Page 116 of Duke of Sapphire

“Friday,” she agreed.

He picked up the footstool and set it against the wall where it could not be climbed on by anyone. Charlotte watched him do it with an expression that suggested she found this entirely reasonable and somewhat funny in equal measure. She did not say so.

He left the drawing room.

He did not look back.

* * *

Something small hit Charlotte’s ankle.

She looked under the table. James was sitting on the carpet between her chair and Nathan’s, arranging what appeared to be an especially important row of bread rolls. Ian knelt beside him, directing operations.

“They’re not for eatin’,” Ian told James. “They’re a fort.”

James nodded, solemn, and placed another roll.

Charlotte straightened and reached for her wine. “Your son,” she told Lavinia, “is building fortifications under the dining table.”

“He builds them everywhere,” Lavinia said. “Last week it was the conservatory.”

“Bread will go stale,” Nathan remarked.

“The fortress will hold until pudding,” Tristan said. “I have complete confidence.”

The table laughed. It was that kind of evening—easy and generous, the fire burning well, the food excellent, everyone glad to be in the same room. Nathan was on his best form, which meant he was currently embroiled in a story about a Highlander, a missing sheep, and a disputed boundary wall that had Lavinia pressing her napkin to her mouth. Eleanor listened with a smile, as if she had heard this story before and found it funnier every time.

Charlotte was glad about all of it. She was genuinely pleased. She watched Nathan and Eleanor and felt the weight of the last months lift a degree. They were here. They were whole. That was the thing she had wanted, and it had happened.

She was also aware, the way she was always aware lately, of Henry at the head of the table.

He had been very correct all evening. Attentive host, engaged in conversation, generous with the wine. He had asked Eleanor twice about her arm and had spoken to Nathan at some length about the estate. He had been, in every observable way, perfectly fine.

It was the not-quite-fine underneath that Charlotte kept catching.

A fork on his plate, set down without purpose. A pause in conversation he filled with the wrong word. The way he looked at Ian, once, when the boy’s laugh came up from under the table, and then immediately looked away.

She knew that look. She had worn it herself all afternoon.

Nathan was winding down his story. The table had found its rhythm again, that warm back-and-forth of people who have been through something difficult together and arrived on the other side.

Henry pushed back his chair, rose, and lifted his glass. Charlotte’s attention sharpened. “Nathan and Eleanor,” he began. “I am most relieved that you are safe and back with us. I wish you health and prosperity.”

Nathan and Eleanor beamed. Then Henry turned to Charlotte. He meant to be brief but somehow diverted, and she could see it. The set of his shoulders, the slight intake of breath… it was supposed to be the kind of toast that concluded things neatly.

His gaze lingered on her, and she felt heat flood her cheeks. His brows furrowed. She did not know what to make of his expression, but it was not the carefully arranged one he wore for dinner parties.

“To finding your way home,” he said, “even when you didn’t know you were lost.”

The table went quiet.

Charlotte’s hand tightened on her stemware. The crystal was cold. She could feel the trembling start at her fingers and try to travel upward, and she pressed down hard to stop it.

Nathan’s brows had risen. He was looking at Henry, and beside him, Eleanor had gone very still.

Tristan lifted his wine and put it to his lips and did not drink. His shoulders were shaking to the smallest degree.

Lavinia was watching Charlotte.