Over time, Beatrice knew she would come to love Ambrosia as dearly as she had loved Lady Hannah.
Differently. But dearly.
So she had agreed it sounded festive. Romantic, even. Entirely suitable for a summer celebration in the country.
And it was.
This was not Ashcombe House.
This was not London.
This was not five years ago.
Beatrice drew a breath.
Lavender. Wax. Polished wood.
Not cloves. Not orange. Not that sickly sweetness beneath.
And if she felt a little unsettled, well, she had reasons.
The event alone was enough to occupy anyone. Then there was the Vigilance Society—or what remained of it.
Officially, they had suspended meetings.
Unofficially, letters continued to arrive. Notes about a cousin in need of advice. A friend taught to break a hold. A young lady quietly warned away from a man whose attentions had turned unwelcome.
The Society had not been disbanded.
It had merely branched out.
Beatrice pressed her lips together.
Then there was Gideon Rothmore.
Who had, in fact, done exactly what she had demanded of him.
He had left her alone.
Since she’d arrived in Dasborough Park, she hadn’t received a single carefully worded apology in the form of a letter.
Nothing.
He had respected her wishes.
It was astonishing how very much she resented him for it.
And he had not told Dash. That much was clear. Dash had said nothing, asked nothing.
Not about the Vigilance Society.
Not about her… dalliance with Gideon.
Not about five years ago.
Gideon had kept her confidence. Of course he had.
She had trusted him.
