“What do you—”
“Ruby.” Her father’s voice sharpened, and he leaned forward in his chair. “This is how it works, child. We don’t burst into situations unprepared, like a bull trampling a field. We exercise patience. We wait until we know for certain which way the die has been cast.”
Ruby felt Archer grow tense at her side, and she looked to him, trying to make sense of the ice that had chilled his expression. “I don’t understand. What do you mean,wait? The princess and Tamsin could be killed if we dally.”
“He means,” Archer said, very low, “that he already knew about Verdura.”
Her lips parted. She looked to her father. “What?”
“I did not know,” her father said coolly. “But when I received your outlandish letter, I suspected.”
He seemed blurry, suddenly. Everything felt muffled, her blood rushing in her ears. “You suspected...” She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. “But you told me you did not believe my story. You told me to wait in Cornwall. You—”
“You are precipitate,” the earl said. “Naive. You plunge into situations without grasping their ramifications.”
“I don’t understand,” she got out.
But she did. Her perception of the past rearranged itself—slow and devastating.
When she had received her father’s letter in St. Petroc’s, she had supposed that he had merely underestimated her. She had thought that he was, once again, letting her down.
But he had not truly disbelieved her. All those words of criticism—all that terrible, wrenching betrayal—had been purposeful. He had meant to keep her quiet.
“Did you—work with Verdura?” It was difficult to get the words out past the thick constriction of her throat. “Did you plot with him?”
“Of course not.” Her father laid a hand on his desk, palm-up. “But I have heard rumor of the duke’s intrigues for years now. We must wait to see how this gambit plays out.”
“It’s not agame, Papa.” Her voice broke. “We can’t sit back and let the princess—letTamsin—”
But her father cut her off. “Verdura is a powerful man, Ruby. If we cross him and he does take the throne in Monfalcone, our family will have made a dangerous enemy. It is far safer to bide our time.”
She looked at her father. The familiar arc of his cheekbones, the straight blade of his nose.
Safety, he preached.Restraint.But it was not concern for their family that motivated his actions. It was wealth and influence he wanted: proximity to power. She could see him clearly—the motivation that he tried to burnish over with delicate, politicking words. If he allowed both sides to think him loyal, he could retain his position no matter who took control of the throne.
Her father let his voice drop, soft and suggestive. He looked her in the eye. “Come home, Ruby. We can cover up your mésalliance. Find some way to undo it. If we allow Verdura to believe us an ally, who knows how we might be rewarded—not only me, but my family as well. We can find you a position at my side.”
There was a slow, brittle silence as Ruby held his gaze. As she considered his words.
Come home, Ruby.
My family.
At my side.
It was, she supposed, what she had always wanted.
She thought of delphiniums. Of years of devotion, of the patient, necessary work of hands.
There was no choice to make. She had already chosen. A thousand times, over and over, since the first time she’d seen Captain Malcolm Archer at Pomeroy House. She reached out and took her husband’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said to her father. “I’m very sorry that you have made this decision.”
“I have made no decision,” her father said. “I have simply chosen not to involve myself.”
But complicity was as much a decision as any other. She knew that. And so did her father. “We must go,” she said. “We will trouble you no longer.”
“Ruby,” her father said sharply. “Do not involve yourself further in this matter. I should think you’d know by now that your actions reflect back on me. Don’t forget whose name you bear.”
