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“Yes. I meant to thank him for his aid in dealing with Hugh this afternoon. Without his insisting on Hugh removing his coat, Dick would have been locked up.”

They made their way back to St. Martin’s Square. Along the way nothing occurred to Cassie to explain Raven’s departure for London. She had not thought in time to ask whether the proprietor knew where the Ramsburys themselves had gone. The family would not be happy with Raven, and she wished she knew what that meant for him. Everything he had done at Verwood he had done for Amabel’s sake.

At supper, Grandmama read them a note from the duke. Hugh had been released, but had received a summons from the magistrate. A further witness, another of the stable hands, had seen and described the timing and suspicious manner of Hugh’s entry into the stall. The duke assured Grandmama that he would personally see that Hugh would no longer be welcome at any respectable turf in England.

“Will Hugh attempt some revenge?” asked Honoria.

Grandmama put aside the duke’s letter and gave Honoria a quelling glance. And then she laughed. “Are you still scribbling that rubbishy book about the war? The one I told you stop writing?”

Honoria looked wounded, but she straightened and gave Grandmama a stubborn look. “I am.”

“Good. You have my blessing and you may call your villain Horrible Hugh, if you like, and make him as vile as possible. Now there’s just a bit more from the duke. He says, I HAVE WRITTEN TO RAMSBURY TO INFORM HIM THAT HIS SON’S NAME NOW HAS SUCH A STINK TO IT THAT HE WOULD DO WELL TO SEND HIS HEIR ABROAD FOR A TIME. THE AMERICAS MIGHT SERVE.” Over her letter, Grandmama gave them her most indomitable look.

“I doubt Hugh will attempt revenge, but Verwood will be prepared.”

*

Raven reached London by nightfall. He wanted to be in Verwood, but he knew he was not truly free of Amabel. He found his grandfather in his favorite leather armchair, wrapped in a maroon silk banyan, his feet on a Kilim-covered ottoman, brandy at his side, perusing The Times. Grandfather Cole looked up and lowered the paper.

“This is unexpected,” he said. “Are you feeling guilty for fawning off those three imps of yours on me?”

Raven had sent his trusty messengers to his grandfather. “Are they much trouble?”

“I’m no nursemaid, boy. They need a woman to look after them,” his grandfather grumbled.

Raven heard the affection under the mild complaint. “What have you been doing with them, Grandfather?”

“Teaching them about engines. They ask a plaguey lot of questions.” He fell silent, and said nothing for longer than Raven had ever known him to keep silent. He felt the old man’s gaze.

At last, his grandfather asked, “Need a drink, do you, lad?”

“I do.” Raven poured himself a brandy and took a seat. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and thought about how to begin his tale of what? Lost love, lost hopes, or sheer folly. He didn’t know which. Had he ever loved Amabel? There was no good answer to that question. If he had loved her, he had let himself fall out of love, hardly the act of a gentleman. If he had never loved her, if he had pursued her for entry into the bright, glittering world she inhabited, he was still no gentleman.

“You’ve broken with Lady Amabel?” his grandfather asked.

“She broke with me.” Raven stared into the glass. “But—”

“They want a fight, don’t they?” The paper slipped from his grandfather’s lap as the old man sat up. “We can give them a fight. We can buy and sell them. See if we don’t. I will not let that puffed up fellow Ramsbury get the best of us.”

Raven looked up at that. It would take time, but he would get untangled from Amabel. Verwood, he hoped, would be waiting when he returned.

“Now tell me everything, lad.”

*

When the three ladies of Verwood reached home, it was the week for getting in the grass. Though the summer had been dry, there was always a bit of trepidation in August that rain could spoil the harvest. Verwood hall was closed, its servants scattered, and no messenger boys about. Raven’s army of gardeners continued their work, and the stables buzzed with new energy in the wake of Hermes’s triumph, while Grandmama’s estate manager oversaw the home farm harvest.

The three women in the dower house returned to their separate spheres. Cassie wrote a long letter to cousin Marianne, thanking her for taking them in and apologizing for their abrupt departure. Honoria went to work on her Peninsular War novel, freely making her villain Horrible Hugh, and reading the parts of his comeuppance aloud to Cassie and Grandmama at night. Grandmama, herself, returned to her stables full of plans for training more horses. Jay Kydd had gone to London, but promised to return.

Cassie walked and thought. Something had happened to Raven. If she had understood what passed between them at the ball, he must love her. But there was only silence from wherever he had got to in the world. When she looked at the hall, a rather large reminder of his absence, her heart wavered between two possibilities. He could not be free because how could he be free and not come to her. Or he did not love her at all, and she had again been mistaken as she had been years ago about Torrington.

The first word of him burst on her on a bright Sunday morning when Miss Montford began a conversation outside of St. Andrews under the elms.

“It is quite sad to have the hall shut up, isn’t it?” she commented. “You must miss the activity, Lady Cassandra.”

“We do. My aunt especially misses our tenant’s messenger boys.”

Miss Montford stared as if Cassie had not understood her.