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C amellia was grieving her son, her husband, and her brother.

She’d lost her childhood home and her married one.

She’d had to leave Tonbridge. And she was destitute.

Marianne said she might stay with her forever, and she was grateful for that, but she dreaded the thought of being a burden upon her friend. Forever .

Once, she had been the cherished daughter of a respectable country gentleman. How had she ended up here?

It went without saying she should never have forced herself upon Major Taverston.

But even if she had not, her brother would have died.

She would still be impoverished. Of course, she would not have married Manfred.

So she would not be a widow, and she would not have suffered the loss of her baby.

But then, she would never have had a child to love.

And she had desperately loved little Neville.

What ifs were useless. She must simply endure her grief, and try to make herself useful to the Stirlings.

Her only other option was to apply for a nurse’s position at Chelsea Hospital for room, board, and a measly eight pounds a year.

The pity was, she would rather be a burden on Marianne than spend the rest of her days nursing the dying.

She’d done enough of that for a lifetime.

A new widow was not supposed go about in public until a year had passed.

Not even swathed in black. She didn’t want to go out.

But Marianne insisted the rule did not apply to a small charity event, held in the mid-afternoon, to raise funds for an orphanage.

Marianne was one of the sponsors and was nervous that not enough ladies would attend.

A few musicians had volunteered their time, and some of the older children, all girls, would be singing.

It would be soothing, Marianne promised.

So, Camellia ventured out. She wore a new dress of black crepe that she’d had made in Tonbridge after Neville’s death. Thank God Manfred’s cousin had not confiscated her clothing. He’d claimed everything else in the house.

There were two dozen or so ladies gathered in Mrs. Galway’s receiving room.

Marianne introduced her to several, including Mrs. Galway, an imposing triple-chinned matron whose social rank was not impressive but whose bank account was.

The room had three brick-red walls and a wall of windows.

There were scattered couches and chairs, but rather than sit, the ladies milled about, sipping lemonade or ratafia.

In one corner of the room, a plump young lady, or possibly one with child, was holding court.

Camellia could not help stealing glances at her.

The lady had a very determined way of gesturing.

She was brown-haired with an unremarkable face, but her Pomona-Green dress was extraordinarily fine.

Although it was not fussy, the fabric was top quality and her modiste knew how to style a dress to flatter.

“Who is that?” she finally whispered to Marianne.

Marianne followed the direction of her gaze. “Oh, that is Lady Haslet. The viscountess. She is a great benefactress of the orphanage. Apparently, she arrived back in London just this morning, because she wanted to be here for this.”

Lady Haslet? Camellia had heard the name before. From Marianne? “Are you acquainted with her?”

“Not yet,” Marianne said, smiling like a cat in cream. “But I expect to be introduced.”

Mrs. Galway suddenly announced, in a booming voice, “We should make our way into the music room. The performers are ready to begin.”

They filed across the hallway into a room where chairs had been arranged in curving rows to face a small makeshift stage. Large vases on pedestals in three of the corners held fragrant bouquets. Candles were lit in tall stands all along the walls. It was quite lovely.

Once the guests were seated, the musicians took the stage, four of them with stringed instruments and one with a flute. Then came a dozen girls. Camellia guessed them to be ten to fourteen years in age, in matching brown dresses, with scrubbed faces and excited smiles.

Camellia found the various performances moving. And when the young orphans sang Amazing Grace , they brought tears to her eyes. Of course, everything did anymore. She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. It would not do to start sobbing.

When the concert ended, many of the ladies crowded about the girls.

Marianne said quietly, “The goal was to find positions for these girls in service. I imagine we’ve succeeded.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, how clever.”

“Are you all right? You look a bit peaked.”

“I’m fine. It’s a little warm in here, but I’m fine.”

“We can leave. Some of the others are.”

Camellia knew she should say they might stay as long as Marianne was needed. After all, she was one of the organizers. Still, she said, “Yes, I would like to go home.”

Marianne picked up her reticule, took Camellia’s arm, and led her to the exit.

She gave a little wave to Mrs. Galway across the room before stepping into the hallway.

There were several other departing guests buzzing about, among them Lady Haslet, who was giving directions to a footman, indicating a box for him to carry.

Camellia stopped abruptly. That footman! He was the brawny young butler who had turned her away at Major Taverston’s door. The man raised his head at that same moment and caught her eye. His jaw dropped, and he reddened. Camellia looked quickly away, her face growing warm.

Marianne mistook the reason for her pause and murmured, “Oh, bother. We haven’t been introduced. And we can’t very well introduce ourselves to a viscountess.” Marianne nudged Camellia’s elbow to guide her to the door.

Outside in the drive, Marianne asked one of Mrs. Galway’s footmen to summon the Stirlings’ coach, which was somewhere in a long line of carriages trailing up the road. As they waited, the viscountess emerged from the house, waving. She hurried toward them while her footman walked staidly behind.

“Please excuse me,” the viscountess said, reaching them. “I know this is terribly gauche, but I am Lady Haslet. And you are Lady Stirling? And Miss Harrington?”

Marianne and Camellia both curtsied. Of course, the viscountess was permitted to approach them. It seemed odd though, to Camellia, that she was known to her as Miss Harrington.

“We are. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Marianne said. Camellia only nodded agreement.

“And I, yours,” the viscountess said. She frowned and focused on Camellia. “I do hope you’ll forgive me my intrusion, but my footman has asked to speak with you. He says it is important, or I would never presume.”

“Important?” she echoed. Her knees weakened. So the footman had named her to the viscountess. But surely he would not spill her secrets here.

“He is not given to impertinence. But if this is too great an imposition, I understand.”

Marianne looked horrified, but Camellia said, “I’ll speak with him if it is important.”

“And private,” the lady said. “Lady Stirling, I have some questions about the orphanage.”

As the two moved away, the footman came nearer. He bowed to Camellia. “My lady, I apologize for my breach of manners.”

“What did you need to say?” He had practically thrown her from the major’s doorstep. She could not possibly be more mortified than to stand here and have him address her.

“The letter you gave me to give to the major—he would not take it.”

Blood pulsed in her neck. “What do you mean?”

“You said it was crucial that he read it. I tried to give it to him. But he…” The man wrung his hands. “I should not be betraying the major’s privacy. And he specifically told me not to say that he was ill.”

“He was ill?” Camellia’s blood chilled.

“I should be sacked for telling you. But yes, he was deathly ill. And drugged with laudanum. I tried—”

“Did he recover?” She couldn’t bear it if he told her that the major, too, had died.

“He did, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “But the letter…he didn’t read it. He had me put it in the fire.”

Camellia caught her breath. If he hadn’t read the letter, he couldn’t have known. “In the fire?” All this time, in her heart, she had been accusing him of dishonor. Of spitefully abandoning his own baby. But he hadn’t known?

Still, he’d burned the letter. Unread. What kind of man would do such a thing?

“Yes, my lady. He wasn’t rational.” He spoke in a rush as though determined to say his piece.

“You said it was crucial, and I promised to deliver it. I’m sorry that I could not.

Please believe that I have regretted it ever since.

” He stared down at his fingers, twisted together.

Then he took a step back. His shoulders seemed to relax as though he were free of a burden.

“One moment. You said he recovered. Did he…do you know if he was at Waterloo?”

“He was. I believe he survived. But truly, I should not say more. It is not my place. I merely wanted to confess that I failed to honor my promise to you.”

She nodded. Thoughts and emotions crowded her brain, and she couldn’t sort them. She managed, “Thank you for telling me.”

He bowed and retreated quickly. The major hadn’t known about their son. She walked the short distance to Marianne and Lady Haslet in a haze.

“Thank you, my lady,” Camellia said.

A smile of relief crossed the viscountess’s face. “Oh, is it settled then?”

“Yes.”

The lady reached out and pressed her hand.

“Then I am glad. Marianne has asked me to tea next week. I know what a painful time this is for you, but I hope you will join us. And that you will call me Alice.” A tiny grin slipped onto her face as she let go.

“My husband is fortunate to be called everywhere ‘Hazard.’ When I complained that I was saddled with an unwieldy title he suggested I go by ‘Hazardess.’”

Marianne laughed. Camellia managed a smile. “Tea at Marianne’s house would be lovely. And please, call me Camellia.”

“Good. Very good.” She brushed her hands together, as if to say that is that .

Marianne said, “This is my carriage. We must go. Until next week?”

They exchanged goodbyes and were helped by grooms into the Stirlings’ coach. As they rode away, Marianne gave Camellia a questioning frown.

“That was certainly unusual.”

Camellia sighed. “Yes, it was. But there is no cause for concern.”

“There isn’t? Whatever he said has made you pale.”

“I’m all right. I just…I’d met him before. He was apologizing for a trifle.”

“A trifle? Footmen do not address ladies over trifles. And trifles would not make you pale.”

“I cannot betray his confidence.”

“A footman’s confidence? For Heaven’s sake, Camellia.”

“I know. It is odd. But please. I just need to think about this for a while.”

*

Marianne kept her busy throughout the day. At supper, Philip was full of questions about the concert. There was no room for Major Taverston to intrude on her thoughts, though he stood firm at the edge of them. That night, Camellia tossed and turned, mulling over what this might mean.

The major deserved to know the truth. Or did he? Would he want to know? It would be difficult enough to decide whether to tell him that he had a living son. But one who had passed? What purpose would it serve to tell him?

She had sworn to Manfred she would tell no one. But the inheritance was no longer at issue so that promise was moot. Moreover, Manfred believed that the major had been told.

Feeling overly warm and uncomfortable, she threw off her blanket and rose. The window drew her. She pulled back the curtain and regarded the stars a moment, trying to picture her loved ones among them in the Heavens. Then she pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

Clearly, she should tell him. Baby Neville had only lived for a few weeks, but he had lived! Neville deserved to have his existence made known to his father.

Or maybe, Camellia thought, she was merely trying to preserve Neville’s memory by telling the truth of his birth to the only other person to whom the truth might matter.

But what if it did not matter to him? What if he scorned her for telling him and said he did not care?

His contempt, contempt for their son, would destroy her.

But shouldn’t he be given the choice to care or not care? Did he deserve that choice?

He could well disbelieve her and accuse her of hidden motives. Which was absurd. What could she possibly hope to gain by lying about this?

Maybe her motives were questionable. Did she wish to hurt the major the way she’d been hurt? Or did she imagine sharing her suffering might lessen it?

Or, worse, did she simply wish to see him once more?

And that raised the definitive question. How on earth was she to see him to tell him? She could hardly pay him a social call. And if she did do something so outrageous, who was to say he would not, once again, simply have a porter turn her away from his door?