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C amellia was going to Tunbridge Wells! When she’d learned that Major Taverston was taking Neville and Mr. Diakos, she said he must also bring her and Mrs. Clay. He’d responded impatiently, “Yes, fine.” He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t say no.

The following morning, he brought a hired carriage around to the back of the house. It was a bit battered, with peeling paint and yellowed curtains, drawn by two horses that looked long in the tooth. He said he’d left Mercury at the Fitzhenrys’ stable since he was driving the carriage himself.

He threw their baggage to the top of the vehicle, then climbed up to tie it all down. She liked to watch him work. He was so…competent.

Mr. Diakos brought Neville alongside, lifted him into the carriage, and then hoisted the chair up to the major. He handed Mrs. Clay in next, and reached for Camellia’s hand.

“Miss Harrington,” the major called down, “you might prefer to ride with me on the box.”

“Oh. Oh, all right.” She didn’t know why he would think that. The box was even higher than Mercury’s back. Still, she stood aside. Mr. Diakos entered the carriage and shut the door. Major Taverston climbed down and helped her to the driver’s bench, then mounted the box beside her.

“I apologize,” he said. “This carriage was the best I could acquire on short notice. It would be cramped inside with four, and it has an odor.”

“I see.” She clutched the edge of the seat. There was no cushion, and the wood was worn smooth. Slippery smooth.

He grinned. “Is it heights you fear then? Not horses?”

She made a noncommittal noise. “I love horses. Little horses.” Her palms were sweating in her gloves. “My father used to breed Yorkshire Trotters. I adored the foals.”

“Oh?” For a moment, he looked thoughtful. “Well, you needn’t worry.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “I promise you won’t fall off.”

“Go slowly .” Her tone was threatening, not pleading.

He kept to a mercifully slow pace as they left the yard and started down the drive. They rattled over the cobbles until they reached packed dirt. Then he let the horses trot. She loosened her grip. It wasn’t terrible as long as she didn’t look down.

“I’ve never been to Tunbridge Wells. Thank you for taking us.”

“Never?” He glanced at her quickly, then back at the road. “When it is so close by?”

“My mother’s physician did not think it would help. And my father refused to try.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “May I ask, how did your parents die?”

She breathed deeply. “My mother had a wasting disease of some kind. We thought consumption, but after she passed, her doctor said it was more likely a growth.”

“She was sick a long time?”

“Years. I was nineteen when we first knew she was sick. She died when I was twenty-three.”

“You took care of her?”

“Yes. Although we had more servants then, I rarely left her side. My father took it very hard when she passed. He’d lost two wives and loved them both.” She paused. “He was not so much ill as he was broken. He could still do for himself. It wasn’t like with Neville.”

“You said you let servants go?”

“He had acquired a good deal of debt, so we had to.” She hurried to say, “Neville sold his commission, of course, so he cleared Papa’s debts.” More papers she’d shoved under Neville’s nose. She wasn’t entirely sure he knew that the money was gone.

“And then your father passed also? Mr. Castor implied…”

“We’d heard about Vitoria. Everyone was celebrating.

We thought it meant the war’s end was near.

Papa seemed to come back to life.” She cleared her throat.

“It took another month before a letter came from the War Office. It said Colonel Neville Harrington had been severely, likely lethally, wounded at Vitoria. My father had a heart seizure. He died the following day.”

He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Neville doesn’t need to know that. It isn’t Neville’s fault, but he doesn’t need to know.”

“Of course not.”

They rode in silence for a while. Camellia shook off her melancholy. “Now, since you have played Inquisitor to me, may I ask you a question?” She was sitting close enough to feel the way his whole body tensed.

“One. But I may not answer.”

She had a hundred questions, but decided to ask a simple one because he was so nervous, acting as though he had deep secrets he must hide. “Do you, or don’t you, drink wine?”

His gaze slid away. His pursed mouth was something between a smile and a scowl.

“I can,” he finally said. “That is, I am fairly certain that I can, so long as I don’t drink a vat.”

“But that isn’t what I asked.” She was going to press while she had the advantage. “My question was do you. Not can you.”

He sniffed a laugh. “I do on occasion. But I don’t enjoy the taste. And I don’t like…I like to keep my wits about me. The feeling of drunkenness, that false euphoria, does not appeal to me.”

“That is admirable.”

He sniffed again. A short time later, he came out with, “It is the same with meat. I think I can eat it so long as there is no gravy. No sauce. But I’ve never liked eating flesh. It is odd, I know, but the thought of it disgusts me.”

“Perhaps because you think of it as flesh. Now I feel disgusted too.”

He laughed. And his body relaxed. “What would you like to do in Tunbridge Wells, Miss Harrington? Besides taking the waters. I hear there is a theater. An Assembly Room with dancing. Teashops? Bookshops?”

“Everything. I want to do everything.”

*

The water tasted horrible. Like drinking rust. And it smelled like rotten eggs. She had no desire to soak in it. Major Taverston said he did not either. So while Mr. Diakos accompanied Neville to the baths, Major Taverston squired Camellia and Mrs. Clay about town.

He took them to teashops, public gardens, a marionette show, a curiosity shop, and a reading of poetry.

The poems were mediocre, but afterward, the poet came around and kissed all the ladies’ hands.

There was nothing to rival the Temple of the Muses, but there was a small shop selling old books.

While she didn’t purchase anything, the major bought a handful, and later, she found a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage tucked into her reticule.

He took everyone to a play one evening, Much Ado About Nothing . They were able to wheel Neville’s chair into the aisle at the theater. And while her brother nodded off during the second act, Camellia was entranced. Claudio was a true idiot, and Hero should have felt herself well shed of him.

And then, somehow, the whole two weeks had flown by. It was their last evening, and they were going to an Assembly—Major Taverston had managed to acquire the necessary tickets. It was not a London ball, but it was as near to it as she had ever been. Or was ever likely to be.

The Assembly Hall was as large as a city block.

There were steps to enter, but Mr. Diakos carried Neville up them and the major brought up the chair.

The floor was yellow-painted wood. The walls were papered with a bird-and-floral design.

Chandeliers dotted the ceiling and made the entire room bright.

There were tables and chairs along one wall to encourage the purchase of refreshments.

They claimed a table close to the front so that Neville could watch the dancing.

Camellia wore her red-plaid gown and one of her black bonnets, decorated with red roses. The major was in his blue jacket and white pantaloons. His cravat was elaborately tied. He looked so splendid it almost hurt to look at him.

Having brought her there, of course he had to ask her to partner him. The first set was a country dance that left her breathless. He danced as skillfully as she would expect from a gentleman of his rank, but he also appeared to be enjoying himself.

She danced the second set with Mr. Diakos. A cotillion. The steps were more complex, and he was a bit clumsy, but good-humored about it. When the set ended, they returned to tables where they found Neville and Major Taverston talking with a very well-dressed, dark-haired gentleman with a hook nose.

The major said, “Miss Harrington, permit me to introduce Lord Gilbert, an old schoolmate of mine. He is here escorting his mother who is taking the waters. Lord Gilbert, Miss Harrington, the colonel’s sister.”

She curtsied. He bowed slightly at the waist, then straightened and stared at her hair. He blinked and said, “Would you care to dance the next set with me, Miss Harrington?”

“Thank you. I would.”

He escorted her onto the floor as the music began again.

What did it matter that he had stared? She was dancing with a lord!

They made polite conversation as they moved across the floor, weaving through the steps with the other dancers.

When the music ended, he brought her back to Neville, and thanked her, smiling.

It was quite pleasant. When he stepped away, she turned and beamed at the major, who looked startled a moment, then smiled back.

“Miss Harrington, I believe it is my turn again, if you’d like.”

“I would. I’m having a great deal of fun. What is the dance?”

“The program says the next is a waltz.”

Her spirits fell. “I can’t waltz.”

The major whooped. “Of course you can. The female despots of Almack’s are not here to stop you.”

“I mean that I don’t know how.” She’d learned the steps to most of the popular dances from Marianne. But that was before the waltz became the dance to know.

He came forward, nevertheless. He bent his head and said, “It is easier than riding a horse and lower to the ground.”

She ignored the jibe. “You can’t mean to teach me here.”

He glanced about. “Why not?”

“I’ll make a fool of myself!”

“No, you won’t. No one is watching.” When she set her jaw stubbornly, shaking her head, he said, “Then we can go out—” He halted, and cloud passed over his brow.

A moment later he turned his attention to Mrs. Clay, seated at the table beside Neville.

“Mrs. Clay, will you accompany us out onto the balcony?”