“Yes. He didn’t promise I would recover completely, but he gave me reason to hope. Once I’m home—”

“Home,” St. Clare repeated. “To Beasley Park.”

“It is my home. And at the moment, it’s where I can do the most good for you. You can’t go there yourself. It would be too dangerous. But I can go in your place. I can protect you from whatever it is Fred and your relations are up to.”

Something fractured in his expression. An emotion lurking just behind his eyes, briefly breaking to the surface. It was pain. Regret. Raw feelings from youth that had long been under ruthless control. “You haven’t changed,” he said gruffly. “Even as a girl, you were as brave as you were small. Always trying to save me.”

“A false bravery. I had my father at my back. He was the one with the power, not I.” She smiled slightly. “I suppose I must thank him. He raised me to be as bold as any son. And a little boldness never goes amiss.”

“‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

Her brows lifted. “Is that Shakespeare?” she asked, momentarily diverted.

“My grandfather made me read an appalling amount of the stuff. He considers himself something of a scholar.” Drawing her hand to his lips, he brushed a light kiss to her knuckles. It was an old-fashioned gesture—and one that made her heart turn over. “How long do you plan on staying in Somerset?”

“I don’t know. A fortnight, possibly. Perhaps longer. It depends on what happens there.”

St. Clare didn’t look at all pleased by her answer. “And I must wait here, must I? Wait and hope that you’ll come back to me.”

“Wait and hope. Just as I did for so many years after you left Beasley.”

He gave her a piercing look. “The difference being, my dear, I’m not half so patient as you are.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Beasley Park

Somerset, England

Summer 1817

Maggie tugged on her gloves as she descended the grand, curving staircase at Beasley Park.

Bessie followed after her at a trot, down the stairs, through the expansive marble-tiled hall, and out the tall, carved oak front doors into the warm, early afternoon sunlight. “Slow down, Miss Margaret!”

Maggie stopped on the stone front steps, inhaling a breath of fresh country air. Her lungs expanded to their utmost. It still wasn’t very much. She’d only been back at Beasley for a week. Hardly enough time to effect a full recovery. She nevertheless felt better in the country. Despite the havoc created by her guests—by Fred and the Beresfords, and even by Jane and her Aunt Harriet on occasion—Maggie was glad to be home.