“So he claims,” she said. “We have heard nothing from any official source—which is probably good news in itself.”

“Camille,” he said earnestly, “I think I can understand how badly you have been hurt, though it may seem presumptuous of me to say so. I daresay I do not know the half of it, but I admire what you are doing, standing on your own feet, earning your own living, even going to do it at the very place where Anna grew up. But . . . may I make a suggestion?”

“If I were to say no,” she said somewhat stiffly, “I would wonder for the rest of the night what it was you wished to suggest.”

He smiled. “You are much loved by your grandmother and aunts,” he said, “and by the rest of us too. You always have been. You cannot be cast out of the family now at this late date just because circumstances have changed. You cannot suddenly become unloved. Your own personal way forward, as well as Harry’s and Abigail’s, is more difficult than it was, of course. No one can deny that much has changed forever in your lives. But will you not draw some comfort from the fact that you are still loved, that your position as granddaughter and niece and cousin in this family has in no way been diminished, that we are all here to support you in every way we are able? Individually we all wield power and influence. Together we are quite formidable, and I would not envy anyone who attempted to thwart our will. Let yourself be loved, Camille. Let . . . No, I will leave it at that, for really that does say everything. Let yourself be loved.”

“I was unaware,” she said, “that I had told anyone to stop loving me, Alexander. But enough of me. What difference to your life has being the Earl of Riverdale made? Have you made Brambledean your home?”

Although it was the earl’s principal seat, Brambledean Court had never been a favorite of Camille’s father. Neither he nor they had spent much time there, and he had not spent a great deal of money on its upkeep either. Both house and park had fallen into somewhat of a dilapidated state and all but the barest minimum of servants had been let go. There was a steward, but he had never been diligent in his duties. Camille had heard that the farms were not prospering as they ought and that there was discontent among the tenant farmers and actual hardship and suffering among the laborers. Alexander had inherited it with the title, while Papa’s fortune, which might have helped him run it, had gone to Anastasia with everything else that was not entailed.

“Not yet,” he said, “though I have spent some time there. Somehow I am going to have to find a way to—”

But he was prevented from saying more by the arrival of Joel and the attention Anastasia drew to him when she exclaimed with delight, jumped to her feet, and hurried toward him to take his arm and introduce him to those who had not already met him. He was looking distinctly uncomfortable, Camille thought, at having been forced to walk into a roomful of aristocratic strangers only to have everyone’s attention focused upon him. He was dressed suitably for an evening occasion, though he looked only slightly less shabby than he normally did.

Unconsciously Camille flexed her right hand beneath the table. She could still feel the sting of the slap she had dealt him yesterday. She had probably hurt her hand at least as much as she had his face. She had hit him because he had apologized again, because he had assumed that there was something to apologize for. And thus he had ruined her memories of what had happened, had made it seem like a sordid mistake, for which he had assumed the entire blame. He had hurt her far more deeply than her slap could have hurt him, though she had despised herself ever since for allowing herself to be hurt. He was neither as handsome as Alexander nor as magnificent as Avery nor as amiable as Uncle Thomas. How could she possibly have allowed him to hurt her?

She gazed at him, hot cheeked and tight lipped, and paradoxically a bit cold in the head as though she were in danger of fainting. Nonsense, she thought, pulling herself together. Absolute nonsense!

Anastasia presented him to Alexander.

“Riverdale,” he said, and inclined his head in acknowledgment of the introduction before turning his eyes upon Camille. They were grave and very dark. He looked as if perhaps he had not slept well last night. Good. She was glad. “Camille.”

“Joel.” But there was something else. She could sense it as soon as their eyes met. There was more than embarrassment and remorse in his eyes. What is the matter? She almost asked the question aloud.

Dinner was served soon after his arrival, and the conversation while they ate was lively and general. Aunt Mildred spoke of the exploits of her boys through the summer; Jessica talked about her debut Season next year and Avery remarked with a sigh that he supposed she expected that he and Anastasia would arrange a grand ball for her at Archer House; Mama told a few stories about her life with Uncle Michael at the vicarage in Dorsetshire; Aunt Louise commented upon what perfect dears the Reverend and Mrs. Snow, Anastasia’s maternal grandparents, were and how she had enjoyed their company at Morland Abbey during the past couple of months; Camille recounted a few anecdotes from the schoolroom; Abigail described the sittings she had had with Joel while he sketched her and prepared to paint her portrait; and Joel, in answer to Elizabeth’s questions, described the process by which he produced portraits of his subjects.

It was only after the covers had been removed from the table and coffee and port served that they all sat back, more at their ease, and divided into smaller conversational groups. After a few minutes, during which Uncle Thomas had been expressing his hope to Camille and Cousin Althea that he and Aunt Mildred could remain at home for at least a year after they returned there in two weeks’ time, Camille heard Anastasia ask the question that had been bothering her all evening.