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“This is not the time for jokes, Marcia,” their mother said. “Your sister needs your support, not your mockery.”
“What about Lord Wycliff, or Mr. Ashcroft?” Trinity asked. “Both men have given you plenty of interest. With the duke out of the way, surely one of them would propose.”
She shrugged, dropping back to the couch between her mother and Trinity. “He did agree to help secure an offer from one of them. We can only hope to see.”
“I feel as though something else is weighing on your mind, darling,” her mother said, smoothing back her hair.
Lydia sighed, still unwilling to confess, but felt now she had no choice. “I received a threatening note when I was in Marigold, someone saying they wanted to expose my lie.”
The younger girls gasped. Only Trinity nodded, though their mother raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“By their note, they had intercepted a letter I wrote to Trinity, where I conveyed some impure thoughts about the duke.”
“Oh my,” Martha breathed.
“I think it was uncle, as my maid said that she handed the letter to him to post.”
“Why on Earth would he inflict scandal upon you?” her mother asked. “That makes no sense.”
“It might be a man’s handwriting. I thought that he had read my letter and wanted to force me to return to London to punish me for wicked thoughts.”
“He has made no mention of any sort since returning to London,” her mother said, shaking her head.
“It could not have been anyone else!” she said.
“Even if it was him,” Martha continued, “I cannot see him revealing it now, nor especially after the duke announces the end of your engagement. I think you can get that worry off your mind.”
She shook her head, unconvinced.
“Unfortunately, I do think you must attend the ball and bear this uncomfortable situation for just a little while longer. Perhaps we can convince your uncle to let us retire to the estate for the rest of the year.”
Lydia shook her head again. “I do not see how that would help at all.”
Martha patted her knee gently, saying, “We shall see.”
* * *
Sitting in the dining room of his town home in the Kensington neighborhood of London, Michael picked at his plate, having failed to generate an appetite for supper. He replayed his conversation with Lydia, the hurt on her face imprinted in his mind.
He faintly heard the butler open the door downstairs, heard someone come in, but he did not pay it any attention. Taking a long swig of wine, he looked up only when Joseph entered the room.
“The butler said I’d find you here,” Joseph said.
“Oh, you’ve come to town,” Michael noted, turning his glass of wine in his hand.
“I figured you might need some support.”
Joseph sat down at the table next to him, motioning for a footman to bring him a glass of wine. They were quiet until the man poured the wine and backed away.
“You are in a troublesome mood,” Joseph noted. “What happened?”
Michael took a long drink again, staring at the sediment in the bottom of his glass for a moment.
“I’ve told Lady Lydia that we will be officially broken off at the duchess’s ball in just a few days.”
“That seems to be in line with what you had mentioned,” Joseph said, cocking his head. “Is there something amiss?’
Michael shook his head, frustrated that Joseph didn’t seem to understand the sentiment.
