“What will we do?” Lady Manston said in a lost voice.

George looked to his father. It was his right to decide.

But the earl looked lost. He’d said they should go home; apparently that was all he could manage.

George turned back to the rest of the room and took a breath. “We will take a moment,” he said firmly. “We will pause to collect ourselves and decide how best to proceed.”

Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but George had had enough. With a hard stare, he added, “Time is of the essence, but we are too far removed from the military theater for one day to make a difference.”

“He’s right,” Billie said.

Several pairs of eyes turned to her in surprise, George’s included.

“None of us is in a state to make a proper decision just now.” She turned to George. “Go home. Be with your family. I will call tomorrow to see how I may help.”

“But what can you do?” Lady Bridgerton asked.

Billie looked at her with quiet, steely grace. “Anything that is required.”

George swallowed, surprised by the rush of emotion behind his eyes. His brother was missing; his father was shattered, and now he thought he might cry?

He ought to tell her that they did not need help, that her offer was appreciated but unnecessary.

That was the polite thing to do. It was what he would have said, to anyone else.

But to Billie he said, “Thank you.”

BILLIE DROVE HERSELF to Crake House the following day, taking a simple one-horse buggy. She wasn’t sure how her mother had managed it, but the house party had been cut short by several days, and everyone had either left or was planning to do so by the following morning.

It had taken her a ridiculous amount of time to decide what to wear. Breeches were most certainly out. Despite what her mother thought, Billie did know how and when to dress appropriately, and she would never don her work clothes for a social call.

But this was no ordinary social call. Bright colors would not do. But she could not wear black. Or lavender or gray or anything that even hinted of mourning. Edward was not dead, she told herself fiercely.

In the end she settled on a comfortable day dress she’d got the year before. Her mother had picked out the pattern—a springlike floral with greens and pinks and oranges set against cream muslin—but Billie had loved it from the first. It made her think of a garden on a cloudy day, which somehow seemed exactly right for calling upon the Rokesbys.

Crake was quiet when she arrived. It felt wrong. It was an enormous house; like Aubrey Hall, one could theoretically go days without seeing another member of the family. But even so, it always seemed vibrant, alive. Some Rokesby or another was always about, ever happy, ever busy.

Crake House was huge, but it was a home.

Right now, however, it felt subdued. Even the servants, who normally worked with diligence and discretion, were quieter than usual. No one smiled, no one spoke.