Edward frowned. “No, I didn’t. That was Patrick.”
“I would remember. It was definitely you.”
“It wasn’t.”
“In any event, if my brother says that Edward Delacey is dead, who am I to contradict him?” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Really, Edward, after all these years, do you have to ask where my loyalties lie?”
Edward didn’t even believe in loyalty any longer. “You haven’t seen me in God knows how long.”
Stephen shrugged. “Yes, and while we’re at it, thanks for paying my school fees.”
Edward put his hands on his hips. “How the devil did you know about that? Did Patrick tell you? I’d thought more of his discretion than that.”
“No, but it was either you or Baron Lowery, and Patrick is very insistent on not accepting presents from Lowery.” Stephen shrugged. “I’m glad you’re alive. Even without that.”
When Edward had appeared to James, James had said almost exactly the opposite. It made Edward feel almost sentimental.
Instead of showing it, he simply raised an eyebrow. “You’re glad I’m alive? Imagine how I must feel.”
Stephen laughed. “Miss Marshall asked if I knew you.”
Edward stiffened. “And you said?”
“Do you remember that game we used to play, the one that annoyed Patrick? Where he’d ask questions, and we’d do our best to tell him falsehoods without actually uttering an untruth?”
Edward gave a crack of laughter. He had memories of lying in a field watching clouds go by, trying to make Patrick go mad by telling not-quite lies. God, he’d almost forgotten that.
“Well, I can still do that. ‘A passing acquaintance, Miss Marshall? No, I don’t have a passing acquaintance with Mr. Clark.’” Stephen smiled. “No need to mention that he’s my long-lost friend.”
Of all the things that Stephen could have said, that was the one that almost brought Edward to his knees. He felt the weight of a sudden, choking emotion. The other man’s casual smile seemed a heavy burden.
“I’ve been wishing I could introduce you to Miss Marshall ever since I found out about her father. Just to see your face when you found out.”
That fantasy played out again—the one where Edward Delacey, whole, and unblackened, met a fiery Miss Marshall.
She’d have laughed in his face. And truth to tell, his old self wouldn’t have had the strength to deal with her. She would have utterly overwhelmed him.
“Play your hand right,” Stephen said, “and maybe you can beg an introduction.”
He could have friends, family…and Free.
But then it never worked out that way.
Edward shook his head. “Play your hand right, and maybe she’ll never discover you lied to her. I’d hate to incur her wrath, if I were you. She seems rather fierce.”
THE TELEGRAM HAD ARRIVED late last evening, and Amanda had tossed and turned all night, dreading what she needed to do.
It was ridiculous to hold a grudge against Free for asking her to deliver this message—and she didn’t really feel grumpy about it. Not truly. But no matter how she tried to tell herself she need only address herself to Mrs. Jane Marshall, every time she looked up from her comfortable, cushioned chair, it wasn’t Mrs. Marshall, garbed in a flowing pink gown that emphasized her plump curves, that her gaze fixed upon.
It was Miss Johnson. Miss Johnson wore a demure pastel purple that should have seemed washed out next to her friend’s exuberantly-colored silk. But she glowed in it, the picture of beauty, good health, and perfection.
The women were looking at Amanda in something like horror. No surprise there—she’d just told them about the fire, the threat to Free’s newspaper, and Free’s plan, which would require them to host a massive soireé on not even a week’s notice.
“Of course we’ll help,” Mrs. Marshall said stoutly. “Any way we can.”
Of course they would. It was, after all, Free that they cared about. The thought of helping Free had Miss Johnson glowing in excitement.
“We shall be extremely busy,” Mrs. Marshall said.
Miss Johnson smiled. “I don’t mind. And there’s an added benefit.” She turned to Amanda. “Lady Amanda, I shall finally have you at one of my parties. After all this time! What a triumph that will be for me.”
Amanda felt almost dizzy. “Oh, no,” she said. “No. Of course I’m honored, but no, I couldn’t. It’s imposition enough to ask you to do such a thing in so short a time. I could not expect an invitation.”
“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Marshall frowned at her. “You’re asking us to invite hundreds. One more could hardly signify. And you’re a friend of the family twice over—once through Free, and again through your Aunt Violet.”
“I couldn’t,” Amanda said again.
But Mrs. Marshall shook her head. “Of course you could.”
“I couldn’t,” Amanda repeated.
“But—”
“Jane.” Miss Johnson set a hand on her employer’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go speak to the staff and inform them of what is to come? I’ll talk with Lady Amanda.”
No. Amanda felt her eyes widen in panic, but she could hardly cling to Mrs. Marshall and beg her to stay. What was she to say? I’m afraid of your secretary. She’s too pretty.
“But—” Mrs. Marshall started.
Miss Johnson looked over at her and pursed her lips. Something must have passed between them, because Mrs. Marshall sighed.
“Yes,” she said, “of course, Genevieve.”
The door closed on her. It did not make an ominous, resounding thud; it shut with an almost inaudible snick.
Miss Johnson turned to Amanda. “I didn’t think when I insisted earlier. Do you have anything to wear? All your things must have been burned in the fire.”
Amanda wished she had that excuse. But no, Genevieve would volunteer to find something for her, and being fitted for clothing with the impeccable Miss Johnson watching would be altogether too much for Amanda’s composure. “I have a suitable frock,” she choked out. “At my aunt’s house.”
Miss Johnson’s face grew more sober. “Then is it me?” She looked down. “I hope I’ve done nothing to make you feel unwelcome. You must know I think highly of you. Very highly.”
Oh, that was not helping matters. Amanda gulped in air. “It’s not you.” And that was only a little bit of a lie; after all, it wasn’t Genevieve herself who posed the problem. It was simply everything she represented. “I just don’t go out in society any longer.”