Page 5

The name Thomas brought a sharp, familiar ache. Thomas Hawthorne had promised her a bloom from every kingdom he visited, a vow left unfulfilled when he'd died abroad.

"And Julian preserved them all these years," she said softly.

"He did. Now that he has returned, he refuses to allow standard London scholars to organize the archive."

Adelaide looked at him in surprise. "Refuses? Upon what grounds?"

"He considers them careless. He says they overlook nuances, treating the material as mere objects to catalog rather than a living record of places and years of effort. He insists upon giving them to someone who comprehends the true value of the work."

"And he cannot find a single qualified scholar in all of London?"

"Evidently not."

They passed the brick wall of the kitchen garden, where the open door released the fragrance of damp earth and thyme. Adelaide drew a slow breath, attempting to steady her quickening pulse.

"I fail to see what any of this has to do with me," she said.

"You are the most knowledgeable person I know regarding natural history. You read four languages, and you have spent years studying Julian's published journals closely enough to note the errors his editors missed. You understand botany better than half the fellows at Kew."

Adelaide let out a brief, thin laugh. "I am a quiet woman managing a country estate who keeps pressed flowers in old volumes. That hardly qualifies me to organize a duke's archive."

"It is precisely the qualification," Cassian insisted. "You are the only person capable of understanding the work. I know it, and Julian knows it—even if he has not yet realized it himself."

Adelaide's laughter faded. She turned her gaze toward the orchard, where the apple boughs were beginning to show green buds.

He has not realized it himself. That meant Cassian had raised her name to Julian. Julian was not traveling to Kent out of his own memory of her, but because someone else had suggested her services.

"You urged him to seek me out," she said, her voice dropping into a flat tone.

"Yes," he admitted finally. "I did."

Adelaide stilled, then swallowed. Thirteen years of silence—not a single letter, inquiry, or visit. Now he was returning simply because Cassian had prompted him.

"He accepted because he requires a scholar, not because he wished to see me."

"You cannot know his mind."

"I know thirteen years of absolute silence, Cassian. That speaks clearly enough."

Cassian studied her intently, the exhaustion evident in the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He had ridden through a storm to warn her, convinced he was acting in her best interests.

"He will arrive in two days," Cassian said softly. "Perhaps you might speak with him before concluding that he has already failed you again."

Adelaide turned away, surveying the orderly garden paths and the solid stone walls of the house standing quiet in the morning light. This was her world, constructed through duty, routine, and the accumulation of small sacrifices. Julian Hawthorne had no place within it.

Yet he was coming regardless.

"I shall speak with him," she conceded. "I have little choice. He is a duke, this is my home, and I cannot close the door upon him without provoking a scandal my aunt would never forgive."

"That is practical," Cassian noted dryly.

She attempted a smile, but her lips would not yield.

As they reached the main path near the front drive, the sound of iron-rimmed wheels grinding against gravel reached her ears, followed by the heavy clatter of hooves.

Adelaide frowned. "A carriage? We expect no visitors today."

Cassian turned toward the approach. "Perhaps the vicar has called early."