“Dear Lord, I know it’s bad when you admit that tea is needed,” Della replied, trying to draw a smile from Sarah.

Sarah just glared at her, as though she knew full well what she was doing.

But at least it had distracted Della from the pain of having him do something behind her back. The first time he’d tried to manage things for her she’d made it absolutely clear she would not tolerate it. But then he had gone and managed to do it again. “Manage. Man-age,” she murmured to herself, laughing ruefully at the pun. If it were called womanage she didn’t think so many men would believe it was their right to do it.

They all filed into the dining room after Sarah had directed one of the girls to fetch tea.

Della sat first, and her sisters and Sarah took chairs all around her, Mr. Wattings seated the farthest from her.

“Well,” she began.

“Well,” Eleanor echoed in an encouraging tone after a few moments.

“I suppose you want to know why I am so . . . agitated,” Della said, glancing at each of the faces in turn.

Sarah reached over and took Della’s hand. “You know you don’t have to tell us.”

“Yes, she does,” Olivia contradicted.

“For once, I agree with Olivia,” Ida added in a dry tone. “If we don’t know what is happening with you, we cannot help. And I believe it is important to share one’s true feelings with one’s siblings.”

“Oh, like how you told us all how you felt about your husband?” Olivia rolled her eyes at Ida.

Ida waved her hand dismissively. “I did eventually. But I am not the point here. Focus, Olivia.”

Della felt a tiny warmth kindling the cold anger that was roiling inside her. It would be all right, as long as she had her family: Nora, Sarah, her sisters, and now Mr. Wattings.

“Well,” Della began again. “It seems Mr. Baxter is back in town. And that Lord Stanbury has seen fit to deal with him directly without informing me.”

Chapter 21

“Well, you’ve really mucked it up now.”

Griffith glared at Frederick, who merely raised one eyebrow, a mild expression on his face.

“I’ve got to agree with Duke here,” Hyland said before downing the rest of the brown liquid in his glass.

“Your Grace, you heathen,” Frederick said, but his tone was amused.

“Yes, you really did,” Clark agreed, pouring more alcohol into everyone’s glasses. Griffith shook his head no when it came to his turn.

The last thing he needed was to be drunk when it came time to talk to her. Which, since he was more than finished with being patient, since that had gotten him nowhere, would be in the time it took to go to her house, get let in—probably an easy task since clearly she had no butler—and apologize profusely.