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She’s such a gentle girl.Cassian felt a lump forming in his throat.Just like Matthew.

He found himself searching Frances’s face for signs that she was Matthew’s daughter. He saw them, more often than not. Frances might resemble her mother, but she had Matthew’s large, expressive eyes, his way of twisting up his mouth when he smiled, and his gentle, slow way of going through the world.

The thought hurt more than Cassian thought it would.

I miss you, Matthew. Everything would have been different if you were here.

What would you make of Miss Emily Belmont, I wonder?

Frances lifted the lid off the box and gasped. “Oh, Uncle, it’sbeautiful!”

She pulled out a rich, deep blue gown, rendered twice its size again by countless layers of gauze, petticoats, frills, and flounces. The sleeves were full and puffed, the neckline rimmed by lace which had cost a small fortune.

Frances skipped over to where Cassian lounged on the sofa, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I shall try it on at once!” she squealed. “I cannot wait to write to my friends at my finishing school and tell them about it.”

She darted out of the room without a backward glance, clutching the dress to her chest.

There was a silence after she’d gone.

Frances was like Matthew, the sort of person who lit up a room. That was all very well, but they tended to leave silence in their wake once they left.

Margaret had not spoken much. Cassian had noticed that she was drinking wine, despite the early hour of the morning.

Not that Margaret was abadmother, of course. She adored Frances, and she had given her plenty of presents, but there was sometimes a tension between mother and daughter that Cassian did not know how to broach.

He leaned back in his seat and caught Margaret looking at him.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said at last, breaking the silence.

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up. “You thought I would miss my niece’s birthday party? My only niece, the only memory of my beloved brother? You do me a disservice, Margaret.”

She sighed. “I didn’t mean to offend you. But I do know that you were at Clara Van De Rio’s party until almost dawn.”

“I keep forgetting about your connections in the art world,” Cassian commented wryly. “It’s good of you to keep in touch with them, now that you’re a wealthy baroness.”

“Not as wealthy as everybody thinks. Aren’t you going to ask how I know?”

“It could have been anyone.” Cassian paused, picking up his half-forgotten teacup from a nearby table. It was cold, but he drank it anyway. “And did you hear about whether I had a guest?”

“Of course,” Margaret responded, holding his gaze. “Miss Belmont does not strike me as the type of young lady to enjoy an artist’s party.”

“Then you know very little about Miss Belmont. She had a wonderful time.”

An image popped into his mind, that of Emily’s flushed face, her pupils blown wide with pleasure. He could still feel her fingernails dragging across his scalp, his hair twisted around her fingers. It sent a ripple of pleasure through him.

He wondered whether he should have sent her a note that morning. She’d seemed rather dazed when she stepped out of the carriage. He’d stayed back to make sure that she got into her house, of course, and then left as the sun began to rise.

“I’m sure she did,” Margaret commented dryly. “In the future, however, I would advise against taking naive young women to parties of that kind, sneaking them out of their homes and returning them before dawn.”

Cassian allowed himself a smile. “Who said anything about sneaking out?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s quite a natural conclusion. Am I wrong?”

“You are rarely wrong.”

She scoffed, getting to her feet. A bottle of wine sat on a nearby table, and she poured herself another glass. Cassian watched her, pressing his lips together in a thin line.