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Lancelot was torn between worry for Miss Barry and the suspicion that Mrs. Phillips was fabricating her illness. But how to find out what was the true situation?

There was nothing for it but to wait. Thankfully, Captain Forrester was more adept than he at making idle conversation. Lancelot found it difficult just to sit and pretend interest in all the latest society on-dits.

After some minutes, the other gentlemen rose. Mrs. Phillips rang for the butler. As the men bid their farewells to the captain and him, she signaled the butler and whispered a few words to him.

When the door had closed behind the men, she turned her attention to them with a smile. “I told him not to admit anyone else.” She clasped her hands on her knees and leaned forward, her manner
all businesslike. “Now, I know you are anxious to hear how Miss Barry fares. She is fine—physically.”

Her amber-hued eyes focused on Lancelot. “She is understandably quite broken up emotionally—and spiritually. She has given me only a cursory summary of how much she remembers, which is precious little, thank goodness.”

She held up her hand, stalling any questions. “But before I go any further, I must tell you that she is gone.”

Lancelot’s jaw dropped open.

“What?” Captain Forrester demanded.

Mrs. Phillips nodded. “She was up at dawn. As was I, thank goodness, or she should have sneaked out before any of us was aware.” She smoothed down the silk of her gown. “She felt so badly that she wanted nothing more than to return to her home.” Again, her gaze went to Lancelot before including the captain. “Her home in Alston Green.”

Lancelot swallowed, hardly believing what he was hearing. “You can’t mean you allowed her to make the trip today alone?”

She nodded sadly. “Believe me, I tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. I insisted she take my coach first to Lady Beasinger and tell her she was feeling overtired and homesick. I shall pay her a visit later and explain things more fully . . . though we both agreed that the less Lady Beasinger knows, the better.”

They nodded.

“I lent her my traveling chaise although, again, she insisted she could take the stage. But never fear,” she reassured them with a smile, “I prevailed. She promised to write to me as soon as she arrived.”

The door startled them both, and they turned to see Miss Phillips entering. She smiled at them, though her smile lingered at Captain Forrester, and Lancelot felt a pang that the two of them seemed to have formed an immediate attachment. Why was it so difficult for him to have found the same?

He’d thought . . . but now . . . He brushed aside these futile longings in order to hear what Miss Phillips said.

“Thank you for alerting me that they were here,” she said to her sister-in-law, then she turned to them with an irrepressible smile. “I’ve had to cool my heels up in my room, pretending indisposition.” Her mouth turned downward. “But Céline and I decided it best to pretend both Jessamine and I are too fatigued after the rigors of the ball.”

Her sobered look fixed on Lancelot. “Céline has told you that Jessamine left?”

He nodded, unsmiling, still finding it difficult to absorb. “I wish you had notified me—us.” He felt himself color to the roots of his hair. “I mean, perhaps one of us could have persuaded her to remain. I fear this will be worse if we hope to stem the gossip.”

“That is what I told her,” Mrs. Phillips said. “I would have sent word to you immediately, of course, but it was so early—barely after dawn—and believe me, she would have been gone before you had time to arrive. She was resolute. She’d already packed her things and would have a hailed a hack.”

“What shall we put out in society, ma’am?” Captain Forrester asked, bringing their attention to the most pressing problem.

“I think since I have been telling all her callers today that she caught the grippe, that we must maintain the fiction that she is with me. After a fortnight, I can inform visitors that she has been transported back to her home to recuperate. If word is out that someone in this household has the grippe, believe me, I shall have few visitors.”

“What about the servants?”

Her lips firmed into a serious line. “I shall ask for their secrecy. I trust most of them, though some are new.” She sighed. “It is almost impossible to assure oneself of total confidentiality from the servants.” She looked down at her hands. “The truth is, Miss Barry told me she doesn’t care what conclusions society draws
about her.” Her gaze rose once more. “She realizes that if not St. Leger, then one of his companions may let something slip—when they’re in their cups or over the gaming tables.

“She says she is through with London and will retire to her village.” She spread her hands. “She was determined, and I could see that nothing would convince her at this point. Perhaps it is best for her to be at home with her parents for a time. By next year, there will have been plenty of larger scandals, and she can come back if she wishes for another season.”

Lancelot curled his fingers into fists, angry at the unfairness of it. Miss Barry had had a lapse in judgment in allowing her head to be turned by St. Leger, but she had certainly committed no crime. She had behaved as many innocent, naïve young ladies did their first time in London. She should not have been prevented from enjoying what any young lady dreamed of enjoying.

“What a pity,” Captain Forrester murmured. Miss Phillips had taken a seat next to him, and she addressed something to him. Mrs. Phillips turned to Lancelot as if to give the couple time to visit with each other.

“Please tell me what transpired last night. I didn’t want to press Miss Barry too much, and she remembers little at any rate.”

Lancelot nodded, though he didn’t want to relive the episode either. But he quickly and as dispassionately as he could related all that had happened after they had left the ball.

“So you are sure St. Leger did nothing worse than kiss her?”

He nodded. “Yes. She was fully clothed though disheveled.” He drew in a breath. “If we’d been a few minutes later . . . I shudder to think.” His hands clenched and unclenched as he recalled his dream. “Believe me, ma’am, if I thought he had done anything else, he would not be alive this morning.”

She searched his eyes and finally nodded. “I see. You relieve me.” She moistened her lips, her look earnest. “You must pray for her. She will need it.”

A shaft of guilt pierced his heart. He had prayed for her but with anger and bitterness in his heart, blaming her for her predicament. “I shall.”

“I prayed for her before she left. She is very hurt and confused right now. Only the Lord can heal her heart so that she may enjoy the love of a worthy man, the way any woman aspires to.”

Their gazes locked a second longer before he gave a curt nod.

He wished he could excuse himself then. What he wished most of all was to get on a horse and ride all the way to Miss Barry’s village and see for himself that she was well. But he pretended patience, allowing Captain Forrester an adequate visit with Miss Phillips. After another quarter of an hour, the captain finally stood, bending over Miss Phillips’s hand. Her face fairly glowed at his attentiveness, and once again Lancelot felt a stab of jealousy and longing.

When they left the Phillips’s residence, Lancelot excused himself from Captain Forrester and walked home. The captain seemed to understand his desire to be alone. His only words at parting were, “She’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

Lancelot swallowed and gave a curt nod.

He ignored the sights and sounds around him until he finally turned down his street. He climbed the steps wearily, feeling the fatigue of the night before. He too had risen early and slept poorly.

The footman opened the door for him. He nodded in thanks and removed his hat.

“Mr. Marfleet, sir, you’ve received this message. It was delivered not a half hour ago.”

He turned in the act of removing his gloves and took the note.

“It’s from Kendicott Park.”

Wondering what his parents wished to communicate to him, he stepped into the nearest room and broke open the crested seal. The letter was in his father’s handwriting.

Dear Son,

Come home at once. Your brother is gravely ill. Notify your sister and bring her. Do not delay. Pray.

The last word was underlined, which struck a note of fear into Lancelot’s chest. His father was not given to hyperbole or to invoking divine intervention.

Lancelot began to pray immediately. What could have befallen Harold? When had he gone home?

He left the small room and made his way up the stairs, calling down to a footman as he went, “Prepare the traveling chaise for me. I must go to Kendicott Park. Send Alfred to me,” he said, naming the footman who acted as valet for him when he was home. “Where is Miss Delawney?”

The young man jumped to attention. “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir. Miss Delawney is in her room, I believe.”

He took the rest of the stairs two at a time and headed there, his mind in a whirl.

All thoughts of Miss Barry’s dilemma fled for the moment as his thoughts and prayers focused on his older brother.

What catastrophe had at last befallen Harold? For so long he’d prayed for him, counseled him, cajoled him, reproved him. Lancelot quailed with dread. The last thing he wished was for God’s judgment to befall his errant brother.

20

J
essamine had been home a fortnight, and the despondency that had descended on her the morning after her debacle with Mr. St. Leger refused to lift.

She had arrived home after a whirl of packing and explaining to poor, confused Lady Bess her sudden departure for home. But Jessamine felt as if hounds were on her heels. She refused to admit it, but deep down she was fleeing from seeing Mr. Marfleet again. He would feel duty bound to inquire after her, but she couldn’t bear to have his censorious, pitying gaze on her once again.

He would make a good vicar, the way he beheld a sinner with that sad gaze—just like her father. A good swat of a switch would be preferable to that quiet, compassionate look, she’d often thought as a child.

She’d finally managed to convince Lady Bess that she was not out of her mind. “I must return home. I feel so terribly homesick,” she said, ending on a half-smothered sob. The sob had been real enough, but not for the reason she claimed—though a part of her longed for her parents’ embrace and the quietness of the parsonage.

But it had convinced Lady Bess. The older lady had patted her hands. “There, there, dearie, I understand. But must you leave today?”

“Yes—yes—I must. Mrs. Phillips has lent me her traveling coach, and I do not want to impose on her kindness.”

“Very well. Let me help you pack.”

“Betsy will help me, ma’am. You mustn’t trouble yourself.”

“Well, I shall order a nice luncheon basket packed for you then.”

The last thing Jessamine wanted was food, but she realized in that second how empty her stomach felt. It would be better to nibble something in the privacy of her coach than stop at a coaching inn. “You are too kind, Lady Bess.”

“Nonsense. I’ve enjoyed having you, my dear.” The lady’s eyes filled with tears. “I shall miss you.”

The two hugged, and Jessamine felt remorse for leaving her so suddenly. First Megan and now her. “I shall miss you awfully, as well.” She couldn’t promise to visit her soon, because she never wanted to return to London. She would write to Megan and ask if she would visit Lady Bess occasionally.

“There, there,” the old lady said, withdrawing gently. “You mustn’t cry. It’s been my pleasure to have you.”

In less than an hour, Jessamine had packed and was ready to leave London. She leaned out the coach window to wave to Lady Bess and Betsy, who stood at the door, and gave a last look at the neighborhood she and Megan had come to know so well.

Hours later, when the coach finally pulled up at the door of the parsonage in the dark, the sight of her childhood home brought tears to her eyes.

Her parents had no idea she was coming home. The last letter she’d written was a cheerful account of her town activities—just as every letter had been. She had not expressed any of her disillusions about society, since they had sacrificed so much to give her a season in London.

The footman opened the coach door and let down the step. Taking his hand, she stepped down, her legs feeling stiff from sitting so many hours.

“Will you have me knock on the door?” the man asked her in the dark.

She glanced toward the lantern at the door and the evidence of light between the curtains. Her father always left the entrance lit to welcome callers at any time of the day or night. She felt a burst of gratitude for this now, when in the past it had inconvenienced the family many times when someone in trouble had come knocking at the door well into the night.

She straightened her shoulders. “No, thank you.”

With a nod, he turned away and went about getting her trunk. She opened the low wooden gate, leaving it wide for the footman, and proceeded up the flagstones.

What would her parents say? What would she tell them? She’d thought much of this during the tedious journey, and she still was not sure. Megan would not betray her. Lady Bess—she would only express her regret at Jessamine’s sudden departure.

Jessamine pushed open the door. She heard a voice coming from the parlor. Her father reading to her mother. Hopefully any visitors they’d had had already departed for the night.

She left the door open and walked slowly down the carpeted wooden planked floor. There was a louder bustle behind her as the footman jostled the trunk through the doorway, loud enough to alert her parents.

She hastened her steps and entered the parlor.

They were already standing. Her mother gasped, bringing her hands to her breast, and could move no farther.

“My dear, what has happened?” Her father reacted more quickly, increasing his pace until his concerned face looked into hers, his hands grasping her arms.

Her lower lip trembled as she opened her mouth to speak. Then he took her in his arms, hugging her close, not demanding any words. Her mother joined him, putting an arm around Jessamine’s back and patting it.