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“Miss Joanna,” cooed the leader, a statuesque woman in crimson silk whom Emma recognized as Lady Harrington. “How unexpected to see you here. I hadn’t realized Lord Knightley’s invitation extended to the scholarly bunch.”

Joanna stiffened but maintained her composure. “Lady Harrington. A pleasure as always.” Her words were dry, evidence that she did not at all mean them.

“Indeed,” Lady Harrington replied with a serpentine smile.

Then, she took a step forward, her movement seemingly innocent until her foot caught in the hem of Joanna’s dress. The glass of red wine in her hand tilted, its contents cascading over Joanna’s emerald-green gown in a crimson wave.

“Oh!” she exclaimed with patently false dismay. “How terribly clumsy of me!”

Titters rippled through her companions as Joanna stood frozen, the wine seeping into the expensive silk, staining it permanently.

“You did that on purpose,” Emma hissed, her eyes narrowed, her anger flaring hot and immediate.

But Joanna was already backing away, her face ashen beneath her spectacles.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, before turning and fleeing toward the terrace doors.

Emma moved to follow, but Lady Harrington blocked her path, feigning concern.

“Such sensitivity! It was merely an accident, I assure you,” she said, her lips curling into a concerned pout.

“An accident, my foot. You are heartless, Lady Harrington,” Emma replied coldly, before pushing past her, not even giving her or her group of lackeys the opportunity to say anything back.

By the time she reached the terrace, Joanna was nowhere to be seen.

A footman approached, bowing respectfully.

“Miss Joanna Dennison has departed, My Lady. Mrs. Weatherby offered to return her home, I believe.”

Ah. Of course. Mrs. Weatherby was another elderly member of the Athena Society.

Emma sighed, knowing that her aunt would be completely mortified by the incident. She couldn’t leave her alone.

She nodded to the footman. “Thank you. Please inform Lord Knightley that I shall depart to call on my aunt shortly to ensure her well-being.”

Needing a moment to compose herself before arranging her departure, Emma descended the terrace steps into the garden.

The night air was cool against her heated skin as she followed a winding path deeper into the grounds, eventually discovering a secluded stone bench partially concealed by a flowering arbor.

She was feeling very sorry for her aunt, of course, but she was also feeling quite sorry for herself. It seemed that Lord Knightley and his friend the Duke were indeed birds of the same feather.

He is worried about being seen with a widow.

“Ha! As if I give a whit about him! That brute,” she murmured.

He was the one who kissed her first, too! Did soldiers not understand etiquette? Or did he simply not care for anything else but his own fulfillment?

She had been seated for only a few minutes when the crunch of gravel announced another’s presence.

Emma looked up to find the Duke of Westmere approaching, his expression unreadable in the mingled moonlight and shadows.

Her pulse quickened.

“Are you unwell, Lady Cuthbert?” he inquired, his tone formal yet laced with concern.

“I am quite well, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “I merely desired a moment of solitude before departing.”

Instead of leaving, he moved closer. “Departing? I do not think you should be going anywhere in such a condition, My Lady,” he said.