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H enry stared after Miss Fernside, utterly speechless. What on earth had just happened? He and Mr. Drake had been having a civil enough conversation. Henry had asked if he knew Mr. Haskett, Mr. Drake had hemmed and hawed, then without warning, Miss Fernside had appeared.

She was clearly upset, believing he and Mr. Drake were close friends, then she’d written Henry off, as if she never meant to speak with him again. How had she jumped to such an act?

“Deuces,” Mr. Drake muttered under his breath.

Henry looked at the man, an awkward expression across his features.

“Branok, I owe you an apology for dragging you into this.”

“Dragging me into what, exactly?” Henry asked. He had utterly no idea as to what had just occurred.

Mr. Drake glanced over his shoulder toward the door, then back at Henry. “I must make this brief. I…I have somewhere I need to be. But first, you must promise to repeat this to no one.”

Henry hesitated. He knew Mr. Drake to be honorable enough. But to be sworn to secrecy? And yet, if this allowed him to understand what had just occurred with Miss Fernside, he would do anything.

“Of course, sir.”

Mr. Drake leaned toward him, his words swift and soft. “I cannot explain in detail why, but I have no other choice but to marry money.”

Henry groaned inwardly. He had a feeling as to where this was headed.

“As such, I made the mistake of asking for Miss Fernside’s hand after only a week of knowing her.”

“That was you ?” Henry asked, his jaw slack as he recalled Miss Fernside’s words from before.

Mr. Drake grimaced. “You’ve heard, then.

Well, she readily—and laughingly—declined.

However, her uncle, Mr. Haskett, discovered my actions and sought to punish me by blackballing me.

” He shook his head, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“I regret my actions heartily if I injured her. But I must do this.”

He finished, and Henry blew out a heavy breath. He had never seen the man speak so forcefully. Henry could only guess what Mr. Drake’s motivations were, but the circumstances must be dire, indeed, to push him to wed for money alone.

Now Mr. Haskett’s anger with Henry made sense. It must have sounded as if Henry were defending Mr. Drake’s actions by calling him honorable.

But as for Miss Fernside’s anger…“What was she saying, that I was helping you?”

Mr. Drake shook his head. “As to that matter, I’ve no idea. Unless perhaps Mr. Haskett has heard other rumors to hold against me.”

Henry mulled over the information as the men departed from each other. He needed to find Miss Fernside straightaway to hopefully explain things from his view.

But before long, he discovered from the Chumleys that Miss Fernside, along with her aunt, uncle, and mother had left the ball early due to a “sudden and swift ache in Miss Fernside’s head.”

Henry knew exactly what that meant. Miss Fernside didn’t wish to speak with him. But he would not give up. He’d come too far to give her up now.

Cornwall – June 2, 1817

Lark had never been more relieved to see the last of London. While she would miss Mother and her constant doting, Lark had been pushed and prodded to enough social outings to last her a lifetime, and she was more than ready to spend the next fortnight out of doors with the birds.

She truly had been unknowingly spoiled on the expedition. She couldn’t wait to get back to the world the excursion had created for her, even with all of its many flaws.

With feelings of relief and hope, she stared out of the coach window, taking in the view of Gwynnrudh House, their new place of residence in Cornwall.

“It is pronounced ‘gwin ruth’, I believe,” Mr. Chumley had said at the start of their journey. “But you know these Cornish names are always so difficult to say. Marazion. Fowey. Golowduyn.”

Despite the difficulty in its name, Gwynnrudh was a charming home, three stories tall with a grey, slated roof and nearly pink walls surrounding the entire edifice.

Awnings decorated each framed window, and the drive wrapped around a quaint circle of grass in the center of the space in front of the home.

The building quite reminded Lark of a dollhouse she’d had as a child, and for a moment, she was lost in her memories of the past—when she’d acted out a husband and wife always doting on one another, their house full of children who played and laughed all day long.

Lark had always imagined her future would turn out the same. But nothing in life ever did.

A loud snore tore through the small carriage, and Lark jumped in surprise, turning to face Mr. Dunn, who was seated beside her.

Aunt shook her head with a look of long-suffering, but Uncle merely smiled encouragingly at them both. He would never admit to being tired of their new carriage mate, even if he had grown weary of him, for Uncle was the one who had chosen him.

“He will be far better than Mr. Branok,” he’d said at the beginning of their journey.

“I hope you managed the switch with discretion, Francis,” Aunt had said with a frown. “I should hate to offend Mr. Branok, no matter what you believe he did.”

“Of course I was discreet,” Uncle had defended . “I merely told Mr. Chumley that others ought to have the opportunity to ride with Mr. Branok, and he readily agreed.”

They’d loaded into their carriage after that and had subsequently spent three solid days of travel with Mr. Dunn mumbling on about his property, bragging about his list of birds, and snoring so loudly, Lark feared the carriage walls would crumble to pieces due to the noise.

The only fortune they had was that Aunt and Uncle were able to fend off much of their carriage illness this time due to another draught prescribed by a fine physician in London.

Even still, the sight of Gwynnrudh House was more than welcome to Lark.

“We should awaken him,” Uncle said, motioning to Mr. Dunn who sprawled out across more than half the seat.

“Must we?” Lark asked. “We can still have half a minute to revel in without his conversation.”

She and Aunt shared a covert smile, though Uncle woke the man, nonetheless.

“Mr. Dunn, we have almost arrived.”

Mr. Dunn grunted, grumbled, then looked outside. “Ah, yes. Is this the house? It is a bit too pink for my liking.”

Lark ignored him. It wasn’t too pink. It was charming.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Lark was finally released from her boxed torture, stretching out her limbs in delight before she caught sight of Mr. Branok.

His eyes were already on her, but she swiftly looked away. There was no purpose in encouraging him with a lingering look of her own—no matter how badly she wanted to. Her friendship with the man had effectively been terminated.

At the thought, her mind filled with the conversation she’d had with Mother just before she’d left.

“Why will you not pursue him, Larky?”

“We wouldn’t suit, Mother.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Anyone in love would suit.”

“But I do not love him.”

And yet, ever since she’d said the words aloud, she’d wondered at their truthfulness.

While she’d managed to overcome Mr. Drake’s actions quickly, Mr. Branok was another matter entirely.

He’d attempted to call after the ball, but fortunately, Lark and Mother had been out.

Still, to avoid another surprise visit, Lark had written him a note, telling him she was far too busy to entertain any callers for the foreseeable future and that he should keep his distance.

He had respected her wishes, but now that they were on the excursion together, she had a feeling he would not stop until he did speak with her.

In truth, Lark should have already given him the opportunity to do so, especially after she’d pounced on him and his friend at the ball.

She had been in a state of panic that night, overly exhausted, overwhelmed with the socializing she’d done, stressed with the evening ahead of her, and completely disrupted by the reminder of her growing feelings for Mr. Branok.

All of these contributed to Uncle persuading her to see something that frankly was not true.

Yes, Mr. Branok might be friends with Mr. Drake, but she couldn’t truly believe that Mr. Branok would deceive a woman to marry a fortune hunter. Nor could she believe that he’d spread vitriol about other men to injure them.

It was more likely that Uncle had been misinformed, for Lark knew Mr. Branok to be a good man. He’d never in all their weeks together given her any reason to believe otherwise.

She had been hurt, afraid, and persuaded by Uncle. But now it was too late because Mr. Branok was leaving for India, and matters would be far easier to let their friendship—or what was left of it, anyway—slip quietly into the abyss.

Although, such a thing was easier said than done, especially when she’d seen Mr. Branok in the Chumleys’ parlor three days prior.

All of her memories with him had been brought back. The way they’d met, his challenge issued, his rescuing her from the nettles. Their kiss. The fact that he was the very reason she’d joined the excursion. All of it.

And now, as she stood on the drive before the pink house with Mr. Branok’s eyes still on her, she winced at the pang of longing in her chest to be near him, to listen to him, and to give him the opportunity to defend himself.

But in that moment, Aunt and Uncle came up to stand at both sides of her, preventing her view of him any longer, and she was reminded once again that her time to be with Mr. Branok was over.

As much as her heart tried to convince her otherwise, she wasn’t there for him any longer. She was there for the birds.

Throughout the rest of the day, she had to remind herself of that very fact as Mr. Branok taught a brief class, led the party through the pristine grounds of Gwynnrudh, and finally, in the evening, when he shared with them news of a rare bird, a nightjar, being spotted in the woods right next to the house just the night before.