Georgiana and Duncan climbed down from their perches, easing to the side of the room, where he stopped and smiled down at her, and she, up at him.

Tremley was dead. And Duncan was alive.

Alive and free. No more fear for his future.

The threats had perished with the man who delivered them.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We are a tremendous team, love.”

It was the truth.

They were a perfect match.

She took a deep breath, terror still shaking the air in her lungs. “I thought he would kill you,” she repeated. “And I would not have had the chance to tell you that —”

Something flashed in his gaze. Something like pleasure, chased quickly away by regret. By loss. “Don’t,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. “Don’t tell me you love me. I’m not sure if I will be able to bear it when you leave.”

When she left.

It would come, and all that had happened today to Anna and Chase… it would not affect Georgiana. Tomorrow, she would still require propriety.

Tomorrow, she would still need to think of Caroline.

The title. The respectability. Chase and Anna and West had been saved… but Georgiana was still a scandal.

She ignored the ache in her chest that came with the knowledge that he was right. That none of it mattered.

Tonight, everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had.

Chapter 22

Two mornings later, Georgiana awoke in her bed at her brother’s home, to the smell of flowers and the face of her daughter.

And to a deep, abiding sadness, which had come the moment Duncan West had left The Fallen Angel two evenings prior, and hadn’t left.

Didn’t show signs of leaving.

“Something has happened,” Caroline said from the side of the bed. “And I think you ought to know about it.”

A thousand things had happened. Her club had been saved. Her identity had been protected along with her secrets. A traitor had been killed, his wife saved – already on her way to Yorkshire, to make a new life for herself.

And Georgiana had learned to love, before she’d had no choice but to turn her back on it.

But she did not think Caroline meant any of those things.

Georgiana sat up in her bed, moving to make room for Caroline, who refused to climb in, which was rare. “What has happened?” She reached out to touch the pink rose haphazardly placed in her daughter’s hair. “Where did that come from?”

Caroline’s green eyes were wide with excitement as she touched the rosebud as well. “You’ve flowers. A great deal of them.” She lifted Georgiana’s hand. “Come. You must see.”

Georgiana dressed for expedience rather than impression, pulling on her most comfortable breeches, a half corset, and a fine linen shirt before Caroline led her downstairs to the dining room, where a dozen bouquets waited for her.

Two dozen. More.

Roses and peonies and tulips and hyacinth – arrangements in a tremendous variety of sizes and shapes and colors. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she thought they might be from Duncan.

But then her gaze settled on the white roses, arranged in the shape of a horse. She raised her brow. “Did something else happen?”

Caroline smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. “There is another cartoon.” She lifted the paper from beside Georgiana’s breakfast plate. “It’s a good one, this time.”

Dread coursed through Georgiana. She doubted very much any cartoon was “a good one.”

She was wrong.

There, on the front page of the News of London, was a cartoon at once familiar and thoroughly unfamiliar. A woman sat high atop a horse, dressed in beautiful attire, a dress worthy of a queen, her long hair streaming out behind her. Riding a half length behind, a smiling girl, dressed in her own finery, sat on her own steed.

But where the last cartoon had featured Georgiana and Caroline suffering the disdain of family and peers, this one was different. In this picture, they were surrounded by men and women on their knees, paying fealty, as though they were queens themselves.

The caption read: “The Fine Ladies on their White Horses: Winning the Hearts of London.”

Most of those presented as subjects were men, some in uniform, some in formal wear. Georgiana’s attention fell to one of the men in the foreground. If she did not recognize him from his straight nose and his blond hair, she would have recognized him by the feather that protruded from his coat pocket.

The feather he’d plucked from her hair.

The feather he’d rescued after he was nearly killed at The Fallen Angel.

It was a very good cartoon.

“I think it’s us,” Caroline said, pride and pleasure in her young voice.

“I think you are right.”

“Though I am not certain why I’m carrying a cat.”

Tears threatened as Georgiana thought back on the day they’d walked in Hyde Park. The day she’d told Duncan that she wanted Caroline to have a normal life. “Because girls have cats.”

Caroline blinked. “All right. Well, I also think this is why the horse with white roses arrived. Though it does seem to be a little much.”

Georgiana chuckled, tears welling. “I think you might be right.” She seemed unable to keep the wretched things from spilling over.

“It’s a beautiful cartoon, don’t you think?” Caroline looked to her. Noticed. “Mother?”

Georgiana brushed the tears from her cheeks, trying to laugh them away. “It’s silly,” she said, taking a deep breath. “But it’s very kind of Mr. West.”