His mother tilted her head slightly, her expression contemplative. “And tell me, who exactly are you more angry with—Mr. Smith, or yourself?”
Richard didn’t answer right away. He stared past her, jaw grinding, until finally he muttered, “I should have stopped her. I should have seen what was happening.”
“No one could have known what she would do,” she said. “She’s always followed her own mind, even when it led her into trouble.”
“I should have known,” he said again, quieter this time, as if the words tasted of guilt.
Her hand fell away from his arm. “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But what’s done is done. Now we must move forward together, as a family.”
He looked away, towards the rose gardens where his sister had paced only moments ago. “And the scandal?”
His mother’s voice was tinged with weariness. “It’s been relentless. The gossip columns, the whispers at every gathering. But it will fade, in time. They always do.”
“But our family’s name…” Richard looked down, a bitter taste on his tongue. “It’s been dragged through the mud.”
“It has,” she admitted. “But hiding away hasn’t helped. We’ve spent long enough in the shadows. It’s time to hold our heads high again, no matter how heavy the burden.”
Richard lifted his gaze to the sky, as though hoping for strength from the heavens. “It isn’t so simple.”
“I never said it was simple,” she replied with a faint, sad smile. “Only necessary.”
They walked in silence towards the house, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound for a moment.
“I’ve asked Miss Theodosia to join us for dinner,” his mother informed him.
Richard stopped short. “Why would you do that?”
She offered him a knowing look. “Because if we want her to feel welcome—truly welcome—we must make the effort to embrace her.”
He snorted. “Very clever. Keep your enemies close, is that it?”
“And what if she’s not the enemy? What if Miss Theodosia is entirely innocent in this?”
Richard gave her a sharp look. “Impossible. She knows something. I can see it in her eyes. She’s involved in Mr. Smith’s lies. I’m sure of it.”
“She seems rather sweet to me.”
“Sweet?” Richard repeated. “That is not a word I would ever use to describe Miss Theodosia. Stubborn, perhaps. Aggravating, absolutely. Obstinate beyond measure. Those are far more accurate descriptions.”
His mother gave him a sidelong glance, entirely unbothered by his vehemence. “Regardless, she is a beautiful young woman.”
“Her beauty has nothing to do with this,” he stated, as though the very suggestion was offensive. “You mustn’t let that fool you. She’s wearing a mask. Women like her always are.”
“Not always,” his mother murmured, a note of gentlerebuke in her voice. “But even if she is, isn’t it our task to see what lies beneath?”
Richard didn’t respond. His mind was already working—assessing, running through every interaction he’d had with Miss Theodosia Smith since he’d first appeared on her doorstep. There was something about her he couldn’t quite pin down. Something guarded. Controlled. And yet...
Doubt gnawed at the edge of his certainty.
He had no doubt that she was hiding something. But what exactly that was, he could not yet say.
His mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Just remember to be kind to her,” she urged. “She’s far from home, surrounded by strangers, and likely feels terribly out of place.”
“I don’t think she’s capable of feeling anything.”
Even as the words left his mouth, an image flickered unbidden through his mind: Miss Theodosia, sitting in the coach, her eyes shimmering with tears as she spoke of her late parents. The rawness in her voice and the way she had tried to smile through it. For the briefest moment, she had seemed heartbreakingly human.
He pushed the memory aside, hardening his expression.
