Jane’s words echoed in his head. No one needs to marry.

“I understand that, Isabella. Believe me, you are beautiful and I’m certain you would make someone a fine wife, but—”

Isabella took a deep breath. “I know you’re hesitant because of Harold. Because of what you told me at the house party.”

“That’s one reason, yes, but—”

Isabella’s voice was strained. “There’s something I must show you.”

Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“I sent your mother a note telling her that Mrs. Bunbury was feeling ever so much better. I even signed Mrs. B’s name to it.” Lucy’s announcement was accompanied by a wide smile as she served Jane tea in her London drawing room.

“Did you disguise your handwriting?” Jane dropped an extra lump of sugar into her cup. Since she’d returned from the countryside, her ankle had healed, but she was still sore on the inside. She was struggling to seem normal for Lucy’s sake.

“Of course I disguised my handwriting,” Lucy answered. “Though I doubt your mother’s taken much notice of mine over the years.”

“Show me,” Jane replied. “I’d wager I can tell it’s yours.”

“You and your study of handwriting,” Lucy said with a laugh, as she stood and made her way over to the writing desk in the corner. She took out a piece of parchment, grabbed a quill, and scribbled away.

While Lucy wrote, Jane considered for the one-hundredth time telling her friend what had happened between herself and Garrett. Part of it at least. But she decided against it. Again. Telling one bit would necessitate telling the whole sordid thing and that was a complicated story Jane had no intention of repeating. It had been difficult enough convincing Mama that Mr. Upton had not, in fact, proposed. It was deuced difficult to come up with a plausible explanation as to why a gentleman would stop a coach in such a dramatic fashion, ask to speak to a young lady privately, and then fall to one knee, but somehow Jane had managed to convince her mother that Mr. Upton had simply wanted her recommendation on a book she’d been reading and had lost something in the grass while they’d been discussing it in earnest.

Of course, her father didn’t believe it for a moment. He raised both brows over his spectacles, shook his head, and went back to his columns and figures. Thankfully, Papa had never believed that marriage was the goal to which every young lady should aspire. He wasn’t about to interfere. Her mother, however, had taken a bit of convincing.

Lucy dropped the quill back into the inkwell and trotted over with the note. “I give you Mrs. Bunbury’s handwriting.”

Jane set her teacup on the table and took the letter, eyeing it carefully. She quietly contemplated it for a few moments. “Aha. You’ve given yourself away.”