All day, she’d pondered why he hadn’t told her, and now in the still of the night, she remembered his reaction when the letter had fallen from her pocket, recalled him telling her how his wife had tricked him. Remembered Gillie’s ball where Lady Penelope and her friends had risked speaking with her because they’d wanted to know if he’d been invited. Learning how so many ladies had called on him. He’d come here to escape who he was.

She’d wager every book in her shop that she had the right of that.

She understood a little better his reaction when she’d told him about being caught in a compromising position with Beresford, but the understanding didn’t make her hurt any less. He’d accused her of duplicity, hadn’t even bothered to give her the benefit of the doubt. Although neither had she corrected his misassumption. She’d been too stunned by it, to be honest.

But now to realize he’d held a part of himself from her, she had to wonder if she really knew Matthew Sommersby.

“Good morning, James.”

“Miss Trewlove.”

“I’ll see myself to breakfast.”

“Very good, miss.”

Following a fitful night’s sleep, it was nice to engage in a familiar routine, and she was quite looking forward to having breakfast with Mick and Aslyn. As usual, when she walked into the dining room, he set his newspaper aside and stood. “How are you this morning?” he asked.

She forced her brightest smile. “Looking forward to a new day.”

After selecting various tempting offerings, she joined her brother and Aslyn at the table. “How are you, Aslyn?”

Her sister-by-marriage reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m doing well. You know I very much admire you for how you handled Beresford.”

“I doubt anyone else does—at least anyone outside the family. But it hardly matters. I’m more than content with my decision.” She looked to her brother. “Is there anything in the newspaper regarding Dibble’s trial?”

She should have stayed to hear the testimony, the verdict, and the sentence—if there was one—but following Matthew’s revelation, all she’d wanted was to leave. At the time, nothing had seemed more important to her sanity.

Mick went so still, he could have been mistaken for a statue. “Dibble, you say?”

She gave him a sympathetic, understanding smile. “I know he’s my father, Mick. I spoke with Mum. She explained everything.”

“When was this?”

“After he barged into the shop.”

Fancy knew there were some who were terrified of her brothers, feared facing their wrath. Based on the fury that visibly washed over Mick’s features, she clearly understood why.

“He what?”