Page 43 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“You drove through the night?”
“We spent it at an inn along the northern road and started again before dawn,” Sebastian replied. “I will not have Vexwood paraded in gossip columns.”
Margaret looked toward the gravel walk, where early light was beginning to lift the haze from the hedgerows. “You’ve had a long night, clearly. But I suspect we’re not the only ones.” Her gaze flicked downward, noting the state of Jasper’s coat, the scuff on his boot, the horse tethered near the stable wall.
Her voice was quiet. “You were leaving.”
Jasper didn’t reply at first. At last, he said, “I believed it would do less harm than staying.”
Sebastian’s eyes did not flicker, but there was something unreadable in the pause that followed.
“Well,” Margaret said, glancing toward the door, “you needn’t flee now. We are here. Let’s have the truth of things.”
She turned toward the house.
Sebastian followed. “We would like to freshen ourselves. Then we shall speak.”
Jasper remained still as their footsteps crunched over gravel.
He had not expected this. Nor—if he were honest with himself—had he expected to be relieved.
But some part of him was.
The morning room had been hastily prepared, though its usual elegance remained undiminished. Hopkins, immaculately composed despite the hour, had produced fresh linens, steaming tea, and a breakfast of quiet dignity—eggs, preserves, fresh bread, and a modest ham sliced so finely it seemed designed more for courtesy than indulgence.
Sebastian and Margaret sat at the polished table, having changed from their travel clothes into simple, unobtrusive attire—fine but muted. Margaret’s hair, pinned with usual precision, was still damp at the temples from the hurried wash. Sebastian’s cravat, while impeccable, remained untied at the throat, the only outward sign that their journey had not been without effort.
Across from them sat Jasper, now properly composed, though the weight of his earlier resolve had not fully lifted. He had spoken little since they entered.
Thalia had joined them briefly—long enough to welcome them to the breakfast table with poise and gratitude, and to make certain the household’s hospitality had not faltered. Her words had been gracious, her manner calm. But there had been something taut behind her eyes, as though each gesture had been rehearsed not for comfort, but for survival.
She had taken no seat. Her tea remained untouched. And when she excused herself—softly, with the explanation that arrangements needed tending—no one quite believed it was mere obligation that drew her away.
Margaret had watched her go with interest. “Is she always so—measured?”
“Yes,” Jasper replied. Then, after a pause, “And recently, rather more so.”
Sebastian’s gaze moved around the room. “The place is quiet.”
“It has been quiet for some days,” Jasper said. “There are no salons. No exhibitions. No income.”
“Because of the suspension,” Margaret supplied.
“Yes.”
“And yet the residents remain.”
“They have nowhere else to go.”
Margaret nodded slowly, folding a napkin across her lap. “I see.”
For a while, only the sound of china and cutlery filled the silence.
Then Sebastian said, “You realise, I presume, that this—this establishment—was one of several properties I asked you to investigate. I had no plans for acquisition beyond potential consolidation. This was supposed to be a practical investment.”
“I recall,” Jasper said.
“And yet,” Sebastian went on, his tone measured, “your letters ceased to speak of property and began to speak—when they spoke at all—of artistic merit, moral outrage, and the limits of patriarchal interference.”
