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C amellia walked quickly down the hospital’s drive, past the vendors and fancy ladies, ignoring them all. She was astounded. She knew what Marianne would say. There is no such thing as coincidence. This is Fate .

Earlier, they had been talking about the Taverstons.

Marianne said they should maneuver Camellia into the newly returned soldier’s path.

And suddenly, he had appeared in her path.

The only part of the Fated encounter that was implausible, if she were to play along with Marianne, was that the Earl of Iversley could be better looking than Major Taverston.

Good Heavens! He was well over six feet tall with unruly blond hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

He was gaunt, granted, but war did that to a man.

And thinness, apparently, did not mean diminished strength.

Of course, Camellia told herself, she was long past the days of fantasizing about suitors. She was thinking only what a boon his visit was for her brother.

It had dizzied her, the way he’d commanded Neville, lifted him from the bed as if he weighed no more than a pin, then set him gently into his chair.

He hadn’t rushed to get it over with the way Frye did.

And he didn’t fuss so gingerly over the transfer that it hurt Neville twice as much for twice as long.

She had been holding her breath as she watched, waiting for a catastrophe. But instead of a disaster, it was…fine.

Now she had time to go to Finsbury Square to see the furniture maker. She wouldn’t have to try to hire a hackney cab, or walk the whole two-hour journey late in the day with the threat of the sun setting before she was done. Meanwhile, Major Taverston would entertain Neville and raise his spirits.

She turned onto Chelsea Road and headed away from the Thames.

The stench of rotting fish and manure filled her nose and made her eyes sting, but it was better than the odors inside the hospital.

The center of the road was busy with carts and carriages, and a crowd of pedestrians made their way along the periphery.

She walked on, still picturing the major in her mind’s eye.

Wasn’t his sister’s wedding tomorrow? Yet he’d made time to see his old commander?

Her heart thumped. She had been wrong to think that all members of the haute ton were awful people. Major Taverston was not awful.

Major Taverston. Lieutenant Cheatdeath. Neville tempted Fate assigning him a nickname like that.

She caught her foot on an uneven cobble, wrenching her ankle, and had to stop to rub away the ache.

Fellow footsloggers parted to stream past her as if she were a rock jutting up from a riverbed.

No doubt her mourning clothes saved her from being bumped or shoved.

She straightened and resumed at a slower pace, ruminating.

Lieutenant Cheatdeath . Bravery verging on recklessness.

She would have to dig out her brother’s old letters when she got back to Tonbridge.

She wasn’t sure the sobriquet had been complimentary.

But what did it matter? The war was over. Major Taverston was kind to pay a call. She was grateful, and Neville had been pleased.

Things didn’t seem quite as hopeless as before.

*

Not entirely hopeless, but hope was hard to come by.

Mr. Loffit agreed to make a wheelchair “cheaply” by altering a regular chair in his shop.

It would take only a few days, but it would cost fifteen pounds.

Fifteen pounds! She’d bargained him down from eighteen, but it was still robbery.

Yet she had no choice except to say yes.

How else could she move Neville from place to place?

If she could do nothing but stick him in his bed at home and leave him there, he’d be no better off in Tonbridge than he was at Chelsea Hospital.

She stepped out of Mr. Loffit’s shop, onto the street.

Her head ached. It must be well past teatime and she’d eaten very little that morning.

Of course, it wasn’t proper for a solitary lady to enter a teashop.

Nor, for that matter, should she be traipsing around London unchaperoned.

But she’d found those rules did not apply as stringently to a spinster with no prospects. It had been a liberating realization.

She ran her tongue over her dry lips and decided to walk around Tinsbury Square and see if a teashop beckoned. After a few minutes, she halted and stared at a massive, four-story building spilling down the street before her.

The Temple of the Muses. Mr. Lackington’s bookshop. She hadn’t known the address, hadn’t thought to look for it, but there it was. Coincidence or Fate? She felt like a fish that had swallowed a baited hook. The store reeled her in.

She entered an enormous room with a wide circular counter behind which three clerks busily tended to customers.

This was surrounded by wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor shelves filled with books.

For a long moment, she stood immobile, only breathing.

The air was redolent with the powdery smell of paper. Heaven . This must be heaven.

She shook herself. She couldn’t stay long.

She moved to one wall and noted sets of leather-bound histories, something she would not even touch.

Marianne had said that the most expensive books were on display on the ground floor, with the prices decreasing as one went up.

Camellia didn’t intend to buy anything; nevertheless, she made her way to the stairs.

On the next floor, she wandered until she found the gallery holding volumes of poetry.

These she browsed for a short time, but unsatisfactorily.

It was not possible to appreciate what she was reading while standing up in a shop.

There were chairs in the gallery, but they were occupied.

So she returned Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage to the shelf, promising herself that she would read it properly one day.

Putting aside her disappointment, she moved on to another gallery, one filled with novels.

There she found empty seats including a comfortable-looking couch.

Although Camellia read novels sparingly, Marianne read them voraciously and could not stop talking about one called Sense and Sensibility .

Marianne was certain she knew the identity of the anonymous authoress, saying it was the sister-in-law of one of her friends, but she had not yet been able to obtain a copy from her circulating library.

Camellia searched the shelves and found it.

Twenty-one shillings for the three-volume set.

Her heart dipped. She would not be purchasing a gift for her generous hostess.

She took the first volume to the couch, settled down to sample it, and laughed to see that one of the heroines was named Marianne. No wonder her Marianne was so eager to read it.

Camellia didn’t know how it happened, but she became engrossed in the novel so quickly she lost track of time.

Not only time. The store around her faded away and she was in Barton Cottage with the sisters.

So divorced was she from the real world, that it didn’t register at once that someone was speaking her name.

And looming beside the couch. Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes from the page, then snapped to attention. It was Major Taverston.

“Pardon me.” He grinned widely, the wrong expression for a person begging pardon. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“No. I mean, no that’s all right. I—I was reading.” Which was a stupid thing to point out.

“May I ask what has you so captivated?”

“Only a novel.” She held it up so he could see the title, then closed it and set it on the couch.

“It must be enjoyable.”

“It’s wonderful.” She wished her tone had not sounded so gushing. He’d think she was silly. “But I prefer poetry.” Lud. She didn’t need to justify her reading choice to him.

“Ah. So do I. My sister loves Ann Radcliffe’s novels, but I think she has read them all.

” He frowned. “And a book is not much of a wedding gift.” He pursed his mouth then said with a rueful sigh, “My brother is giving her a house and ten acres.” She had no idea how to respond, but her expression must have conveyed more sympathy than he wanted, because he laughed.

“I might have to give her my horse.” He gestured to a chair next to the couch. “May I?”

Her cheeks warmed. She didn’t think it was appropriate. But they had been properly introduced. He was not trying to crowd onto the couch beside her. And she was armored in black. “Yes, of course.”

He folded himself into the chair with a graceful lack of self-consciousness. He looked as if he was examining her. She prayed he wasn’t puzzling over her hair. If he was, she refused to let it bother her.

She said, “I want to thank you—” at the same time he said, “I had a good visit with your brother.” Then they both stopped and waited for the other to speak. He broke the silence by raising one eyebrow and asking, “Thank me?”

“For calling on Neville. It was generous of you to make the time. Especially with your sister’s wedding tomorrow.”

The eyebrow rose improbably higher. “Did I say the wedding is tomorrow?”

Bollocks. He hadn’t. Marianne had. Camellia’s whole face and neck grew hot. “No. No, I’m sorry. I should not listen to gossip—but nothing censorious was said.”

His expression turned grim. Naturally. It must be irksome to have people tittle-tattling about one’s family.

She tried pressing on. “I think Neville is bored most of the time. I’ve run out of ways to entertain him.” She heard her own words and winced. “Oh, dear God,” she muttered. “I don’t mean that I’ve been gossiping about your family to entertain Neville.”

He snickered. Good. Amusement was preferable to anger. The whole predicament was so ridiculous she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as well. “I suppose I should have stopped at ‘thank you for calling on Neville.’”

He flicked his hand as if to dispense with her apology and her gratitude. “It was my pleasure. We had a fine conversation out on the terrace, talking of old army friends.”

“Gossiping?”

A gleam of appreciation lit his eyes before he answered, straight-faced, “Nothing censorious was said.”

She snorted. He had a sense of humor, thank God. He smiled as if thinking the same.

“Your brother said he would be going home soon. That you are taking him to Tonbridge.”

She nodded.

“He requires a good deal of care?” He made it sound like a question, but she guessed that it was more of a statement. Did he imagine she was unaware of the support she would need?

“I’m hiring a manservant to help tend to him.”

“Ah. Good.” He folded his hands in his lap and studied them. “The hospital is no place for him. He is fortunate to have you.” Then he looked up to glance about the room. “No one has come to chase me off. Who is here with you?”

Her chest knotted. Her answer would tell him everything.

She had no other family. She hadn’t funds to hire a companion.

She was careless of her reputation. But she would also have him know that she was honest. And unashamed.

“I came alone. I had another errand nearby…” She trailed off, seeing his eyes narrow.

Then she strengthened her voice and said, “I’m staying with Lord and Lady Stirling.

” They were respectable. “It is not so far to walk.”

“ Walk? No. Where do they reside?”

Since it was none of his business, she gave him a cutting look and remained silent.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’m used to barking at people, but I imagine you get enough of that from the colonel. I’m concerned because there are footpads about in the evening.”

“It isn’t evening yet.”

His lips thinned. Then he pressed his hands against his thighs and asked archly, “Miss Harrington, how long were you reading?”

She looked down at the novel. She’d been quite far into the story.

Dash it! She picked up the book and stood abruptly, aware of his eyes on her back as she moved to the shelves to put it back. When she turned around again, she saw he was now also standing, and regarding her steadily.

“Thank you, Major Taverston, for alerting me to the time. I must go.”

He shook his head. “Please permit me to see you back to the Stirlings’.”

“Oh, no. I cannot put you out. I’m sure you have other plans—”

“Miss Harrington,” he interrupted, laughing a little. “I must now browbeat you into putting up with my presence a while longer or else allow you to endanger yourself.”

This was disastrous. She had unwittingly put him in the position of having to volunteer to escort her home. He must wish he’d never stopped to talk with her.

“Absolutely not. Major, I appreciate your offer, but I cannot accept. I will take a hackney cab.” Paying the fare would be penalty for her carelessness.

His face clouded. He appeared ready to argue, but then blinked as if struck by a sudden thought. “If that is what you prefer.” He studied her a moment longer. “Will you permit me to summon one for you?”

Camellia nodded. Mortified. “Thank you.” What a perfect cake she had made of herself. She hoped their paths would not cross again.