Beside her stood Frederick, looking mildly seasick from the journey, adjusting the gold pin in his cravat.
Two footmen were currently attempting to extract a large leather trunk from the boot of the carriage.
"Stop!" Carolina said.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute authority of a woman who commanded masons and carpenters. The footmen froze.
Belinda turned, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising in a pantomime of shock. She looked Carolina up and down, taking in the mud-stained hem, the calloused hands, the loose hair.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Belinda's face. It was the smile of a predator finding exactly the weakness it had sought.
"Carolina, darling," Belinda cooed, stepping forward. She carefully avoided a puddle of muddy water. "My poor, sweet girl, look at you. We heard rumors, of course, but I simply had to see it with my own eyes. I told Frederick, 'We must rescue her.' You look like a scullery maid."
Carolina stopped 10 paces away. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You are trespassing, Lady Cooper. Harrogate is a private estate."
"Estate?" Belinda laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated against the quiet of the moors. She waved a gloved hand toward the eastern wing, where scaffolding still hugged the ancient stone. "Darling, this is a ruin. A pile of rocks. You are living in absolute squalor. Have you no shame?"
"Shame is for those who steal, lie, or fail to pay their debts," Carolina replied evenly. "I do none of those things. I am working. Now tell your men to put the trunk back. You are not staying."
Frederick coughed delicately into his fist. "Now see here, Mrs. Farrow. We have traveled a very long way out of Christian charity. The least you could do is offer us some tea, and perhaps a fire. It is frightfully cold."
"The inn in Oakhaven serves an excellent tea," Carolina said, her expression entirely unreadable. "It is 3 mi down the road. I suggest you leave before the light fails. The roads are treacherous."
Belinda's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hard line. The charity act evaporated.
"Don't put on airs with me, Carolina. You are a bankrupt widow playing in the mud. I came to see Abraham. Tell Lord Ashbourne we are here."
"Lord Ashbourne," a deep voice drawled from the shadows of the manor, "is entirely capable of speaking for himself."
Abraham stepped out from the arched entryway of the kitchen.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the courtyard. Belinda stared. Frederick's mouth actually dropped open.
Abraham was not wearing the impeccable tailoring of Mayfair. He wore a plain linen shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms slick with sweat and dusted with soil. He wore durable woolen trousers tucked into scuffed riding boots. There was a smudge of dirt across his left cheekbone.
He looked tired, entirely relaxed, and more dangerous than he ever had in a London ballroom.
He walked past Belinda and Frederick without a glance, moving directly to Carolina. He didn't stand in front of her to protect her. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
He reached out, taking one of her muddy hands in his, lacing their fingers together in full view of the Londoners.
Carolina felt a sudden, fierce spike of adrenaline. She gripped his hand back tightly.
"Abraham," Belinda breathed, recovering from her shock, though her voice trembled slightly. "What are you doing? You look... you look like a laborer."
"I am a laborer, Belinda," Abraham said mildly, his thumb stroking the back of Carolina's hand. "I find the work far more rewarding than listening to you dissect the reputations of your friends. To what do we owe this intrusion?"
Belinda flushed, a dark, ugly red creeping up her pale neck. The visual confirmation of the rumors—Abraham, the untouchable earl, coupled with an impoverished widow—was physically repulsive to her. It violated every rule of her world.
"Intrusion?" Belinda sputtered. "We came to check on your sanity! You abandoned your seat in the House of Lords. You abandoned society. For this? For a pile of wet rubble and a woman who cannot even afford a maid to brush her hair?"
Abraham's eyes turned cold, flat, and lethal. The relaxed aristocrat vanished, leaving only the ruthless authority of a man who owned entire valleys.
"Speak of Mrs. Farrow with respect," Abraham said, his voice dropping to a quiet register that made Frederick take a physical step backward. "Or I will have my men forcefully throw you off this property."
Belinda gaped at him. She looked at Carolina, expecting to see triumph, or perhaps smugness. But Carolina only looked tired, entirely unimpressed by the drama unfolding on her gravel.
"You are throwing your life away," Belinda hissed, her voice venomous. "Society will never accept this. They will laugh at you both. You will be outcasts."
"Belinda," Abraham said gently, the softness of his tone a mockery. "Do you truly believe I care about a society that equates human worth with the embroidery on a waistcoat? I was dying of boredom among you. Here, I am alive. Now, as Carolina said, the inn is 3 mi away. I suggest you instruct your driver to turn this ridiculous carriage around."
"Wait," Carolina interrupted.
Abraham looked down at her, surprised.
Carolina looked at Belinda. She saw the malicious curiosity burning behind the woman's humiliated fury. Belinda wanted a story to take back to London. She wanted to describe the rot and the ruin.
Carolina decided, with a sudden cold calculation, to deny her that satisfaction.
"You traveled a long way to see my squalor, Lady Cooper," Carolina said, stepping forward, pulling Abraham with her. "It would be a pity to send you back without a tour. Walk with me."
Without waiting to see if they followed, Carolina turned and walked toward the western side of the manor.
Belinda hesitated, her pride warring with her insatiable curiosity. Curiosity won. She picked up the skirts of her blue silk gown and carefully picked her way across the damp ground, Frederick trailing nervously behind her.
They expected to see collapsed roofs, rotting floorboards, and the stench of decay. They expected to see a woman clinging desperately to the illusion of grandeur.