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Amelia frowned, accepting it. It was heavier than she expected. She shifted it on her arm, revealing more of the contents. Not just a loaf of bread—but a hunk of cheese, a little jar of honey or jam, and an apple. A picnic for one.

Lillian had known all along.

“I-I don’t know,” Amelia stammered.

The other woman squeezed her arm. “I have a good instinct for people. Off you go.” She gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the trees, away from the other guests.

Amelia smiled. “Thank you, Lillian.”

Maybe this week of forced holiday would not be so bad.

*

Amelia passed two or three other guests as she journeyed around the lake. But by the time she reached the shade of the trees, she was utterly alone. For the first time since the carriage had gone careening sideways on the road, she felt a measure of peace.

She found a comfortable log near the lake edge and ate from the basket, which also included several buttery biscuits. It truly was one of the kindest things another person had ever done for her. It was the sort of thing her elder sister Dominique would do.

In some ways, Lillian reminded her of her sister.

Dominique was also singularly unique, though not in the same way as Lillian.

While Lillian wore her emotions and vitality for all to see, Dominique was more reserved.

Like Amelia. A product of the shared traumas of their upbringing, she supposed.

They’d been separated against their will for years by Amelia’s scheming mother.

The familiar anger burned in her chest, but it was more of an ember than a flame these days.

Her mother had tried to keep them separate, believing her true-born daughter should have no part of her illegitimate sister.

That was even too kind, Amelia amended in her own mind.

Her mother had not acted for her daughter’s best interests, but her own selfish cruelty.

Amelia pushed away the anger as she took another bite of biscuit.

All was well, now. Her mother was exiled to the family estate, Wartham Grange in Winleigh. Their father, in a last act of righteousness, had settled his fortune jointly on both Amelia and Dominique. And the two sisters were closer than ever.

All was well.

Amelia leaned back on the log, bracing her arms behind her and soaking in the quiet.

Birds and frogs sang a chorus in the background.

There was a slight chill in the air. The clouds that Lillian had worried about were definitely coming in over the lake now.

But she didn’t mind a bit of rain. The sound of it falling through the treetops would be divine.

Another sound permeated her reverie. A soft sort of growling. Bears were long extinct in England, so it was not fear but curiosity that opened Amelia’s eyes. A beaver, perhaps? She had passed a stream near the edge of the woods.

People were tiresome. But animals? She could not resist.

She left the picnic basket. It would be easier to maneuver quietly without it. She followed the sound out toward the water’s edge. That made perfect sense. The creature must be near where the stream flowed into the lake.

The sound was getting louder. Not so much a growl as a low sort of moan. Maybe not a beaver. But she was getting closer.

Amelia paused, considering her options. She’d make too much noise splashing through the stream. But if she waded into the lake itself, she could move much more quietly.

Her dress would be soaked. But who was around to see her?

She kicked off her slippers, leaving them on solid ground before easing herself into the water.

The lakebed was slick beneath her feet. She should have removed her stockings as well, so she could grip with her toes.

But it was too late for that. A gracefully draped willow blocked her view, but once she got herself around it—

She jerked backward, nearly losing her footing in the muck. She remained upright by throwing her arms out to either side.

Not a beaver. Nor any other beast of the briar.

That moan? It was coming from Mr. McTavish. And the source? The lips of both Mrs. McTavish and one of the spinster ladies who Lillian had introduced her to the day before.

Amelia’s head snapped from side to side, considering her options for escape.

When Lillian had described her parties, had she been implying this?

Amelia did not consider herself particularly worldly, but she would have picked up on that, surely.

She was not that inexperienced, which meant this must be an isolated…

incident? Those moans were not distressed in the least.

The sharp female cry that echoed across the lake was… well, Amelia was not sure how to describe it. But her skin flushed, and not just her cheeks. She leaned around the willow, peering through the dangling vines at the trio on the other side of the stream.

They were on their knees on a patch of grass, all three in various stages of undress.

Amelia sank her teeth into her lower lip.

Mrs. McTavish sank her fingers deep into her husband’s hair.

Amelia’s fingers curled, imagining the feel of thick golden locks.

Mr. McTavish slid his mouth down the other woman’s throat, and Amelia tipped back her own head, imagining a certain pair of lips kissing their way along the delicate column.

Matthew. She was picturing Matthew. But she was powerless to stop her daydream, foolish as it was.

Her eyes glazed over and she no longer saw the trysting trio, but her own conjuring.

Imagined the feel of his hair falling over his brow and brushing against hers.

Parted her mouth as if his lips were on hers.

In her mind, they were soft, his cheeks perfectly smooth as she lifted her hands to cup his face—

Her hands weren’t out anymore to steady her. The mud squished beneath her silk stockings. She was slipping, falling. She grabbed for the willow, but the vines darted between her fingers as she careened backward into the water with a noisy splash.

She tried to push herself up, but the mud beneath her fingers gave way, coating her entire arm up to her shoulder with muck.

More splashing. Amelia did not have time to feel embarrassed.

She could not even get herself out of the water.

Every thrash sent her deeper, until she was coated from head to toe.

She even managed to smear the thick mud across her face when she reached up by habit to brush aside her hair.

There would be no avoiding the three guests on the other side of the willow. No tryst was intense enough to ignore the racket she’d made. To top it all, the clouds were on in full force and a thick fog had rolled over the lake’s surface. So now she was not only soaked but shivering.

Amelia managed to drag herself to her feet. She took one slow step, then another, as she emerged from the water in the direction of the trio. There was no hiding from them. She might as well get their help.

There they were, standing wide-eyed a few yards back from the bank.

Amelia lifted her arm to hail them and opened her mouth to call out.

But a jagged rock stabbed into her foot on the next step, transforming her words into a hideous, garbled yell.

Curses flowed from her lips, but even Amelia didn’t recognize the mix of sounds as they echoed off the water through the fog.

Mrs. McTavish screamed.

By the time Amelia righted herself, the three other guests were no more than retreating backs, hurrying away from the lake.

She called after them, but she must have inhaled some of the water because her words came out scratchy and hoarse.

It took all the fortitude she had not to collapse back into the water.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe bad luck did exist. And if it did, she must have done something awful, because hers never seemed to run out. She slipped twice more before she managed to reach solid ground and start the long journey back to the manor.