Jane’s mother and father had arrived too. Sir Charles was a known academic. Apparently he’d passed his keen abilities to his only child. Jane’s mother seemed less cerebral, but she was certainly a good-looking lady and was pleasant enough. Garrett wondered at the type of woman who would make a little girl feel bad for being overweight. Sometimes parents were cruel.

Garrett was greatly looking forward to the dance that evening. He never looked forward to dances. It was fine to see friends and have a good time, but there was something else about tonight. Something different, special. If he were honest, he would admit he was looking forward to seeing Jane again. He’d left her bedchamber abruptly earlier, which was probably for the best. He shouldn’t have been in there in the first place, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. When she mentioned Harold, the memories had been too much for him. The walls had seemed to be closing in around him. What could he say? The man had died in front of him. Died for him. That wasn’t something Garrett wanted to revisit during waking hours. He did it often enough in his dreams.

Jane had sent him a note this afternoon. She wanted to be there for the pleasantries, she’d written.

Learning about her and her childhood had been enlightening. Now he had a glimpse into why Jane had such a tough exterior. Her childhood might have been privileged, but it had also been sad. No wonder she and Lucy had become fast friends. They were quite alike, both rejected by the Society they’d been told they must be a part of.

But tonight was for celebrating Cass and Julian’s wedding. Even if Jane couldn’t dance with him, he’d bring her a teacake or three. He’d coax another smile out of her and perhaps a blush. Garrett whistled as he strolled down the corridor.

“Mr. Upton.”

He stopped short at the sound of Isabella’s voice. He turned to see her standing behind him.

“Yes.” He moved toward her slowly, dread tugging at his gut.

“May I speak with you, privately, for a moment?”

Garrett sucked air through his nostrils. “Very well.” He moved to the side of the corridor near the wall, stepping behind a table to ensure he kept a distance between the two of them.

He watched her carefully. After seeing Isabella’s footman in the stables, Garrett had his suspicions as to what had happened to Jane’s saddle. But until he had proof, he intended to give the widow a wide berth. “What is it?” he asked.

Isabella let a hand trail along the edge of her décolletage. “Mr. Upton … Garrett.” She looked up at him shyly. “May I call you Garrett?”

“I don’t think that’s—”