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Thea awoke the following morning with her head throbbing. She hadn’t dozed off until an hour before dawn, and even then her

sleep was fitful.

It had been two days and she still couldn’t get her encounter with St. James out of her mind. It had been so... befuddling.

That was the only word for the mixed state of breathless confusion he’d left her in. And all because he’d touched her skirt.

She wondered if there was something wrong with her.

Perhaps having her soul hollowed out last year had left her open to this strange push and pull with St. James, so much so

that she couldn’t stop thinking about their encounters, long after they’d ended.

It was maddening.

Not only that, but there was this niggling sensation in the center of her brain that seemed to want her attention. It was

like her Greek chorus was snapping their fingers in front of her face and telling her, Wake up! Pay attention. This is important .

The problem was she couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to pay attention to because her thoughts kept returning to the

slow graze of his knuckle against blue satin.

Feeling flushed, she shoved the coverlet aside. She had to stop thinking about it.

Determined, she clambered out of bed and distracted herself with choosing a dress from her wardrobe.

“Definitely not blue,” she muttered.

She even shied away from lavender because it was too close of a cousin to that fretful color. The jonquil was too similar

to gold, a color she would forever associate with Beaucastle’s soiree and the loss of the velvet pocket gown. She’d been wearing

peridot on the evening of the fan debacle, so not green. That left her with burgundy for the day, and her ruffled silver gown

for the Leighton Ball that evening.

A short while later, as the maid was plaiting and pinning her hair into a coil, she saw Lady Broadbent in the mirror. She

sauntered into the bedchamber with one hand leaning on her cane and the other holding a card.

“We have been summoned to tea, my dear. From Lady Abernathy,” she supplied and cast a surreptitious glance to the maid.

Reaching up to sink the last pin, Thea said, “Thank you, Tally. That’ll be all for now.”

“Yes, miss.” The brown-haired maid dipped into a curtsy, then went to the door. But before leaving, she cast a concerned look

over her shoulder.

Thea nodded in reassurance.

Tally was like family. She’d been maid to all three of the Hartley sisters. They’d practically grown up together. But being

family meant that she also exchanged letters with the servants at Hartley Hall. Which meant that, whatever the countess was

about to say, it likely was something that would cause needless worry if reported to those in Addlewick.

In other words, it was about their encounter with the highwayman.

When the door closed, Thea pivoted on the stool and faced the countess. “Do you suspect that Lady Abernathy knows about...

the other night?”

“Decidedly not or she would have mentioned it. Beatrice is quite frank,” the countess said, her expression thoughtful. “No, I do believe she means to tell more of her mysterious good fortune. Though she could have no idea how eager we are to hear it.”

Last evening on the short drive back to the townhouse, they had both admitted immense curiosity over the recent turn of events

for the dowager viscountess. A new shawl and her accounts paid, directly following her son’s encounter with the highwayman, seemed more than mere coincidence.

Which begged the question: Who was responsible?

They were both of the same opinion that Lord Abernathy was incapable of such generosity. Therefore, it must have been the

highwayman, for he had not molested either of them and had seemed to have a sense of honor... Well, as honorable as a pistol-wielding

man who robbed coaches in the dead of night could be.

However, they were not in agreement as to the likely identity of said highwayman.

Lady Broadbent speculated that it was a servant of Lady Abernathy’s, someone loyal to his mistress but also tired of not being

paid the wages due him.

Thea, on the other hand, thought the highwayman had to have been a relative of Lady Abernathy’s. Who other than family would

care about her situation?

Additionally, Thea pointed out that it didn’t seem as though Abernathy’s carriage had been chosen at random. The highwayman

had clearly been surprised that she and the countess had been there. And who other than family would have known where Abernathy

would have been and likely with his pockets flush?

She was nearly certain she was right. All she needed was an opportunity to slyly question the dowager viscountess.

But what Thea didn’t tell Lady Broadbent was the reason she was determined to discover the identity of this highwayman.

It was because their encounter had sparked her creativity. She had written long into the night, alive with tingling effervescence

as she filled page after page.

But then she’d made the mistake of letting her mind drift to Kellum. Doubt had crept in, sinking its claws into her, and she

began to wonder if the play would ever be good enough to make him eat his words. After that, her ability to find the right

words was like dropping a wooden pail into an empty well. Clunk.

The only sure way to get back what she’d lost was to find the highwayman. He was the key to everything.

Thea knew for certain that he was her muse.

He had to be. There was no other explanation.

“And together, we’ll uncover this mystery,” she said to her chaperone, hiding her own eagerness.

Eagerness... or desperation? the chorus taunted.

She ignored them, her mind set on finding him. Additionally, she hoped the distraction would help her focus her thoughts where

they belonged. Which was definitely not thinking about St. James.

***

Lady Abernathy’s favorite hobby was arranging flowers and then watching them die a slow, shriveling death. At least, that’s

what Thea thought as she and Lady Broadbent were shown into the somber parlor that afternoon and witnessed bouquets in various

states of demise on every table.

The gray room even smelled like a wake. The stale, lingering odor of tallow candle smoke combined with the cloying fragrance

of too many flowers in a snug space hung in the air.

Oddly enough, the dowager viscountess shared a resemblance to the arrangement nearest her in the way that their wilted heads appeared hunched over, their leafy shoulders curled forward. But Thea kept this observation to herself.

As the maid carefully laid out the tea on a low table, their hostess impatiently tipped herself to and fro in a fiddleback

rocking chair, the top draped with a doily that flapped from the quick syncopated motion.

“Yes, yes. That’ll be all, Francine,” she huffed with a shooing gesture. As soon as the maid stepped out of the room, she

abruptly stopped rocking, poised at the edge of her chair as if ready to pounce. “That girl was born a dawdler. Not an ounce

of haste in her. Shall I pour?” she asked, already pouring as if the question were a mere courtesy.

Her gnarled hands shook, her knobby wrists looking ready to snap as she filled three cups without lifting the spout. Tea sloshed

over the rim from one to the next, brown liquid pooling in the saucers.

When she finished, she set the pot down with a heavy clatter. “I declare. My cook must fill the bottom with rocks. I’d sack

her if she didn’t make such a fine scone. Pillowy as clouds. Milk, Olympia?”

“Yes, thank you,” Lady Broadbent said and took the proffered cup their hostess rattled over to her.

“Sugar, Miss Hartley?”

“Just milk, if you ple —” Thea broke off as their hostess withdrew a heaping spoon from the sugar bowl and plopped it into her cup with a sploosh . “Er... thank you.”

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?” The dowager viscountess issued a sharp clap of her hands. “I should like to know

why you were so eager to seek your carriage before the final score had played out at the musicale.”

Thea shifted under the weight of the tiny woman’s stare.

This was not what she imagined they were here to discuss.

Now she felt as though the scant few moments next to St. James were painted in scandalous detail on the slats of a zoetrope and Lady Abernathy had her quizzing glass trained on the whirring images.

“I... wouldn’t say eager ,” she said. “We merely wished to avoid the crush.”

“Miss Hartley is always looking out for my best interest, as I’m sure your servants do for you,” Lady Broadbent interjected.

“In fact, I imagine there’s at least one in particular that holds you in great esteem. Perhaps one who might have overheard

a passing comment about your desire for a new shawl?”

Oh, the countess was good. A veritable master of redirection.

Their hostess started her metronome rocking again.

“It is a lovely shawl,” Thea added, casting her own baited hook into the water. “And such a thoughtful gift to be sent without

a card. Then again, this person is likely a member of your own family. My cousin Daphne is the sort of person who would send

a letter and forget to sign it. I’m sure you must know someone like that.”

Lady Abernathy slid a flinty gaze between the countess and Thea. “Why are the two of you prattling on about my shawl?”

“Prattling? Good gracious, Beatrice. We were merely admiring it.” The countess pursed her lips in affront. “Moreover, I should

think you would wish to discover the identity of the one who sent it. You might very well have a secret admirer, after all.”

Their hostess lifted her knobby fingers in a dismissive wave. “Trivial matter. What I must know is why Miss Hartley is encouraging

the attentions of a man like St. James.”

Regrettably, Thea had decided to take a sip of her tea in that same instant. She nearly choked. The brew was like drinking syrup. Knowing that it was the worst possible mo ment to give in to a fit of coughing for it would only make her look guilty, she did her best to suppress the urge.