George repressed another sigh and looked out her town house windows. It wasn’t raining here in London, but there was a kind of gray mist that covered everything and left behind a sticky grime. She’d made a mistake. She knew that now after more than a week away from Harry and Yorkshire. She should’ve stuck it out and made him talk. Or talked herself until he broke down and told her . . . what? His fears? Her faults? Why he didn’t care for her? If it was the last, at least she would know. She wouldn’t be stuck here in this limbo, not able to return to her old life and yet unable to go on with what might be a new one.

“Can you come, George?” Cecil was speaking to her.

“What?” She blinked. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that last bit.”

Her aunt and the gentlemen exchanged a look that said they had to make allowances for her mental state.

George grit her teeth.

“Cecil said he was going to the theater tomorrow night and wanted to know if he could escort you,” Oscar explained.

“Actually, I—” George was saved from making an excuse by the entrance of her butler. She knit her brows. “Yes, Holmes?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but a messenger has just arrived from Lady Violet.” Holmes proffered a silver plate on which lay a rather muddy letter.

George took it. “Thank you.”

The butler bowed and exited.

Had Wentworth pursued Violet north? They’d thought it best to leave Violet at Woldsly in the assumption that she was safest there away from society, but perhaps they’d been wrong.

“If you don’t mind?” George didn’t wait for her guests’ permission but used a butter knife to break the seal on the letter. Violet’s handwriting sprawled frantically across the page, obliterated here and there by inkblots.

My Dear Sister . . . Harry Pye beaten and arrested . . . in Granville’s custody . . . denied access . . . please come at once.

Beaten.

George’s hand shook. Oh, dear Lord, Harry. A sob caught in her throat. She tried to remember Violet’s fondness for melodrama. Perhaps she’d overstated or otherwise exaggerated. But, no, Violet didn’t lie. If Lord Granville had Harry in his hands, he might already be dead.

“Georgie.” She looked up to find Oscar kneeling directly in front of her. “What is it?”

Mutely, she turned the letter so he could read it.

He frowned. “But there was no concrete evidence of his culpability, was there?”

George shook her head and drew a ragged breath. “Lord Granville has a grudge against Harry. He doesn’t need evidence.” She closed her eyes. “I should have never left Yorkshire.”

“There’s no way you could have foreseen this.”

She rose and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Oscar caught her elbow.

George shook him off. “Where do you think? To him.”

“Wait, I—”