Page 89 of Hearts of Briarwall

“What I find most unsettling,” Ruby said, her head still bowed over tying a ribbon, “is that Andrew spent years in Spencer’s company, and it took him only minutes to believe the worst of him. Each of us has spent a matter of hours with him, and it is fairly easy to see that Spencer is a good man. A good person. He is human, and his loyalties have been stretched to their limits. What would you or I have done in similar circumstances? And then, when you throw the cacophony of love into the mix—”

Lydia stood abruptly, her chair nearly tipping all the way over. “I cannot,” she said hoarsely, flickering a glance at the startled expressions from the room. She pasted on a brief smile and stepped aside as if to excuse herself.

She leaned forward, steadying herself with her chair, and whispered, “I cannot hear how good he is. Not when he is lost to me.” She straightened, projecting her voice outward as she left the table. “I’ve poked myself with a pin after all. No, I’ll get the bandage. It is minor. Hardly a mark.”

She made her way to the nearest water closet and shut the door, drawing in deep breaths and pushing them out. Going to the sink, she splashed water on her face and neck, then sank to the edge of a porcelain washtub.

Ruby had referred to love as if it had been decided—thatlovewas what she and Spencer had fallen into. Not flirtation, not friendship, not infatuation. It wasRubywho said it. Not Florrie or Violet, who threw those words around like bread to ducks. But steady, quiet, observant Ruby, who only spoke when she was certain of her words.

Love.

She held to the edge of the sink and rested her forehead on her hand.

Andrew’s voice echoed in her memory:“You are no longer welcome.”

If love was not welcome in her own home, what would be? Sir Lawrence? The thought left her chilled.

“Andrew,” she whispered. “What have we done?”

Chapter 17

Spencer paced the small front room of the carriage house, invitation in hand. An invitation to dine at Kinthwaite Park with Mrs. Whittemore and Violet’s friends. Including Lydia. The note contained no undercurrent of matchmaking or maneuvering. Simply an invitation to share his ideas. Cyril, Oscar, and George had been invited, as Mrs. Whittemore wished to have even numbers of men and women.

“You’ll wear a path through the carpet if you continue like that,” Oscar said. “Shall I answer for you?”

Spencer halted and pushed the note at Oscar. “Please.”

Oscar held his hands up, refusing to take the paper. “Rhetorical offer, my friend. Honestly, I don’t see the problem here. Mrs. Whittemore suggests this is a business dinner. Very progressive of her, which is no surprise. Her wealth is her own, so you’ve no husband to contend with if she wishes to invest. You will also have the ear of Florrie Janes, who tells her father everything of interest, and he snaps his fingers to make it happen for her. As for Lydia, she’ll be surrounded by her friends, who will likely shelter her from you as much as possible. What could go wrong?”

Spencer lifted a brow in response.

Oscar lowered his head in a chuckle. “Alright, yes, those four are unpredictable at best. But what have you got to lose?”

That was the pivotal question, wasn’t it? What did he have to lose? He’d lost Lydia. He’d likely lost Sir Lawrence’s investment and those of his associates. He’d lost Andrew’s trust and friendship. He was starting at the bottom again. Only this time, instead of nursing a broken heart from a shallow American heiress, he was aching over the loss of a good portion of his past, and what might have been his future.

He still faced a future, with or without Lydia Wooding in it.We carry on.He’d acknowledged that determination in the letter he’d written her, and it had given him strength.

“You’re right. It won’t matter that Lydia is there. I need to move forward, and Mrs. Whittemore’s investment will be as appreciated as anyone else’s.”

“There’s the spirit I hoped you’d have. Considering you’ll have mine and my brothers’ interest backing you as well.”

Spencer crossed to the writing desk, scribbled out a response, and handed it to Oscar.

“I’ll make sure this is hand-delivered and tell Cyril and George. You muster that confidence, and I’ll stop here with the car in an hour to pick you up.”

Spencer reached his hand out, and Oscar took it. “Thank you, Oscar. I don’t deserve your trust.”

“We’ll see about that,” Oscar said. “Give Andrew some time. The old codger will come around.” He grinned, then left.

If only it were that simple. He’d told Oscar the bare facts, while keeping Lydia’s reputation intact. Oscar had been brutally optimistic. But so many layers were buried beneath those few simple truths he’d shared.

With Oscar gone, the thought of an hour pacing the room alone soured in Spencer’s gut. He retrieved his hat from a hook near the front door and stepped out into the spring evening. The sky had been clear all day and remained so, though the sinking sun painted it pink.

The Burkes’ brick manor house—as well as the carriage house on the road front—was situated on the edge of the town of Albury and across from a municipal park with paths, a large gazebo, plenty of sprawling old trees, an expansive lawn, and a meandering stream.

Spencer crossed the road and entered the park through the towering wrought iron gate. He needed to walk off this anxiousness over the Whittemore dinner and seeing Lydia again. Had it only been yesterday when she’d walked away from the temple like a world-weary goddess?

Few others were in the park at this time of day. He allowed his mind to still as he strolled, barely taking note of his surroundings but for the gentle breeze, the evening songbirds, and the bubbling of the stream.

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