“I do hope you are right,” Anna said. “I cannot forget that when that young man first knew I was his sister, he looked pleased and eager to know me.”

“Have you been told what happened between Camille and her fiancé yesterday afternoon?” Elizabeth asked.

“No.” Anna set down her cup in its saucer.

“They were betrothed at Christmastime,” Elizabeth told her, “but the death of the old earl forced them to postpone their wedding from this spring until next year. He was to call upon her here yesterday afternoon, and she very much expected that with her decision to leave off her mourning he would be happy to set the wedding for this year after all. But when he came and learned what had happened at Archer House during the morning, he left with what must have seemed indecent haste before any plans could be made. An hour later, poor Camille received a letter from him, suggesting that she be the one to send a notice to the papers announcing the ending of their betrothal, since it might be considered ungentlemanly if he did it himself.”

“Oh, Lizzie.” Anna set down her cup and saucer and gazed at Elizabeth in horror.

“Camille sent the notice,” Elizabeth said. “I daresay it will appear in tomorrow morning’s papers.”

“But why?” Anna’s eyes widened.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, “because it will seem less humiliating to have the ton believe she was the one to sever the connection.”

“And that is how gentlemen behave?” Anna said. “This is the world in which I am expected to learn to live?”

“At least give the man credit for not publicly shaming his betrothed,” Elizabeth said, but before Anna could express her outrage, she held up one hand. “But I still think he ought to be boiled in oil—at the very least.”

Anna leaned back in her chair. “Poor, poor Camille,” she said. “She is my sister, Lizzie. I offered to share everything, but my brother ran away and my sisters fled to the country with their mother.”

“Give them time,” Elizabeth said. “And give yourself time, Anna. I could have chosen a better moment to tell you than bedtime, could I not? I am sorry. But it is too late now for me to decide that it would have made better breakfast conversation.”

Anna sighed as they both got to their feet. Five minutes later she was alone in her vast bedchamber, having refused the offer of the services of Elizabeth’s maid. She and her little bag had this room as well as a dressing room larger than her room in Bath and a private sitting room in which to move about. And, unlike the rooms at the hotel, these belonged to her, as did the entire house.

But there was an emptiness inside that was vaster than her whole body. She longed suddenly for the dear solidity of Joel. If he were here now and offered her marriage again, she would accept before the proposal was fully out of his mouth. Perhaps it was as well he was not here. Poor Joel. He deserved better.

I do believe, Anna, that I may well fall in love with you.

What would it be like to fall in love?

What would it be like to be kissed?

And, oh dear, what was it going to be like to be Lady Anastasia Westcott?

Was it too late to go back, simply to forget the events of the past few days? Her letters had not yet been sent. But yes, it was too late. Her leaving now would not solve anything for her brother and sisters and their mother. They could not simply forget the last few days and return to their lives the way they had been.

She fell asleep a long while later wondering what had happened to the Reverend and Mrs. Snow, her maternal grandparents.

* * *

Avery found that he had rather badly miscalculated. It did not happen often. But then, he was not often called upon to deal with young earls who had just lost title and fortune and discovered themselves to be penniless bastards.

He did not discover Harry at any of the expected places during the evening or the night, though he spent weary hours wandering and looking and asking numerous questions of the boy’s erstwhile cronies and hangers-on. Dispossessed ex-earls soon lost their appeal, it seemed. It was all enough to make one lose one’s faith in humanity—if one had ever harbored any.

He did encounter Uxbury, however—Viscount Uxbury, Camille’s esteemed former betrothed—when he took a break from his search to call in at White’s Club. Uxbury waylaid him as he was passing through the reading room, which was virtually deserted at that hour of the evening.

The viscount was someone to be avoided at the best of times. It had always seemed to Avery that if one were to pick him up and shake him vigorously, one would soon find oneself engulfed in dust, blinded and choked by it. What Camille saw in him, though she was admittedly rather starchy and high in the instep herself, Avery had never understood, though since he did not need to understand, he had been content with ignorance. By this evening, however, he resented even more than usual being hauled aside by this particular gentleman. The engagement was off, he had heard from his stepmother, hence Camille’s having left London with Abigail and their mother. Avery did not know who had ended the engagement or exactly why. He really did not need or particularly want to know.

“Ah, Netherby, old chap,” Uxbury said. “Come to celebrate your freedom from an irksome responsibility, have you?”

Old chap? Avery raised his eyebrows. “Responsibility?”

“Young Harold,” Uxbury explained. “The bastard.” He said the word not as an insult, but as a descriptor.

“A word of warning,” Avery said, possessing himself of his quizzing glass. “My ward does not like to be so called and will not scruple to tell you so. He claims that it makes him feel like a balding Saxon king awaiting an arrow through the eye. He prefers Harry.”