What if St. Clare was telling her the truth? What if her long illness and dual periods of mourning—all those months of darkness and solitude—had addled her wits? Had left her longing for Nicholas so keenly that she was seeing him in a man who was nothing but a stranger to her? An attractive, dashing stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

“Margaret?” Jane prompted.

Maggie exhaled a deep breath. “No. I wouldn’t have married any of them.”

“And you won’t marry Fred, will you?”

“I want to say no.”

“Then say it.”

“I can’t. Not if it means relinquishing my estate.” Maggie clasped her gloved hands tightly in her lap. “Beasley Park means everything to me, Jane. I won’t allow Fred to take it from me.”

“He’ll take it anyway,” Jane said. “He’s not going to become more manageable once you’re wed. He’ll become worse. Men like him always do. Odious men who would use the law to oppress the ladies in their care. Oh, but I do think he’s awful, Margaret. An absolute tyrant.” She glanced out the window as the carriage came to a halt in front of the Trumbles’ town house. Her face tightened. “Speak of the devil.”

Maggie followed her gaze. It was Fred, or rather, the back of him, ascending the steps to the door and disappearing inside. She’d have recognized that coppery hair and those brawny shoulders anywhere. “What is he doing here? I’d have thought he’d still be abed.”

The footman opened the carriage door and handed them both down.

“Something must have happened to drive him from his rooms,” Jane said as they climbed the front steps to the house. “We shall soon find out.”

Inside, the butler informed them that Fred was waiting in the drawing room.

Maggie stripped off her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves, and smoothed her hair into order. “I’ll go to him, Jane. It’s best he and I speak alone.”

“Very well,” Jane said. “But only for a quarter of an hour. You know you shouldn’t be seeing him without a chaperone. And certainly not if he’s in a mood.”

“I’ll be fine,” Maggie promised. “If there’s anyone I know how to handle, it’s Frederick Burton-Smythe.”

Bold words and ones that she reminded herself of as she entered the Trumbles’ drawing room. Fred was standing near the bank of green damask-draped windows. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned. His right arm was bound up in a cloth sling, held close against his chest. She supposed it was meant to take the weight off of his injured shoulder.

“Margaret.” His eyes raked over her. The cut of her new muslin day dress showed off her figure better than anything she’d worn in years.