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After that perfunctory exchange, they were silent. She appeared horribly uncomfortable. Still, he waited for her to speak. There was no reason to make this easier for her—whatever this was.

When the silence had gone on too long for his comfort, he said, “The condolences are also for your husband and your baby. Imagine my surprise when I heard.”

“I—I must…but did you…” Rather than complete her thought, she shook her head. Her eyes looked shiny, and her chin quivered. He hoped she would not resort to tears.

“I meant to call on you,” he said, deciding to stop towering over her. He sat across from her on a too-short, gray-and-white-striped chair. “It didn’t occur to me that you might hunt me down.” He laughed meanly. “I don’t know why it didn’t. Propriety has never guided you before.”

“Please don’t.”

He felt a pang. Of guilt? Of anger? “Don’t what?” Now he was being snide and disingenuous. The woman brought out the worst in him. The very worst. She couldn’t have come to extract his condolences. So what the devil did she want?

She gave him a narrow look, but didn’t answer. Ah, she wielded silence as a weapon. It took great effort not to drum his fingers against his knees. He refused to be nervous. To act nervous. Hadn’t he always said uncomfortable conversations were his strength? He attacked them head-on.

“So,” he drew out the word. “I can only assume that you’ve realized you made a mistake, my lady . You should not have chosen Sir Bodwell.”

She blinked rapidly and twisted her hands in her skirt. “It was not a choice. I had no choice.”

He snorted. “Oh, come now. No one forced you into my bed. That was your choice.” He leaned forward, elbows on thighs.

“And you told me you chose not to marry. Not to marry at all.” He cocked his head to one side.

“Or was that supposed to be a gentle rejection of my suit?” A gentle rejection after harshly informing him he was a terrible lover.

“No. No, I meant it.”

She was trembling. Damn it . He steeled himself against pity. There were facts he needed to know. His voice flattened as he slid too effortlessly into his interrogator’s role.

“Yet within a few weeks, you married Sir Bodwell. You tell me what I am supposed to think. That you suddenly found yourself madly in love with a dull fellow twice your age who talked of nothing but farming? That you were swept off your feet by an old man with one foot in the grave? Or did he coerce you?”

Her face went ashen. “Don’t speak ill of Manfred.”

He laughed. “So it was love?” He felt a mounting rage—and he was not given to rages. “Or was he a passionate kisser? Could he satisfy you in bed?”

She jumped up, blushing furiously. He stood also and moved toward her, sneering. “If you’ve come to give me a second chance—”

“Stay back!” She held up her hand, palm toward him.

He halted. Her expression was both fierce and alarmed. The devil. Aware of how threatening he must appear, he took a step backward. Words were his weapon. Silence was hers; words were his. He would not have touched her. Not in anger. Surely she knew that.

She lowered her hand. Then she breathed in raggedly and exhaled slowly. “This was a mistake.” Her voice shook. She gestured for him to step aside. “I will leave you in peace.”

“Another mistake? I thought, perhaps, that you recognized your error, Lady Bodwell , and hoped to rectify it. I understand that titles are appealing, and that Manfred had property—”

“Is that what you think?” She gaped, wide-eyed as though stunned. “That I rejected your…your mean-spirited, resentful offer of marriage for the material benefits Manfred could provide?”

Mean-spirited and resentful?

“Why else?” He tried to be flippant, but he felt cold inside. Could she give any answer that would not cut him to the quick? “I also have property, you know. Property that is not entailed. And I might not be titled, but I am heir to an earl. Admit it, Lady Bodwell, you backed the wrong horse.”

She remained silent, but wrung her hands. Was that confirmation or denial?

He raised one eyebrow in a mocking fashion. “Why did you come here?” He pitied her situation. The unfairness of it. Women’s lot. But what did she expect of him? Another rescue? Another proposal? “Your circumstances are unfortunate, but not my concern. I owe you nothing.”

She turned her face away. “I never thought you owed me anything. Never. I thought I owed you.”

“Oh, come now. What could you owe me?”

With a groan, she said, “Nothing. I was wrong. I should not have come.”

“But you are here. Tell me.”

She rubbed her eyes, but she did not appear tearful, merely tired. “There is no point. You have the answers that suit you. Believe what you will. It no longer matters.”

“No longer? I think it safe to say it never did.”

She caught her breath sharply, the surprised sound made by a soldier suddenly on the wrong end of a bayonet.

Why? What should have mattered to him?

She locked her eyes on his. Searching. He had to break the gaze first, fearing what she might find.

Pain. Not anger. Pain. Oh, God—he had cared for her. Fool, fool! She’d filled the empty place in his life. And now that empty place was a chasm.

“No, you don’t know,” she whispered. Then she shivered. “I’m so sorry.”

Without waiting for his reaction, she started toward the parlor door.

He stood rooted to the spot, replaying the entire exchange swiftly through his mind, trying to resee everything differently, stripped of his anger, trying to understand why her apology sounded so full of compassion when he had done his best to be cruel.

Mean-spirited and resentful. Sickly, weak, spiteful, mean-spirited, and resentful. She knew him well.

He heard the swish of her skirts moving down the hall. He turned, opening his mouth to call her back, but the cry stuck in his throat. The front door opened, then closed.

“What don’t I know?” he whispered.

*

Crispin was in no mood to interview servants. He thanked God for Vanessa, who took charge. They brought the women into Jasper’s office, one after another. Vanessa sat at the earl’s desk and asked questions, while Crispin stood brooding behind.

The first woman was too young. Too flirtatious. She tried ingratiating herself with them both, until he informed her that whomever he hired would be expected to spend several months in Binnings. That was not acceptable. Apparently, she had a young man in London.

The second woman smelled of gin.

The third woman…was Mrs. Clay. Had he not been battered enough?

“Mrs. Clay,” he said, forcing a smile. “What are you doing in London?”

“You are acquainted?” Vanessa asked, shooting him a look of surprise.

He could see now the benefit of asking the agency for names and references upfront.

“Lady Iversley, may I present to you Mrs. Clay. She was cook and housekeeper for Colonel Harrington. Mrs. Clay, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Iversley.”

Mrs. Clay curtsied awkwardly. She looked awed.

“Well, then,” Vanessa said, pleasantly. “Never mind references. I suppose the major knows your work.”

“You’ve left Tonbridge for London?” Crispin asked. Was she still in contact with Camellia? That would not do. He was feeling hunted.

“Aye, well, I have a brother here. And no work in Tonbridge. The old gentleman passed, you see. And then Sir Bodwell did, too.” She flushed. “You knew, I hope? I’d hate to be the bearer.”

“No. I am aware.”

“And, of course, poor Lady Bodwell has gone to live with Lord and Lady Stirling.”

“Do you see her often?”

Mrs. Clay’s eyes flew wide. “Lord, no. I wouldn’t presume.”

“Mrs. Clay,” Vanessa interrupted, bringing them back to the business at hand. “Major Taverston expects to spend half his time in the lake district. His cottage is small and rather sparsely staffed. Are you able to travel?”

“To the lake district? That would be lovely. I’ve never been. And the major will tell you, I’m used to small staffs. It don’t bother me to do some housekeeping.”

“Very good.” Vanessa looked down at the paper in front of her, then back at Mrs. Clay. “The major is particular about what is served at his table. Can you pay strict attention to instructions?”

“Oh, aye.” She beamed at Vanessa. “Don’t I know he likes his rice and peas. No gravy. No bread. No cream. Lady Bodwell gave me a list.”

It was unfortunate, but Mrs. Clay suited his needs perfectly.

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa said, her brow furrowed. “Who is Lady Bodwell?”

“Colonel Harrington’s sister,” Crispin said. “She married a local gentleman.”

“Oh!” Sympathy washed across Vanessa’s face. “And they both passed?”

“And the babe, too.” Mrs. Clay’s head bobbed up and down. “It was a real shame. Then the cousin swooped in and took everything.”

Vanessa gasped. “She lost a baby?”

“A boy. Made Sir Bodwell so happy, don’t you know? He went peacefully. But the babe was a struggle.”

“Born too soon?” Crispin asked. That was what the fellow at White’s had said.

Mrs. Clay flushed and nodded. “Yes.” She lowered her voice and added in a confidential tone, “They were seven months married, you see. But we still thought the babe would make it. He was robust when he was born. Eight pounds at least, we thought. But he wouldn’t eat, and the doctor said there weren’t nothing Lady Bodwell could do. ”

Vanessa’s eyes welled with tears, alarming Crispin.

“Mrs. Clay,” he said, hurriedly coming around the desk to usher her out. “Of course, the job is yours. Come to Albany in three days. I will have a key made for you. There are servants’ quarters in the attic. My valet will show you.”

He escorted her to the door, where Gerald was waiting to see her out of 8 Grosvenor Square.

Crispin turned to Vanessa. “I’m sorry. I never would have asked for your help if I’d known it might be upsetting.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though she sounded unsettled. “It is only that babies’ lives are so precarious. So much can go wrong. Even for full-grown—”

“But Lady Bodwell’s baby was not full grown. Seven months—”

Vanessa made a noise like a snort. “Crispin, you can’t be that na?ve. The Bodwells were married seven months when the baby was born. That doesn’t mean the baby came early. It means they married too late.”

Crispin stared. “No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

She gave a laughing huff of disbelief. “She said he weighed more than eight pounds! I suppose that means nothing to you, but seven-month babies don’t weigh eight pounds.”

He counted months again, ticking them off on his fingers, but now he could not recall when Camellia had married Bodwell. After he’d been sick. But no. That was when he’d heard. They had been married while he was sick. Six…seven…eight…

Oh, God, no.