Captain Morland opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again and smiled: the half smile of a man admitting defeat. “I rather think you and Lady Augusta have never had a clouded minute in your lives,” he said. “It is obvious I am on a fool’s errand.” He turned to me, his voice sincere. “Lady Augusta, I am sorry for your injuries. I wish I had arrived earlier to spare you such hurt.”

“You came at exactly the right moment, Captain Morland,” I said, matching his sincerity, for he had, indeed, saved me from a much worse hurt. “Thank you.”

“I will take my leave and wish you all the best,” he said. “But in all seriousness, I know it is a B.”

“It is a D,” Julia said firmly. “Ex Deo.”

“Yes, of course. For God. Let us hope he does not take umbrage at such an invocation of his name,” the captain said dryly, and, with a somewhat ironic bow, made his exit.

47

We departed for London the next morning. Charlotte, bless her, gave us one of Porty’s best teams for the first leg, as much to annoy him, I think, as to expedite our return home.

I wept twice upon the journey, both occasions in my sister’s arms.

The first time, we cried together—in relief that Evan and Mr. Kent were still alive and free, and for the sobering fact that we did not know when or if we would see them again.

The second time the tears were mine alone. They had welled up from some deep and private part of me as we had driven through a dense forest, the smoky smell of November permeating the carriage cabin. Although my sister discerned a difference from our shared tears and asked me what was wrong as she stroked my hair, I would not tell her why I wept so hard. But I knew that I was, in part, mourning a sense of inviolability that I had taken for granted, and which I no longer held.

It took us three days to reach Grosvenor Square, by which time the bruises upon my face had shifted into the greens and yellows of slow recovery and the pain in my jaw had dissipated into occasional discomfort.

What bliss it was to be home. To greet our staff and eat Cook’s fine dinner and to say good night to Julia upon the landing, each of us with our night candles, as we trod to our separate bedchambers. And waking again after a sound sleep to Tully’s cheerful “good morning” as she drew back the curtains, and dressing, and descending the stairs to the morning room for breakfast.

Everything as it should be.

And yet, we were a house in waiting. I could feel the silent expectation between Julia and me, as inevitable as our heartbeats, while we ate breakfast. What next? What next? What next?