Again.
Companion.
Governess.
Lady’s reader.
Anything respectable enough to pay for lodging.
Her father’s death had left less than anyone expected.
A country solicitor with excellent manners and poor investments, Thomas Hartwell had spent twenty years convincing everyone—including his daughter—that prudence was the same as security.
Then he died.
Debts emerged.
The house was sold.
Eliza’s brother inherited obligations instead of property and sailed for Jamaica to take a position managing accounts for a shipping company.
Eliza came to London.
She was twenty-six.
Too old to be treated as a debutante.
Too young to be invisible.
Educated enough to know what she had lost.
Poor enough to know education did not replace income.
Mrs. Wren said quietly:
“Lady Beatrice will be very upset.”
Eliza looked at her.
“Then perhaps someone should have allowed her to come downstairs.”
The housekeeper looked away.
There.
Lady Beatrice had not suddenly decided she no longer cared.
She had been “resting” since breakfast.
Under her mother’s instruction.
Eliza suspected the bedroom door was not locked.
It did not need to be.
Young women in houses like this were trained for years before anyone ever gave an order.
Mrs. Wren stepped backward.
“I’m sorry.”
Eliza did not ask what for.
There were too many possibilities.
At eleven fifty-eight, the carriage driver climbed down.
“Miss?”
“Yes.”
“If we’re going, we should go.”
Eliza nodded.
She looked once at the townhouse.
Six months earlier she had arrived through the servants’ entrance because that was how companions entered.
Three weeks later, Beatrice insisted Eliza use the front.
Two months later, Julian told the butler never to send her through the side door again.
His mother had noticed that too.
Of course.
Eliza descended one step.
Then another.
The driver reached for the carriage door.
A man’s voice came from the pavement.
“Eliza.”
She stopped.
Everything inside her became still.
Not hopeful.
Still.
She turned.
Julian Vale stood ten feet away.
He had come around the rear of a dark traveling carriage Eliza had not noticed pull to the curb.
He wore a deep blue coat over a pale waistcoat, riding boots dusty from travel, and no hat. His dark hair had been flattened badly on one side, as though he had slept against the carriage wall and made no attempt to correct it before stepping outside.
He looked tired.
Angry.
And entirely real.
Eliza stared.
Julian’s eyes moved from her face to the trunk on the hired carriage.
Then to Mrs. Wren.
Then back.
“What is happening?”
Eliza found her voice.
“I am leaving.”
“I can see that.”
His tone sharpened.
“Why?”
She looked at him.
“Ask your mother.”
Julian went completely still.
Mrs. Wren disappeared into the house.
Eliza almost admired the speed.
Julian stepped closer.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“You are not leaving.”
Anger replaced shock.
“Do not do that.”
His brow furrowed.
“Do what?”
“Arrive after three weeks of silence and begin issuing orders as though I am part of your household furniture.”
“Eliza—”
“No.”
She surprised herself.
So did he.
The driver stepped backward discreetly.
Two pedestrians slowed.
Eliza lowered her voice.
“You asked me to stay.”
“I did.”
“I stayed.”