She’d told him that? Despite the fact that it was Libby’s to share or not? Despite the fact that she’d known Libby wanted no one to hear of it?

He’d taken her elbow again, so no doubt he sensed how she felt about that. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind you knowing.”

And she didn’t.

What she minded, more than she could possibly articulate, was Mabena telling.

14

Try as Libby might to focus on the new list of Latin names that needed to be applied to her catalogue of flora for St. Mary’s, her gaze kept wandering away from her notebook and to the two envelopes resting on the table.

The first had been delivered yesterday afternoon by another anonymous chap asking for Elizabeth. They hadn’t opened it, tempted as Mabena had clearly been. They would wait for Oliver to arrive, which he ought to be doing any moment. The second had come in the morning post, and Mama’s familiar script had lured Libby into tearing it open straightaway.

She rather wished now that she’d held it for later. She’d expected her mother’s usual cheer, perhaps even a note of thanks for doing as she instructed and attending the Wights’ dinner party. She hadn’t expected the rebuke that kept battering now at her mind.

Did you truly only stay forty minutes, Libby? Mrs. Wight’s note sounded most distraught—she was afraid they had offended you somehow. Is that not exactly what I have warned you countless times will happen if you do not make an effort to engage with your peers? I know it is difficult for you. But you must try, dearest. For your own good, you must.

And while I know you will not want to hear this, I find myself compelled to say it: Perhaps you should seriously consider your brother’s arrangement with Lord Sheridan. I know you wanted the summer away so that he might “come to his senses” and argue with Bram—but I do secretly hope that instead, you will give it some thought and come home in September ready to make the betrothal official. For all your clashes, Sheridan would not mind your eccentricities. He would indulge your preference for country life. He would respect you. I can think of no better match for you, dearest.

No better match? Libby gripped her pencil with far too much force. How could her own mother think that? Did she deserve—could she hope for—no better than a man who would simply tolerate her for his friend’s sake?