Closing her eyes and nestling her cheek against her pillow, she tried to soothe herself with thoughts of the waterfall and the swing and the feel of Reese’s lips on hers. She’d almost drifted off when an icy-cold finger traced a terrifyingly chilling path down her spine.

Sweet Jesus. The journal.

She bolted upright and leaped out of her bed, praying her suspicion was wrong. She grasped at each of the items she’d left on top of her bureau. Her reticule, bonnet, the potted ivy plant, and the tulips that she’d popped into a vase were all there.

But the journal that Sarah had given her was not.

Oh no. No, no, no. Her gut sank and she started yanking open drawers, rifling through gloves and petticoats and stockings. Maybe she’d stowed the book among her clothes earlier, worried that her mother or sister might discover it. But the journal wasn’t in her bureau.

Panic rising in her chest, she dashed to her desk and then to her armoire, searching every corner of her bedchamber.

God help her. The journal—the very sweet, thoughtful, and highly incriminating journal—was nowhere to be found.

A scream began to rise in her throat, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

She must have dropped the book when she’d collided with the stranger.

And now, the most closely held secrets of the Debutante Underground—including the names of every one of its members—had been exposed for all of London to see.

Chapter 32

Reese swiped a sleeve across his brow as he walked up his drive. He’d spent the morning inspecting a large cottage on the edge of his property. His great-aunt had once lived in the charming but now-neglected house, which had been shuttered two decades ago when she’d died.

In his pocket, he had a list of improvements needed to make the cottage habitable, including repairs to the thatched roof, a fresh coat of paint inside and out, and a thorough top-to-bottom scrubbing. But the house had good bones—plenty of windows, spacious rooms, a yard with plenty of sturdy trees for climbing and lots of open space for running.

Perfect for what he had in mind.

Besides, he needed another project. Now that the garden had been restored to its former glory, he required something to occupy him. Something all-consuming, so that he wouldn’t think about Sophie and the gaping hole she’d left in his heart.

He trudged along the gravel drive, squinting at the manor house as it came into view. It almost looked as though there were a coach-and-four parked in front of the entrance. He held a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, and sure enough, it appeared he had a visitor.