Good Lord, what went on in this house? Had any of his actions been private? Ever? Thomas turned his head and swore, and then, after taking a long, fortifying breath, looked back at her and said, “For me, Grace, will you please just tell her you don’t know?”

Soon Amelia would know everything, but he just didn’t want it to be today. He was too tired to make explanations, too worn-out from his own shock to deal with hers, and beyond that…

For the first time in his life he was glad she was his fiancée. Surely no one would begrudge him the desire to hold onto that for a few more days.

“Of course,” Grace said, not quite looking at him. And then, because she had been brought up to look people in the eye, she met his gaze and added, “You have my word.”

He nodded. “Amelia will be expecting you,” he said gruffly.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She hurried to the door, then stopped and turned around. “Will you be all right?”

What a question.

“No, don’t answer that,” she mumbled, and dashed from the room.

Amelia waited patiently in the silver drawing room, trying not to tap her toes while she waited for Grace. Then she realized that she was drumming her fingers, which was an even worse habit (according to her mother), so she forced herself to stop that.

Her toes immediately started tapping again.

She let out a long breath and decided she didn’t care. There was no one here to see her, anyway, and despite what her mother insisted, toe tapping was not a bad habit when done in private. As opposed to chewing one’s fingernails (which she would never do), which left one stubby and unkempt, all ’round the clock.

She’d tried to explain the difference to Milly, who could sit still as stone for six hours straight but hadn’t seen the whites of her nails for years. Milly had declared herself quite unable to detect the distinction. For purely selfish reasons, of course.

Amelia examined her own nails, which she noticed looked not quite as clean as usual. Probably from hauling Wyndham across Stamford. Heaven only knew what sort of dirt he’d been rolling about in. She supposed he was upstairs now, cleaning up. She’d never seen him look so untidy. She rather thought he’d never been so untidy. And, in fact—

Was that him? Striding past the doorway? She jumped up. “Thomas? Is that—”

The gentleman stopped, turned, and then Amelia realized that it was someone else. He was of a similar height and coloring, but she had never seen him before, of that she was quite certain. He was tall, although not awkwardly so, and his hair was perhaps a shade or two darker than Thomas’s. And his cheek was bruised.

How interesting.