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somewhere to the north?’

      Flora’s stomach turned and she sat up quickly, thinking she might be sick, glad when the nausea settled back into a more far off place.

      Warm fingers curled in close as Maria positioned herself next to her and took her hand, tracing the scratches upon each finger and being careful not to bump her thumb. ‘You are safe now and that man will never be able to hurt you again, Papa promised it would be so. At least we can leave London and go home for it’s exhausting here and difficult to fit in.’

      The out-of-step sisters, Flora suddenly thought. She had overheard that remark at their first soirée. One of a group of the ton’s beautiful girls had said it and the others had laughed.

      They were an oddness perhaps here in London, the two daughters of an impoverished earl who held no true knowledge of society and its expectations.

      Heartbreak had honed them and sharpened the edges of trust. But she would not think about that now because she was perilously close to tears.

      ‘I heard Mama crying and Papa talking with her and she asked if we were cursed?’

      ‘What did Father say?’ Flora stilled at Maria’s words.

      ‘He said that only the weak-willed can be so stricken and that the true curse would have been to never find you. He also said while there is life there is hope.’

      Life. Breath. Warmth. No hope for him though, the stranger with his blood running across the cobbles.

      ‘Papa also said that perhaps we should not have come to London in the first place, but Mama asked how are we to be married off otherwise. Father replied there was an unkindness here that he found disappointing and I think he’s right for people laugh at us sometimes. Perhaps we are not as fashionable as we should be or as interesting as the others are? Papa’s title is something that holds sway here, but I suppose they also realise there is not much more than that behind our name.’

      Flora pulled herself together and spoke up. ‘We are who we are, Maria. We are enough.’

      ‘Enough,’ her sister repeated and brought her fingers up into a fist.

      This was an old tradition between them, joining hands and making a chain. Pulling them together. Keeping them strong. Maria was only a year above her in age and they had always been close. But even as she tried to gather strength Florentia felt that something had been irrevocably broken inside her, wrenched apart and plundered. She wondered truly if she would ever recover from a sadness she could not quite understand.

      * * *

      Her father called her to his library the next morning and he looked as tired as she was, the night past having been a long and fitful one to get through.

      ‘I thought we should try to remember something of yesterday between us, my dear. To keep it in memory so to speak, in case we have to think about it again in the future.’

      ‘In the future?’

      ‘If he has left you with child—?’

      She didn’t let him finish. ‘It was not like that, Papa. He did not...’ She stopped. ‘I think he thought I was someone else entirely. Some woman who needed to be escorted north because she was in trouble. He did not touch me in that way.’

      Relief lay in the lines of his face and in the lift of his eyes. ‘But your dress and the scratches?’

      ‘I had been sick and used water to try to make my gown clean again and he took it off me because it was wet and I was shaking and breathless. I also ran through a forest to try to get away and the branches snagged at my skin.’

      ‘He is a monster to do what he did.’

      ‘Is? I thought the man was dead. Are you saying he could still be alive?’

      Her father’s hands came up. ‘I am certain he is not, but we shan’t stay in London to find out. I have ordered the town house to be closed and have put in motion the means to remove us once again back to Kent. We shall leave on Friday.’

      Albany Manor. Two days away. The bloom of thankfulness made Flora dizzy.

      ‘There is something else that I think you should know.’

      The tone of his words was gentle.

      ‘The story of your abduction is all over London this morning. There were people near Mount Street who spoke when they should not have and Milly was not...careful with her own words either.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Well, perhaps you do not see it all. There will not be a gentleman here in London who would now offer his hand in marriage. Quiet ruination is a completely different thing from this utterly public condemnation and I doubt that we can recover from such a spectacle. If I had more capital behind me or the title was not an entailed one...’ He stopped and took another tack. ‘For the moment I think withdrawal might be our best defence. Your mother has the same thought. The Honourable Timothy Calderwood has sent a message to say he shall not be able to call upon you again, but he is sorry for your trials.’

      Sadness welled. She had enjoyed Timothy’s company with his laughter and his conversation. When she had danced with him a few days ago at the Rushton ball he’d intimated that he would like to know her much better and she had smiled back at him as if all her world was right. A kind man. A man of integrity. The first man who had made her feel special.

      Her father’s eyebrows raised up.

      ‘Did your abductor say anything at all about who he was?’

      ‘He didn’t.’ Florentia wondered if she should mention the name of Acacia Kensington and a man called Thomas. She decided against it, though, reasoning if her kidnapper was identified and still alive he’d be badly hurt and unable to fight off any further recriminations against him. ‘I am sure he imagined I was another and had just realised his mistake when you came and shot him.’

      ‘And mark my words I would do exactly the same again for I am not sure how you might recover from this travesty.’

      ‘With fortitude, Papa.’

      Her reply made him laugh though there was no humour in it. ‘I wish Bryson was here...’ he said and stopped, realising what he had just uttered.

      Her brother stood in the empty space between them. Beautiful funny Bryson with his golden hair and blue eyes and his cleverness. The glue in a family that had come unstuck ever since his passing.

      The son. The heir to an entailed property. Florentia’s twin.

      She sat down on the nearest seat, trying to find breath. It had been so long since his name had been mentioned out loud even though he was silently present in every moment of every day.

      ‘I no longer think the fault lay with you, Flora, and am sorry that I once implied it such.’ These were words she had heard before and foolish apologies that she had long since ceased to refute. ‘We will get through this. All of it. There will be an ending to the pain, I promise.’

      But there wasn’t. There hadn’t been. There never would be.

      The nausea she had felt in the carriage returned and she forced it down. She hadn’t been able to eat anything and although she felt hungry she just could not swallow even the smallest morsel of food. A new symptom that. Perhaps she was going mad in truth. The completion of a process that had started as she had sat there with her brother dying in her arms and both their clothes splashed in red.

      Her fault. Her dare. Her imprudence. She began to shake in earnest.

      ‘Shall I fetch Mama, Flora?’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head hard and the memory shattered.

      * * *

      The ache was lessened now, the burn and throbbing of it where his neck met the collar bone. Tommy was beside him.

      ‘Here, take this. It will help.’

      Bitter

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