"No." He held it in place.
"Sebastian—"
"No." The word came out sharper than he'd meant. He saw her flinch and his gut twisted with regret.
He’d been too harsh. He thought of Andrew, who'd been kind without effort, who'd known how to make Estella feel safe.
When she made another move to share the coat’s covering with him, he caught her wrist as gently as he could. "Keep it…Little Ella," he added.
That was what Andrew called her, and so he’d called her that too.
Her eyes grew wide and she went very still. "I haven't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "No one's called me that in years."
There was a hint of confusion in her eyes, but then she pulled the coat tighter around her shoulders. "Thank you."
They stood beneath the oak and watched the rain, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke, but the silence was not awkward. In fact, it was an oddly comfortable silence. With Estella. Which…
Well, that made him very uncomfortable. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he was not supposed to feel at ease around Estella Hale.
7
The Hale townhouse was precisely as the Duchess of Ashworth had expected.
The drawing room was tidy but threadbare, with curtains that had been turned to hide the sun-faded side and a carpet worn smooth in the path between the door and the fireplace.
A vase of flowers sat on the mantelpiece, but it did little to brighten the mood. It would be a dingy room on the best of days, but with the rain pouring down outside, the gray skies made the drab room even more depressing.
She walked over to the flowers. They were wildflowers, and she could guess who’d put them there. Estella, of course.
Moving to the windows, Philippa peeked out at the rainy sky. Lord Blackwood and Miss Hale would be caught in this downpour, which was either an inconvenience…or an opportunity. Philippa chose to look at it as an opportunity. She was curious to know what Blackwood would do when his carefully controlled outing didn’t go as planned.
She suspected he'd handle it rather well. The man had many flaws—chiefly his staggering inability to recognize that he was desperately in love—but negligence was not one of them.
"Your Grace." The Viscount Langley hurried into the drawing room. He was slight and gray-haired, and this close she could see his eyes were watery and red-rimmed.
He did not look like a healthy man, and his demeanor was oddly distracted.
"Your Grace," he said again. This time he bowed. "What an unexpected pleasure."
"Lord Langley." She took the chair he indicated and ignored the ominous creak it gave beneath her. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course. Though I confess I'm not entirely certain…" He trailed off.
Philippa waited. She'd learned decades ago that silence was often a far more effective tool than speech.
He blinked. Refocused. "Forgive me. You were saying?"
She hadn't been saying anything, but she let it pass. "I've come to discuss your daughter, Estella."
"Estella. Ah yes, of course." He looked around as if perhaps Estella was hiding behind the curtains. "Yes, she's…I believe she's out this afternoon. A walk, I think."
Philippa's fingers tightened around her gloves in her lap.
This man had two daughters. Two living daughters who needed him. And he was unable to remember where the elder one had gone?
She thought, briefly and uncharitably, of all the things she would say if compassion weren't required. But compassion was required, because this man had suffered much grief.
She doubted he was intentionally cruel, even if the effect on his children was much the same.
