“It’s not suffering,” Della replied, waving her hand airily. “I get to buy some new gowns, attend a few parties with my fake betrothed as I fend off eager young ladies, and watch my parents wrestle with whether or not to acknowledge me. It will be delightful.”

Besides which, how long would he tolerate being in her company when so many people were directly rude to her? She had warned him, it wasn’t as though he could claim ignorance. And then she could remain at home while he continued to help her. Because she knew that under everything, he was a gentleman, and he would keep his word. And if he wasn’t a gentleman, she would remind him that she was already ruined, so she wouldn’t hesitate to spread rumors about him and his behavior if he stepped out of line.

In any scenario, she would get what she wanted.

Her friend shook her head, but Della could see that Sarah wasn’t going to argue the point anymore. Perhaps because she knew it was pointless?

“Fine. But you have to promise me that if you become uncomfortable at any time that you won’t continue.”

That wouldn’t happen. Or perhaps it would, but Della would never admit to any kind of discomfort, not while Henry’s fate was unknown.

Sarah bit her lip, her eyes moist. “Thank you for doing this. I want to know. Whatever it is, I want to find out.”

Della nodded. She and Sarah were both aware it was more than likely that Henry was dead, but they also both knew that Sarah would be agonizing over it until it was a certainty.

“And now that that is settled, how about we go visit the dressmaker so I can purchase some new gowns? I need to look appropriately outrageous as the scandalous Lady Della, the presumed betrothed to the Viscount—what’s his name again?”

“Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury,” Sarah replied with a soft smile. “You’re going to have to know his name if you’re going to be betrothed to him.”

“Fine,” Della said with an exaggerated sigh. “Stanbury, Stanbury, Stanbury.” Della rose, holding her hand out for her friend to take. “Let’s go.”

Sarah stood, allowing Della to lead her to the front of the house where they gathered their cloaks.

“Becky!” Della called. They heard footsteps, and then the maid appeared. For once, her chin was not quavering. Perhaps she was finally settling in.

“Mrs. Wattings and I are going out for a bit. Can you mind the girls? They’re upstairs playing.”

“Of course, my lady,” Becky replied, curtseying.

“And we’re off on our adventure,” Della said as the two women walked outside.

“Heaven help us,” Sarah murmured, at which Della just laughed.

Chapter 4

Griffith arrived at Lady Della’s house at what he presumed was teatime. At least according to his faulty memory.