Page 44 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Rafe had turned her out in haste. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about the one who impersonated her to Rothschild’s group. Nor did he know that her friends advocated for a lady’s right to passion. Also, he had no knowledge of the imminent prospect of her being examined by a midwife to ensure she could be a commendable partner to a loving man.

But even as her cab pulled up to Gus’s townhouse, here was James at the ready, opening the door and pulling down the step to Zeph’s hired hack.

“Miss Butler?” He offered his hand, poor, confused man.

“James,” she said with a kindness to one who had been gracious to her, “I will no longer need you. I do thank you for your service.”

He opened his mouth to object.

“No. Please.” A bitter wind cut through her wool pelisse. Ice to add to the chill in her heart. She was adamant, and James, who had always been polite, deserved that in return. “I will live here. Another man will serve as my guard. Good day.”

“Does Sir Raphael approve of your leaving?”

Worse. He suggested it. “He knows, James.”

Sir Raphael had convinced her to leave his house, his sphere, his friendship. She had not needed to hear the dismissal in his voice twice.

She would never forget him. He, like so many others, male and female, had been a part of her life. Essential to her growth and maturity. Vital to her perspective. Yes, what shall we call it? My education?

She harrumphed. Education. As good as any a term. Aware all too well that she would not be free were it not for the heroics of Sir Raphael, she could pamper herself with the idea that she would still be alive regardless. But she was a realist. Her will to survive, to overcome all her previous challenges, had not been so life-threatening as imprisonment in the Conciergerie. Heart-rending, soul-devouring, oh yes, those challenges were. A mother who ran away and died in her youth. A father who never loved his wife, but who cared enough to bequeath to his daughter what he had built. At least with her father’s wealth, or a small, useful portion of it, she would make her way in the world and make a new world for those whom he had enslaved and profited from.

The result? She would live. Live without Rafe Durham. For he had been kind and saved her from the hell of a miserable death. For that, she would value him. Remember his name. His service. But more? No. That opportunity for him had fled last night in his study.

Out of sight, she was well aware, was never out of mind. But by heavens, she would do it.

If only for a little while, Zephora. Then she would want him again. She knew it, but would not deal with it until she had to. For now, there was this to confront.

She lifted the knocker on Gus’s front door.

Gus’s butler, Friendly, gaped at her, surprised at her presence there so early in the morning. But he shooed her inside out of the cold, and she told him of her luggage in the boot of her hired hack.

“Please come to the small parlor, Miss Butler. I will notify my mistress.” He walked away, startled and so confused that Zeph swore he talked to himself.

Zeph was tempted to pace the floor, but she was not interested in appearing shaken. She had control of this situation and of herself. Her father’s indifference to her while he lived had inured her to a man’s rejection. She knew how to deal with that, and did so with Rafe’s.

This man, her man, had been different. True, he had saved her physically when she could not save herself, but when he had aided her to rally, she had found her inner force once more.

“I will go on.”

Her phrase. Her motto. Her salvation for all her life. She would survive. Most likely alone. A rich-as-sin American female, wild, but free. She would do well. Very well.

Footsteps on the stairs alerted her to Gus’s arrival.

Zeph waited, hands crossed casually in her lap. She had not heard from Gus yesterday, so she had no idea if her friend would take her in. If not, she would go to a hotel. There had to be one here in Town where she could live unnoticed and safe from prying eyes. At least for a while, she had to have a friend to test the ground beneath her feet in London. She might look bold and act caustically, but she knew her needs. What was more, she understood social boundaries. Friends were essential to ease the path of a woman. She had enjoyed that in Paris, even as a schoolgirl. There, she had learned to value a social life filled with books and theater, art, travel, and useful discussions with intelligent people. She might go home to Virginia, but frankly, that rural society did not appeal as much as one in a vibrant city, filled with those who were educated and erudite. Plus, the idea of crossing the ocean roiled her stomach. She would do that, but not soon.

She had to know the answer to a larger question that reoccurred time and again to her. She needed time and a certain sense of equilibrium emotionally to decide. Was Virginia her home?

Had she ever really had one?

Only once. She sucked in a breath. Only once…and now she had left it.

“Zephora?” Gus stood on the threshold in the same gown she had worn yesterday to Inès’s gathering of friends. This morning, her pretty pink dress was wrinkled and her wavy black hair flowed about her shoulders in disarray. She spread her arms in welcome and rushed to Zeph. “Oh, my dear. I did not open your note and read you were leaving Rafe’s house until I got home from Inès’s house half an hour ago.”

Whatever Zeph’s expression was, she understood that Gus saw her as young and vulnerable.

“You are well?”

“I am. I am. And Inès?”