Philippa nodded, fighting hard to tamp down any amusement. The girl was deadly serious, and she’d respond in kind. "I’m listening, Charlotte. And you have my word. I will do everything in my power to help your sister find a good match. Someone kind and decent who will treat her well."
Charlotte considered this. "She needs new gloves. She never buys them for herself because she thinks they're an extravagance."
Philippa swallowed hard as she adjusted her gloves. "Thank you, Charlotte. That's very useful information."
Charlotte nodded. As she turned to go, Philippa called after her. "Oh, and Charlotte…"
Charlotte turned back, her eyes wide and inquisitive.
"Should you wish to see your sister, you are always welcome in my home."
Charlotte’s broad grin was so sudden, it caught Philippa unawares.
Charlotte disappeared down the hall, but Philippa needed a moment. Charlotte didn’t look much at all like her sister had as a child, but there was something in the grin and the open curiosity that had Philippa standing still in the townhome’s foyer for much too long.
She stood there thinking of another younger sister, fierce and small and full of opinions that nobody had wanted to hear. Lydia.
Philippa drew in a deep, steadying breath.
Her younger sister had been like Charlotte once. Bright and stubborn and so certain she could handle anything the world sent her way. And Philippa had believed her.
“I'm fine, Pippa. He's not so bad. You worry too much.”
She closed her eyes, just for a moment.
She'd learned too late what "not so bad" meant behind closed doors. By the time Philippa understood, the fire had come and gone, and the world believed Lydia had died along with it.
The truth was so much more complicated.
A servant came to see her out, and Philippa pulled herself together. She could not go back and save Lydia at eighteen, or undo the marriage she'd failed to prevent…
But she could make certain that Estella Hale did not suffer the same fate.
8
Estella sat across from the most agreeable man in London.
Well, at least, the most agreeable she’d met thus far, and a great deal more talkative than a certain glowering marquess she’d sat next to in the parlor earlier that evening.
With a quick glance she could see Sebastian listening to a story the duchess was telling. Silent, as usual. She supposed it ought to reassure her that the marquess was not only terse and grim around her. It seemed to be his default demeanor.
Meanwhile, the rest of the duchess’s guests buzzed with conversation and laughter around the dining room table. But Estella’s focus was on Lord Alderton, who’d proven to be the world’s most agreeable dinner companion during this, the duchess’s first event in which Estella was on full display.
Lord Alderton was a viscount of considerable means, and a widower, she'd been told. His wife had died of a fever two years prior, leaving behind Alderton and a daughter. Since her death, he'd spent most of his time at his country estate before returning to London this Season. It was surmised that he’d come to town to find a wife and a stepmother for his child.
More importantly, he was, by all accounts—a very good prospect.
The duchess certainly thought so, and Estella could hardly argue. He was a little over thirty, with thick light brown hair, kind eyes, and a manner that was warm without being presumptuous.
He asked thoughtful questions and appeared genuinely interested in her answers. And when she'd accidentally mentioned her interest in estate management—a topic she normally kept firmly to herself, having learned that most gentlemen found it alarming in a young woman—he leaned forward with keen interest.
"You manage the accounts yourself?" There was something in his expression that looked remarkably like respect.
"Out of necessity rather than ambition, I'm afraid," she said, and immediately wished she hadn't. The admission revealed far too much.
But Lord Alderton didn't press. He simply nodded and said, "My late wife managed ours. She was far better at it than I was. I still haven't got the hang of the tenant ledgers."
In that moment she’d felt an immediate affinity for the man. Their situations were nothing at all alike, and yet she recognized a fellow survivor. The one left behind to pick up all the pieces.
