed her into a corner and was berating her from inches away.
“Oh dear,” said Harriet. She rose and went to the rescue.
* * *
Robert had meant to go directly to Flora and let her know the matter was settled. But Salbridge had wanted to discuss all that had happened and decide what to say to whom. There was also the matter of securing the incriminating chest. Who was to keep it? And where? Thus, it was nearly eleven before he found her in the drawing room and drew her aside for a private conversation. “Durand is gone,” he said quietly. He told her the story of their confrontation. “And he won’t trouble you again. I made sure of that.”
“Thank you,” said Flora.
“So all’s well,” Robert added.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Thank you,” she repeated.
“And yet, you sound as if I’ve given you an ugly birthday gift. Well-meant but tasteless.”
“No, I don’t.”
“In fact, you do.”
Words seemed to pop out of her. “I wanted to save myself, you see.”
“And despite all you did, you don’t feel that you—”
“I’m being idiotic,” Flora interrupted. “Of course I’m glad that he’s gone and won’t make trouble for anyone else. You managed everything with your usual finesse.”
This sounded oddly like criticism. He waited; she said no more. “So, we will announce our engagement and get married.”
Flora nodded.
“You don’t seem overwhelmed with joy.” The hurt was startlingly sharp.
“I am! I want to marry you. Of course. It’s just… You never actually asked me, you know.” Perhaps that was behind this feeling of anticlimax—another occasion when important matters had been taken out of her hands and settled when she wasn’t even there. “You just assumed—”
“I was under the impression that we both assumed.”
Flora made a throwaway gesture.
“You did tell Mrs. Runyon…” Robert began. Then he broke off. This was not an occasion for argument. Emphatically not. On top of all else, in his current emotional state, he was likely to say something cutting. “Clearly a situation to be remedied as soon as possible.” He sketched a bow and walked away.
Watching him go, Flora was flooded with regret. What was wrong with her? Was she the most foolish, persnickety creature on Earth? She had everything she wanted. Why not simply reach out both hands and take it?
* * *
Robert strode along a path in the Salbridge grounds, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. The leafless trees and biting wind matched his mood. He’d thought to spend the afternoon writing letters with news of his engagement—to his parents first, and then possibly to a brother or two. He hadn’t even cared that he’d be teased over his earlier protests that he was not in love with Flora. But after their latest conversation, the letters had seemed premature. “Sebastian was positively buzzing with joy at his wedding,” he said aloud.
Plato, trotting along beside him as swiftly as his short legs could manage, fixed Robert with his penetrating, liquid gaze.
“Nathaniel and Alan…radiated contentment. No, that’s too dull a word. They were…smug…glowing.” Robert smiled to think how that label would revolt his eldest and youngest brothers.
Plato kept pace without breaking his stare.
“James, now… He was at his wit’s end for a bit. But not in a…sort of anticlimactic way. It was all storm and shoals with him.” Robert met his dog’s steady brown eyes. “I use an oceanic comparison for the navy man, you see. I am an acknowledged wit.”
Plato gave one of his curmudgeonly harrumphs.
“You might help keep my spirits up,” Robert complained.
The little animal responded with a grumble that could only be interpreted as a stern admonition.
“You know, Plato, sometimes you sound uncannily like my old mathematics master at Eton. That Indian fellow at Sebastian’s wedding—what was his name? Mitra. He’d say you might very well be old Cranston reborn.”
Plato snorted.
Robert walked faster. Movement was good, even in this gray November landscape. “Cranston always used to say, ‘You’re a smart lad. Figure it out for yourself.’ He wouldn’t hear excuses.”
A gust of wind rattled bare branches. Otherwise, the scene was silent. Any sensible bird had taken cover, Robert thought. “Flora is not a mathematics problem, however. If I can’t reach her…” He refused to finish this sentence.
Plato seemed to clear his throat, even as his small legs labored on.
“Of course I’m not giving up. No question of that.” Robert noticed that the dog was panting, his tongue lolling out. “I’ve set you a blistering pace, haven’t I? I beg your pardon.” He turned back toward the house, walking more slowly.
As they neared Salbridge Great Hall, a man emerged, waved, and hurried toward them. “They told me you were out walking,” Randolph said when he got closer. “Dashed cold for it!”
“We’re headed back inside.” Sebastian had once remarked that being joined by a brother always felt like reinforcements. Robert decided that he’d described the feeling precisely. “Here for the fireworks, are you?”
“I am. And full of anticipation. You’re well, I hope?”
Robert surprised himself by saying, “I’m pondering how best to offer for a lady in a manner that, ah, dazzles her.”
“You are?” Randolph looked amazed.
“Yes, I know I used to say I wouldn’t marry till I was forty and buried in the country. One’s opinions can change.”
“It’s not that.” Randolph shook his head. “You always know exactly what to say. I’ve admired your savoir faire for years. Never seen you falter.”
“Somehow, in this case, my, er, powers have deserted me.”
“May I ask who—”
“Flora Jennings. And yes, the family was right about that. Too.”
Randolph nodded, unsurprised. “A beautiful and accomplished young lady.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Robert enjoyed hearing his brother say it.
“I wonder if I could help? I write a sermon every week, you know.”
“A…sermon.”
“Not the same thing at all, of course,” Randolph hurried to add. “But they are words designed to move people’s spirits, you see.”
Robert was impressed, and touched. He never would have thought of it, but… “I’d appreciate your help,” he said.
“Really?” Randolph looked astonished.
“Yes.” What was the point of brothers if one didn’t accept their support, Robert thought.
“Splendid. We’ll sit down for a planning session at once!” Randolph rushed ahead.
A bit bemused at the flood of enthusiasm he’d unleashed, Robert followed him inside.