They passed him by, and he mused over his future as he stepped into his waiting carriage. On a whim, he had half an inclination to visit his mother, but she had been decisive in not wishing to see him. To go against her wishes never proved to be a good idea, so he directed the coachman to take him home.

He’d take tea and then prepare for Almack’s. Dressing would be the simple part.

The difficult part? Preparing his heart.

To say one final goodbye to Joan.

Eighteen

I will not tell you all; I have not leave.

—Joan of Arc

It wasn’t until her brother’s hand covered hers that Joan realized she’d been incessantly tapping her fingers for who knew how long. Morgan squeezed her hand and released it.

“It will be well. You needn’t worry,” he offered kindly.

Joan gave an apologetic wince. “Pardon me. I’m a little nervous.”

“A little?”

“A lot,” she corrected.

Morgan nodded. “You’ll do well, and it’s not as though you’re being presented to the queen.”

“I dare say the Ladies Jersey, Cowper, and Sefton and Countess Lieven carry far more sway.”

Morgan shrugged. “While that may be true, it’s still only a Wednesday night, and tomorrow it will be Thursday, and this will be over with and you’ll wait a full week before you attend again.”

“True. It’s the first time that will be difficult, I’m sure.”

“You’re not sure what to expect. That’s understandable.”

“I’ve heard the lemonade is terrible,” Joan muttered.

Morgan chuckled. “Yes, that’s well known. But thankfully there’s ratafia as well.”

“I dislike ratafia.”

“You’re going to have to make do with the watered-down lemonade then, I’m afraid.”

Joan was about to make a comment when the carriage stopped. She gaped at her brother. Had he been distracting her with the mundane conversation about lemonade to help her? Bless him. Sisterly affection welled up within her, and it was much needed. She had been at odds with her brother for the past few days. There was this nagging feeling that he was keeping something from her. Not necessarily lying; no, he knew he couldn’t get away with lying to her, for she’d see through it. But withholding information, which wasn’t exactly lying. She’s been quite a pest, but there was never a decisive answer from him concerning her questions.

Questions that all revolved around Rowles.

“Allow me.” Morgan stepped from the carriage and offered her his hand. She relied on his strength for balance as she stepped down to face the white stone building. Footmen dressed in smart livery verified the vouchers of each person before they were allowed inside. The strict dress code was enforced without discrimination; Joan double-checked her brother’s appearance. Satisfied, she waited for their turn.