Lord Timothy, Marquess of Trembly, stared at the bench alongside the outdoor table as though it might leap up and bite a hole in his trousers. Abby had been thrilled when a café on the southern end of Park Avenue wanted to stock her pies, an entry into the luxurious, and lucrative, world of serving wealthier patrons who would appreciate the art of her baking. Rose had uprooted a particularly belligerent family of pigeons before claiming the least soiled table, and she worried Timothy may never recover from the fright of their angry departure.
“Rose, I am beginning to wonder if you have lost all sense,” he said before spreading out a monogrammed handkerchief and sitting gingerly upon it.
“Wait until you taste this pie and you’ll agree with me,” she said, although her excitement about sharing Abby’s gift was tempered with anxiety. “Why are you here?”
She assumed he was attempting nonchalance with his shrug, but his body was entirely too tense to accomplish his intent. “I was inspired by your hunt for adventure and am having some of my own.” He bit the piece of pie and moaned loud enough to draw stares from neighboring tables. “Good god, that is tremendous.”
Rose grinned. “I told you.”
Timothy scooped up another bite and continued. “The dear Dowager Marchioness of Trembly is once again parading hopeful debutantes in front of me and begging me to settle down. I couldn’t stand one more insipid conversation, so I put an entire ocean between myself and such nonsense.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Timothy, I know we had an agreement—”
“Good lord, darling, no.” He placed his hand on top of hers. “I feel no remorse in making the old biddy wait a bit longer, and I thought you might want a partner in crime. Frankly, I expected us to paint the town pink and scandalize some American…” He wrinkled his nose and cocked his head to the side. “What do you call Yank aristos?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
He poked at his pie before spearing a single piece of soft, cinnamon-infused apple and holding it aloft. “Regardless, imagine my surprise when I dined with my dear friend Jimmy Astor and he told me he’d heard nothing about a Miss Rose Waverly circulating in society.”
Her cheeks heated.
“Nor had Alfie Vanderbilt, or Jimmy Barclay, or any of my associates in the Union Club.”
“Why do you belong to the Union Club?”
Timothy rolled his eyes. “Why not? It’s gotten dull finding ways to spend money at this point, and I need a place to stay when I’m in town. But stop trying to distract me from the issue at hand. Imagine my astonishment when I queried about the direction where I’ve been sending you telegrams.” He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, only to sit up sharply as though scalded. “Why am I sending you telegrams in theslums, Rose?”
Her brows knit together. “Brooklyn Heights is not the slums. Yes, it’s not Mayfair, but—”
“Why in the devil are you inBrooklyn?” He hissed the last word like he was damning her to hell, and righteous indignation burned as hot as her cheeks.
“You have entirely the wrong impression of the place. I’m making a difference, Timothy. The people there, they’re incredible, and capable, and talented. They care for each other and live more richly than anyone we knew in London.” She gestured to his half-empty plate. “Someone from Brooklyn Heights made this, someone who is very important to me.” As much as she trusted Timothy, she couldn’t put Abby at risk by identifying her as the pie’s creator, even if Rose would carry his praise with her when she returned to Willow Street.
“Good pie is not reason enough to live inBrooklyn.”
“I didn’t realize how unhappy I was in England until I came here. I found people who seemeand want me to be a part of their lives. People who don’t forget about me the moment someone more interesting comes along.”
A crease appeared on Timothy’s brow. “My darling, did I make you feel that way?”
“No,” she insisted, although the old hurt twisted her insides. “But if we marry, I would always be your second choice.”
Timothy’s eyes shuttered, and she wondered if he thought of someone specific back in Oxford, a man he could never claim publicly.
“I will always care for you,deeply,” she said, “but I have a different life here, a purpose. I’m helping women earn the right to vote.”
He smiled, but his eyes were still dull. “A noble cause indeed. But Rose, do you really think you can hide here forever? Your mother and father are worried sick about you.”
Rose’s stomach fell. “They are?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “We all are.”
Her mind spun. She had ignored the increasingly concerned telegrams she received from her sister, and had never even thought about her parents. All this time, she had assumed everyone in her old life had forgotten her. Had she been wrong about this, just as she had been wrong about Fern?
She attempted an easy laugh, but it emerged choked. “You’re the one who encouraged me to have an adventure, if you’ll remember. I was only taking your advice.”
“I know I encouraged you to start a scandal, but I never expected something like this. I thought you might drink too much champagne or forgo gloves at tea, not join a bloody cult.”
“It’s not like that—”
