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Tonight, though, Henry didn’t smile. He shifted to stare out over the horses’ heads, his gaze fixed on the distant, silvery line of the pond further down the courtyard.

Frankly, Anna was glad they’d arrived in the dark. That way, her friends couldn’t see the state of the gardens or the dilapidated house. They knew that things were bad, of course, but nothowbad.

Not the ‘owning only one pair of gloves’ sort of bad.

“George thinks I’m distracted,” Henry said at last, his voice small. “We had an argument. He… he says I worry too much about what others think.”

Anna conjured up an image of Henry’s art tutor, the one he’d had for the past year and a half. A short, stocky, good-natured man, with large, square hands that could create the most exquisite paintings she had ever seen.

He was dark-haired and sported a neatly trimmed beard. Naturally, an art tutor could not accompany them to the opera or parties, but she suspected that, if given half a chance, Henry would bring him along.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, caring what others think,” Anna said, shrugging. “We can’t isolate ourselves entirely, can we? Everybody needs love and approval.”

Henry flinched. “Yes, I suppose so.”

A light went on in one of the upstairs rooms. Most of the windows in the manor were dark, to conserve candles, but doubtless Octavia would be waiting up for Anna.

Better get inside.

Beatrice appeared, looking peevish, talking animatedly to her maid.

Anna winced. “I probably should have told her that Emily was almost certainly in bed.”

Henry shook his head. “Yes, you should have. Anna, wait.”

She’d moved to slip out of the phaeton, but she paused to glance back at him.

Henry drew in a fortifying breath. “I’m your friend, Anna. If you need help—no matter how serious the matter is—talk to me. Please. I’ll help you if I can. Iwantto help.”

A lump formed in Anna’s throat. “Thank you, Henry. That means a lot.”

Muttering to herself, Beatrice stomped across the courtyard, before hauling herself back into the phaeton. “I’m tired, Henry. Will you take me home?”

“Your wish is my command,” Henry responded, cracking his whip flamboyantly in the air.

Snorting, Anna dropped to the ground. “Goodnight, you two. Try not to tip the carriage over before you get home. Good luck, Phoebe.”

The maid shot her a mournful look.

Beatrice arranged her wrinkled skirts, clearly enjoying the new space. “Oh, and do tell your guest I’m sorry to have disturbed him, Anna,” she added as Henry wheeled the phaeton around.

Anna frowned. “Guest? What guest?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize him. He was in the drawing room. Goodnight!”

Henry cracked the whip over the horses’ heads, and they surged forward. The phaeton rattled down the drive.

Anna stood there, watching them. As always, she felt a pang at parting from her friends.

What guest?she silently wondered.

A cold wind blew across the grounds, and Anna shivered. Her ball gown—three years out of fashion, naturally—was far too thin and flimsy to handle the late-night cold. Sighing, she turned to let herself in.

There was no night footman on duty, of course. They couldn’t even afford adayfootman. Taking off her shawl, she tossed it carelessly onto a chair in the hallway. The doors would need to be locked for the night, but first, she had to mend her glove. Gingerly pulling off the glove in question, she headed towards the drawing room.

The small, upstairs drawing room, that is—the one that was simply decorated and easier to heat, and also opened up onto her mother’s rooms. It was a convenient location, beside the library, and it had allowed them to eschew heating and cleaning the large drawing room downstairs.

A good two-thirds of the rooms at St. Maur Manor were closed up, perhaps more. At this rate, they’d end up limiting themselves to a single sitting room and one bedroom to share.