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A sigh fisted in his chest. He had no fight left in him. But little patience either. “What do you want, Worthing?”

The idiot man’s grin only grew. “To earn your eternal gratitude. She left Town this morning.”

“What?” Justin’s feet planted themselves a few feet from Worthing, refusing to go a step farther. “For Yorkshire?”

Worthing nodded. “Would have left yesterday afternoon, had it not taken so long to ready. But at first light . . .” He pulled one hand out of his pocket to illustrate his point, imitating a car driving away—complete with muted engine noises.

Had it been Thate, and news of someone else’s leaving, Justin would have laughed. “She told
you
she was going though.”

The grin turned patronizing. “Yes, you see, we take part in this bizarre social ritual called
conversation
. You should give it a try sometime. It’s when you exchange words—at a normal volume—for the purpose of sharing information, rather than for accusation or inflicting emotional pain.”

Justin’s shoulders slumped. Even at that, he could muster no anger. He was too weary. “It wasn’t all me. I started it, I grant that, but—”

“I know.” Worthing clapped a hand to his shoulders, as if they were the best of friends. “She told me what was said, and I told
her
she was being an idiot, that you had a perfectly valid point and that you wouldn’t have been so very fearful if you didn’t love her so much—and had you not suffered enough losses this year. But you know Brook.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his hand. “A mite stubborn, that girl.”

He . . . he had
defended
him? To Brook? Justin stared at him for a long moment. “Why?”

“Is she stubborn? That is a question only the Almighty can answer. But if you mean why did I say such things to her, the answer ought to be obvious.” Worthing met Justin’s gaze, held it. “She’s wrong. I don’t know why she’s so set on denying what she feels for you when it’s obvious to anyone who sees her watching you, but she’s wrong. You are meant for more than just getting her to England. God isn’t finished with the two of you yet.”

“Know that, do you?” But the words didn’t come out mocking—they emerged . . . hopeful.

No smile touched Worthing’s expression now. Peace, however, saturated it. “Yes. I do.”

Again, Justin was reduced to staring. What stared back at him made him feel the dunce—though, granted, a relieved one. “You’re really not in love with her.”

Worthing chuckled and leaned into the side of his car again—at least, Justin assumed it was his. “Are you daft? I’d never survive it. If she isn’t trying to bore me to death with some obscure academic work, she’s trying to give me a heart attack, flying around on that wild stallion of hers.”

Though he’d never expected to experience such a thing, a grin tugged at Justin’s lips. In the presence of
Worthing
. “She’s magnificent, isn’t she?”

Worthing laughed outright this time. “That she is, and I adore her—in much the same way I adore my sister, who drives me nearly as mad.” He paused and then gave a sideways nod in the direction his hand had motored. “Go after her, you imbecile. And don’t relent until you have an actual conversation and have convinced her you can’t live without her. Address whatever’s keeping her from declaring her love for you and move on to all the happily-ever-after nonsense.”

For the first time in weeks, hope sparked to life. Justin took a step toward the Rolls-Royce but then paused. “Worthing . . . I’m in your debt.”

The grin reemerged. “Excellent. No doubt I’ll need a favor one of these days, when I’m the one gone stupid over some young lady.”

Justin smiled again and hurried to his car. Worthing followed, saying nothing while Justin cranked it and slid inside, but then he leaned toward the window. “Listen.” His voice was serious again, and as low as it could be and still be heard over the engine. “My first thought, when she said she was leaving, was that it was good—she’ll be away from the Rushworths, Pratt, whoever killed her cousin. But I can’t shake the feeling that the danger will follow her home.”

Cold dread overtook Justin’s heart. Of course it would. Anyone who would kill so easily wouldn’t let a few hundred miles get in his way. He nodded.

So did Worthing. “My advice would be to resolve this thing between you as quickly as her stubborn will allows—and then get ready. The tempest, I think, has only just begun.”

Because the words felt like truth, Justin nodded again. And because they were a terrible omen, he sighed. “I trust you’ll be in prayer.”

“Without ceasing. For the both of you.” He stuck a hand in, and Justin clasped it without hesitation. “Keep in touch. And if you need me, give the word.”

Funny how, in that moment, this man he had thought for sure was an enemy seemed like a certain friend. “Let’s pray I don’t have to.”

Without further ado, he backed out and joined the stream of cars and carriages. A quick stop at his townhouse to collect Peters and their things, and he’d be on his way. He’d rent rooms somewhere in Whitby, to be close by. And he’d simply wear her
down with his presence. He would
be
there
. Every hour, every day, knocking upon her door.

Praying, without ceasing. Until she let him in again.

Darkness cloaked the familiar heath by the time Deirdre found a moment to step outside. Still, it was earlier than it should have been. She hadn’t finished unpacking for the baroness yet, but she’d been dismissed. No doubt the lady chafed at her presence.

The air had a nip to it, but it still smelled of spring in the country—a scent she had missed acutely in London. But she hadn’t counted on being back so soon. And knew, now, she wouldn’t be here long. The baroness would talk to his lordship soon.

Then Deirdre would find herself called forward after prayers, denounced in front of them all. Mrs. Doyle would gasp and press a hand to her mouth. Mr. Graham would rumble out a cough of outrage. Beatrix’s eyes would go wide with shock.

And Hiram . . . Hiram would look at her with that profound disappointment that would shatter her heart into a million pieces.

“Escaped finally, did you, Dee?”

Her eyes slid shut against the warm, cheerful voice. She buttoned the jacket she had slipped on and sank onto the stone garden bench. “How have you been, Hi?”

He chuckled as he took the seat next to her. “It was quiet while you were gone, as expected. Though I can’t say as anyone was surprised at the wire saying you were on your way back. Murder though—didn’t expect that.”

The image kept gnashing at her, popping up whenever she closed her eyes. The major, in a pool of his own blood, his
limbs at odd angles. She shuddered. “I’m the one who found him. When I went to see Uncle Seamus.”

“Oh, Dee.” His arm came around her shoulders, and he pulled her to his side.

She sagged against him and wished she could stay there forever. But what was the point? She would soon be gone. Back to Kilkeel in disgrace. Then what would Mum do? “I’ve ruined everything, Hiram. Lord Whitby and the baroness were so kind, so supportive—but I’d tossed it all away long before that. They’ll sack me soon.”

Hiram’s hand stroked over her hair. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Sweetheart
. She savored it for a moment, let it turn over in her mind. It clashed against the guilt. “I have, though. I already confessed it to the baroness. I . . . it was Pratt. He approached me in the village a year ago.”

Hiram went stiff, but he held her all the tighter. “Approached you how?”

Her stomach hurt in the remembering. How she had turned down a side street to make it the quicker to the post office and had all but run into him. How, at first, she had been struck dumb by his beauty—up until then, she had only glimpsed him from afar when he prowled around Whitby Park. But he must have seen her. He knew her name, her position, her salary . . . her family’s situation.

“He . . . he said he knew how my family was struggling, and he wanted to help. That I had two choices—I could either become his mistress or . . . or feed him information on who Lord Whitby would name heir.”

“DeeDee.” He turned a bit and wrapped his other arm around her too. Sorrow laced his tone. “Why’d you say nothing? You could have told me. Told his lordship.”

She should have. That was so clear now, but at the time . . .
“It seemed so silly. I had little information to give, but he paid me well for it. But then the baroness came, and he’d grown so impatient. Threatening—which was always lurking under the surface; I knew that all along—that if I hadn’t agreed, it would be trouble to find my family, not pound notes.”

She fisted her hands in his shirt and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “Now what am I to do? I’ll be dismissed, possibly arrested, and my mum . . .”

“Your mum’ll be fine.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You’ll be fine. His lordship won’t want the attention of pressing charges, and we’ll find other positions. I’ll take up farming, if I must.”

“Hiram.” She wanted to cling to that
we
, but it wasn’t right. “No. It’s my trouble, my wrong. You can’t be the one to pay for it.”

“And you think it won’t be punishment for me if you leave, if I must do without you?” He touched a hand to her face to turn it and then feathered his lips over hers. “I love you, Dee. Where you go, I go. We’ll marry, and I’ll help you take care of your family. I promise you.”

She should refuse. But she was too selfish. Sliding an arm around his neck, she kissed him soundly, letting the joy of it scrub at the bitterness and regret. It couldn’t obliterate them, but it eased their harshness. “I love you, Hiram. I’d be honored to be your wife. Though sure and I’m sorry to come to you with such trouble at my heels.”

“We’ll face it together.” He brushed at the hair coming loose from its pins, and the moonlight gilded his smile. “Two are stronger than one, aye? We’ll start looking for other positions. Together.”

She nodded and rested against him again. But her mind went back inside, up the stairs, to the chamber where, if the baroness had found sleep, she was no doubt thrashing about in the throes of her nightmare.

Her ladyship couldn’t escape her troubles, and heaven help her but Deirdre felt responsible for them. Bound to her through them, obligated to help. And she would, if she were given the chance.

But that seemed a very big
if
.

Twenty-Seven

F
rom her seat at her window, Brook could hear the rumble of the Rolls-Royce as it made its way down the drive. She wouldn’t look up from her book. She wouldn’t. She had no need to see the silver paint, the golden head—though today the top would be up, as the rain was coming down in torrents. She had thought it would keep Justin at home, or wherever he’d been staying the past fortnight.

No such luck. Of course, if her father wouldn’t keep entertaining him . . .

Her fingers curled around the edges of her book—Kant, and the German was nearly impossible. Especially when she was
not
watching the Rolls-Royce disappear over the knoll. With an exasperated breath, she tossed it to the window seat and took to her feet.

Deirdre stepped out from the dressing room. “Do you need something, my lady?” Her words were quiet and eager, as they had been each of the interminable fifteen days since they’d left the hospital in London.

Brook knew Deirdre was waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. Waiting for Brook to tell her father, and for her father to
dismiss her. And several times, she had nearly confided what Deirdre had confessed. But then she would stop. Dismissing her wouldn’t get the letters back or erase the secrets told. Dismissing her would mean needing to find a replacement, and that meant someone new who could be bought and bribed.

Deirdre would make no new betrayal. She might be, right now, the most trustworthy employee to be found.

Brook forced half a smile. “Nothing. Thank you. I’m going to find my father.” Not meeting her gaze, Brook kept on for the door. She didn’t want to dismiss her . . . but she hadn’t quite forgiven. She had tried. Had prayed the words. But she was still so empty inside.