Page 8 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“I’ll have a tray,” he answered, distracted by Vera’s sudden departure through the far door. He frowned at his mother. “Who is that woman?”

The baroness tilted her head. “I told you—she’s a friend of the family. She’s staying with us.”

“I hardly see how she can be a friend of the family if she’s unknown to me.”

“Very well. Vera’s a friend of mine.” She arched an eyebrow and straightened his coat. “Never thought I’d see this terrible tweed again. I’m amazed it made it through, though I suppose the pattern was so awful it put the moths off their meal, hmm?”

His mother moved to the archway and began issuing instructions to the butler and the housekeeper, who hovered unobtrusively in the doorway.

“Give them a few moments, then you can head up.” She peered past him. “Where’s your luggage?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced toward the entryway. “I think I dropped it when…”

“When you attacked Vera?” Her jet eyebrows were raised in censure once more.

“I didn’t attack her. I simply inquired what she was doing here.”

“At such a volume I heard you bellowing all the way in my back parlor?”

Stephen didn’t have a good answer for his behavior, not without explaining how his mind had played tricks on him. He just shrugged.

His mother didn’t notice—she was peering past him again. “Where is your betrothed? I’m eager to meet her, though I confess I’m shocked you were able to find a woman with that otter pelt on your face.”

Stephen reached up and touched his beard self-consciously. “Did you not get my letter?”

“I’ve received numerous letters; you’ll have to be more specific.” She crossed to her desk, sat, and opened a ledger book.

“The one announcing my arrival home. The one telling you I’m no longer betrothed.”

“Oh, dear.” Concern furrowed his mother’s brow. “Is the girl dead, then?”

“What? No. She ran off with someone else.”

“That’s even worse.” She arched an eyebrow and licked the tip of her pen. “You probably wish she’d succumbed to fever.”

“Of course not.”

“Right, otherwise you would have mourned her. Better for you to know who she truly is—it’s an easier break. Now would be the perfect time for the fever to set in. Don’t worry, son. I’ll pray earnestly after her health.”

“Mother.”

He’d forgotten how quick she was—how impossible. Even the old version of her—the skirts-wearing, house-managing, rule-following version—had run circles around him in conversation. On some level, it was comforting to realize she was, in many ways, unchanged.

“Yes, dear?” She blinked innocently up from the ledger she was filling in with deft strokes, using an unfolded letter for reference.

“I don’t wish for Samantha to die.”

“That’s hardly up to me.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t know whether he wanted to yell in frustration or laugh.

“I’m glad it appears you’re quite over her,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “Obviously she was just a distraction, not your true match.”

Stephen sighed and rubbed his temple. There was an ache beginning there, and he mentally ran through the process of making a tincture to soothe it if it got any worse.

His mother continued, “A shame you didn’t come earlier. Lady Candace moved in next door, but she’s already married to the Duke of Canterbury, so that won’t do. Unless…” She glanced up from her book. “How are you with pistols? A decent shot?”

“I’m not going to duel the Duke of Canterbury for his wife,” he grumbled.