“We have a caller,” I said as I took Weatherly’s hand and descended the carriage step.

“Yes, I saw.” Weatherly closed the door. “Is there anything you wish me to do?”

I looked up at our drawing room window. “No, I will handle it.”

Inside, Weatherly divested me of the box, then my gloves, cap, and pelisse. Mr. Kent’s hat had been placed on the side table, but I did not see his coat. A short call, then. Perhaps even shorter than he expected.

“Tell me when Dr. McLeod arrives,” I said. “I will see him, after all.”

“Of course, my lady.” I heard the relief in Weatherly’s voice.

In all truth, etiquette and common sense demanded that I change my damp carriage gown and muddied boots and see to my shoulder, but this confrontation could not be delayed. I smoothed my side curls, shook out my damp hem, and focused beyond the pain.

Ready for battle.

I climbed the stairs at a sedate pace, for it was more than possible that I brought distress to my dear sister, and, for all the seriousness of the situation, I could not hurry toward that outcome.

No footman outside the drawing room door. Unusual.

I raised my closed hand to knock and stopped. Voices inside. And my sister’s laugh. Bright and carefree. I had not heard it so full of delight for a long time. I stood a little longer listening through the closed door, ignoring the wagging finger of my conscience. The muffled voices held the quick rhythm of lively conversation—perhaps even coquetry—punctuated by both my sister’s laugh again, and the lower register of Mr. Kent’s amusement.

I did not want to end Julia’s enjoyment, but I had to know if we had been betrayed.

I rapped upon the wood and opened the door.

“Augusta!” Julia said. She and Mr. Kent stood in front of the Lawrence portrait of us in our youth. My sister’s eyes were alight and her mouth still held the shape of a laugh. Mr. Kent, whose arm was in a sling as a result of our last adventure, had been standing rather close. Julia took a nonchalant step away. “You are back.”

Clearly.

“Mr. Kent and I were studying Mr. Lawrence’s brushstrokes,” she added as I entered the room.

“Lady Augusta, how good to see you again.” Mr. Kent bowed.

As was his custom, he wore a very well-tailored ensemble: a blue wool jacket that made the most of his broad shoulders, a scarlet satin waistcoat—often worn by the Runners, which had earned them the nickname Robin Redbreasts—and extremely well-fitted pantaloons. Even his sling was well fashioned in crisp white muslin. His face, like my sister’s, also held the remnants of laughter, hardly the expression of a man who harbored a secret betrayal.