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Elinor caught her jaw before it dropped too far. A part of her—a very small part—wished she dared let out the laugh that built in her chest. But she knew what it felt like to be forsaken (thanks to Henry). Pity kept her laughter silenced. For the moment. “You give too little credit to your sister,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, looking dubious. But that was an argument for another day.

“Still, I thank you for your apology, Henry. And … I am sorry to hear of Miss Mitford. Are you all right?”

“I will survive. There are other Miss Mitfords, and her father had already helped find me a position. Mr. Mitford’s a good man.”

“And his daughter is terribly fickle?”

Henry shook his head. “No, she’s … not so bad, truly. She’d feared Lieutenant Blalock was lost at sea, but he made it home. I couldn’t marry a girl forever in love with someone else.” Henry fixed his gaze on the dancers. “Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not to wed immediately. With you gone, who is going to keep Bella out of harm’s way?” A question which clearly had to do with how eagerly a handsome young Captain reached for Arabella’s hand as the set turned with the song’s next refrain.

“I would suggest Alexander, but I see he has also gone missing. I think I worry more for him than Arabella.” Elinor chuckled, but kept her gaze on the spot she’d last glimpsed Cavendish. Her young brother-in-law had vanished again. “Do remember you are their brother, not their vicar. Not every conversation need be a lecture, Henry.”

“I know. But when father routinely fails to lecture either of them, someone has to do it.” He frowned. “Speaking of, I should find Alex. And remind Bella not to let shiny buttons and bright coats go to her head.” He bowed to Elinor, which took a moment of stunned confusion before she remembered—Oh, I’m a Countess today—and nodded in turn.

She watched him leave, marveling. Where looking at him swelled her chest to bursting with longing and hope, now there was … nothing. In truth, she was happy he’d forced her hand. He’d saved himself from a wife forever in love with a lost earl, instead of a lost sailor. Poor Henry. I hope someone will find him coming first in her heart.

As her thoughts drifted back to Tristan, she reminded herself of her proper mission. Cavendish was still nowhere to be seen. But yesterday, she’d caught him examining the tables in a quite intense manner—like Arabella with a new novel, or Elinor’s little brother with anything mechanical. Now many of those tables had cloths lying over them, concealing their legs. He’ll be under one. Hopefully not with any sort of tools…

Oh, hells bells. Her gaze fell on the wedding cake—a perfectly made, towering pastry covered in an immaculate layer of snow-white icing. She’d all but drooled upon seeing it. A perfect target for a bored heathen. She carefully made her way to the table, pretending to admire it anew. Making a show of looking around, she not-so-subtly slid a napkin along the table and let it flutter to the floor.

“Oh! How clumsy.” Elinor crouched down to retrieve it while, in the same motion, lifting the skirt of the tablecloth and coming face-to-face with a wide-eyed Cavendish. At twelve, Cavendish had nowhere near his brother’s height and none of his chiseled beauty. And his eyes were a soft brown rather than hazel. “Aha! I thought the party was suspiciously short a Ruthven. What are you doing under here, sirrah?”

“Nothing.” Cav awkwardly shuffled to the side, closer to the table leg he’d been definitely examining when she lifted the cloth. His high cheekbones achieved an impressive red stain on his pale skin but he glared defiantly, as if it was perfectly normal to lurk under a table in a room full of people. “I, uh, I let Lydia play with my pewter soldiers and she dropped one. Just looking for it.”

“And you need a screwdriver to help you find it?” she pressed, raising a brow. “Come on out, Cavendish. If you must sabotage a table, let it be the one not holding my cake. I am quite fond of you, but I shan’t forgive anyone who deprives the world of such a work of art.”

“It’s just a stupid cake,” came the sullen response. Cavendish’s jaw set, and for a moment she expected the screwdriver in his right hand to be jammed up into the joint of Evelina’s table. Or worse, that he might throw himself against the middle leg just to send it all flying. Which would probably ruin her dress. And then she’d have to keep Tristan from strangling his brother—something he’d threatened to do at least thrice in the last two days since the children arrived. Lord Orville had even offered to assist after Cavendish doused a housemaid in milk and nearly set the drawing room curtains on fire with a looking glass.

“No stupider than a prank that diminishes the cook’s hard work. Out. Now,” she said firmly, rising and holding the cloth up for him.

“You’re just as boring as all the others.” Cavendish slithered out from under the table with all the absence of grace native to a twelve-year-old who’d just shot up three inches too quickly. “No wonder he married you.”

“I am not just as boring as the others,” Elinor said, holding her hand out for the screwdriver. “I’m afraid I’m the most boring of all. But we can still get along.”

“With a commoner? You must be joking.” His head lifted up in that way only highborn children seemed to master so early. “You’re barely fit to be a mistress. My brother must be mad to wed so beneath us.”

“A wonder you should risk the wrath of a mad brother, then,” she said with a smile. “Fortunately, I see no reason for him to find out about this provided you behave the rest of the day. I suppose you shall be making that choice with your next words. But I should point out that there is another choice you’ll be determining.”

“Which is?”

“Whether we shall eventually be allies or not.”

“You expect me to take the word of a common strum—”

“Finish that sentence, and you’ll be eating in your room the rest of the trip.” Tristan’s voice came from behind her, though she hardly recognized the iron tone. But the broad hand on the small of her back was familiar enough. Cavendish’s mouth snapped shut. “I shall allow my lady’s olive branch to remain in play, Cav. So long as you refrain from further insults.”

Cavendish’s brown gaze swept from Tristan to meet Elinor’s. “Very well,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Lady … Lady Asherton.” It couldn’t have been easy to speak his mother’s title, she supposed.

“I think all can be forgiven. On one condition, of course,” she said. The addendum surprised Cavendish enough for his head to perk up. “I believe you have met my cousins, Henry and Alexander?”

“Yes. Briefly.”

“Good. Then let us say that should some strange, though harmless, misfortune befall them today, I suppose we might find ourselves both satisfied. You for having your fun, and me for having my cake without interference.”

Tristan chuckled. “Take it and run, little brother.” Cavendish apparently found this direction to his liking, as with a nod he took off between the tables. Tristan watched him go before turning to Elinor. “I don’t know if that was genius or folly, dearest, but I hope your cousins are accustomed to ambushes.”

“Sometimes, sacrifices must be made to ensure peace.” It was all she could do not to lean closer, to put her hands on his chest, or to get up onto her toes to kiss him. “How fares my lord?” she asked, her voice softer. “I hope he is as relieved as I to see the cake was spared.”