Daphne hesitated, then asked quietly, “But what if Sebastian’s title is restored? His fortune? Is there a chance you might marry?”
“Dare I even think of such an outcome or is it foolish?” Rose asked. “There is so much uncertainty about both our situations.”
“You deserve so much better than what your father left you with,” Lydia added, her voice fierce with protectiveness.
“We must never give up hope,” Daphne said. “Look at all that’s transpired over the last few weeks. Surely there’s evidence that somehow things work out as they should.”
Arabella reached over and squeezed her hand. “And remember, you can always come to live with me. Write to us the moment you know what your father’s left you and we’ll plan accordingly.”
Rose nodded, her throat tight. “You are a dear friend. I cannot thank you enough. You all are.”
“Even though men betray us, we have one another,” Daphne said with a rueful smile.
Rose’s eyes misted. “You’re all far too good to me.”
“And what of you, Violet?” She turned to the quietest of their group. “Are you going home to your father?”
Violet’s shoulders sagged. “I have nowhere else to go. I shall returnand wait for next Season.”
“You’re not going home to him,” Arabella said sharply. “You’re coming with me.”
Violet’s eyes went wide. “Truly?”
“I’ve already instructed the footmen to put your things in my carriage. I’ll look after you from now on.” Arabella’s tone softened. “And soon, we’ll all be together again and all of this will be a distant nightmare. We will all get through this, do you understand?”
“Together,” Daphne said.
The others murmured eager agreement just as one of the footmen appeared. “Your carriages are ready, my ladies.”
They embraced, and promised letters to keep one another informed. Rose watched from the front steps as her friends departed, their voices calling back to her until the carriages disappeared down the drive.
The house felt impossibly quiet afterward. Rose wandered to the library and settled into her usual chair, but the book in her lap remained unopened. Instead, she gazed out at the bright summer afternoon and thought of her mother—how disappointed she would be to see what had become of everything her father had left her.
A soft knock interrupted her reverie. “Lady Rose?” Mrs. Blythe appeared in the doorway. “Constable Stephens is here to see you.”
Rose set aside her book, her stomach clenching. “The drawing room, please.”
As Mrs. Blythe turned to go, Rose called after her. “Mrs. Blythe?” The older woman paused. “After Mother died, when I was so grief-stricken, you took care of me. I’ve never forgotten that kindness.”
Mrs. Blythe’s eyes grew bright. “It has been my honor.” She hesitated at the threshold. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”
“I won’t,” Rose promised, though her voice wavered.
Alone again, Rose took a steadying breath and smoothed her skirts. Whatever news the constable brought, she would face it. What other choice did she have?
*
Rose hesitated justoutside the drawing room door, pressing her palms against her skirts to steady herself before stepping inside.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the Persian carpet. Constable Stephens stood near the hearth with his hat tucked under his arm, his weathered face grave. He turned at the sound of her entrance, bobbing his head in polite acknowledgment.
“My lady.”
She forced a smile, crossing the room on unsteady legs. “Please sit with me. May I offer tea?”
“No, thank you. I wanted to come out as soon as I could, knowing you must be feeling a great sense of uncertainty.”
She settled onto the sofa, motioning for him to take the chair opposite. The leather creaked as he sat. “Yes, unfortunately this is true.”
