“That is… quite different from the original plan.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She’d worried that this might happen, but it still felt… so sudden. Her thoughts exploded at once.
The ladies. The arrangements. The lessons she had only just set into motion?—
Unfinished.
All of it.
Her fingers tightened around her gloves.
“Where is my brother now?”
It was just like Dash. To make a decision and simply act. To then expect the world—his household, his sister—to follow.
“He is in his rooms, my lady.”
There was something in Edwards’ tone—careful, almost hopeful—that suggested he would not object if she attempted to interfere.
Beatrice inclined her head.
“Thank you.”
But she did not hurry. There was no purpose in arriving flustered.
By the time she reached the door to the master’s chamber, she had her composure set firmly in place.
She knocked.
“What is it?” came his voice from within—rough, frayed at the edges.
Without being invited, Beatrice opened the door and stepped inside.
Trunks stood open. A valise lay half-filled upon the bed. Shirts folded with varying degrees of care. Papers stacked—and not.
A disorder that must have had Edwards in quiet despair.
Beatrice closed the door behind her.
For a moment, she kept silent.
She took him in. Seated. Slumped forward, his head in his hands.
Dash had shed his coat and cravat, but for the first time in days, he wore something approaching proper attire. He looked more like himself.
Except for the defeat that seemed to burn from within.
“Mr. Edwards says we’re leaving?” she said.
Her broken brother pushed upright, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair.
Oh dear. Mrs. Bloomington must have been quite firm in her refusal.
“I’m sorry, Bea. I should have asked you first. I’ve been a horrid brother the past few months, haven’t I? I should have taken you about this Season, given you the attention you deserve.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Did you really think that was why I came? I only wish you had let me help you. That you would have let me go to her??—”
