One rainy afternoon just a few days later, the maid informed Lydia that Nicholas was due to be absent for most of the day.

"He's very sorry, Lady Lydia, and he wishes to send his regrets for abandoning you and his great-aunt."

"Well, we shall certainly miss him," Lydia said automatically, but her mind was running ahead to Nicholas' study.

It had been on her mind for a while. Nicholas was keeping secrets from her. He brushed her off when she asked about his relationship with her brother, and though he said that there were men researching the matter, she had seen nothing from that investigation yet.

By all rights, she knew that she should have stormed out to conduct affairs in her own name, but

she didn't want to leave Nicholas.

It was so easy with Nicholas, being with him, laughing with him. In Carmody, life was quiet and dreary, with every hour passing much like the one before. In London, with Nicholas, it never seemed dull, even when they only went to stroll in a park or to take the air on the banks of the Thames.

I never knew that I was so easily bought for an afternoon of pleasure. Deep down, she knew that it was more than that. Being with Nicholas soothed a deep disquiet in her, and for the first time since her brother died, or even before, she knew a real and lasting peace. She didn't want to give it up, no matter how much her comfort left her feeling mildly ashamed.

He was gone for the day, however, and Lydia decided that it was time to take up her investigation again. It was easy making her way to his study without being seen by the servants, but just as gained the door, she heard the doorbell chime.

Just a friend or perhaps a business matter Nothing for me to worry about.

Unlike the first time she had seen it, Nicholas' desk was in a disarray. It seemed he had been looking for something and unearthed a number of papers to get at it.

As she scanned the documents, she was startled to see her brother's name on one, the subject of a letter from a Mr. Featherby.

To His Grace, the Duke of Winnefield:

According to your instructions on the matter of Benjamin Waverly, Earl of Sallport, I have made arrangements for the earl's funeral costs and medical bills...

What? What medical bills did Benjamin have to pay? And funeral costs? She knew her brother was buried in London, but she had not considered who had paid for it. In her grief, she had assumed that her father would do so, but now when she remembered it, her father had barely lifted his head.

While her mind was still whirling from this new knowledge, before she could even read the rest of the letter, she heard footsteps in the corridor. She flinched, waiting to be caught red-handed, but they passed by, the servants' chatter trailing after.

"Says he's the Marquess of Carmody, but I don't know. Surely, a marquess dresses better than that?"

Her heart started to beat faster. After a moment of consideration, she folded the letter from Featherby up into eights and slipped it under her foot in her shoe. She could look at it later, but right now, what was her father doing in London?

* * *

"My girl, you do not understand what a shock it was to my world when I realized two days ago that you had left home."

"Papa, I have been gone for several weeks now."

"And is that supposed to make it better? That's worse, that you could stray such a distance!"

Lydia had never gotten along with her father. Even now, she sat politely in a narrow hard-backed wooden chair, giving him the chaise to himself. Even the maid who had brought them a tray of lemon cookies and tea looked with dismay on the large and florid man who was sprawled on the chaise, as if the very house was his own.

"What were you thinking?" he continued, waving his teacup like he would a riding crop. "Running away from home, coming to London. Did you get your head turned by some fine lord who made you a pack of promises, eh?"

"Papa, I came to find out the true cause of Benjamin's death."

"I read the letter, same as you did, miss. That was good enough for me. It was a great and terrible grief, a man's only son stripped from him." Then, as an afterthought, "It would be damned intolerable without that money that was sent along."

Lydia froze.

"What money, Papa?"

"A consolation, you know, for his death. It was good it was sent on when it was. I was in a bit of trouble, not that a girl like you would understand such things."

"You were gambling again," Lydia realized, a weight rolling over her heart. "You took blood money from Benjamin's death and used it to pay off your gambling debts."

"Here now, there's no cause for a young girl to be scolding her own father like he was some kind of boy."

"You're not a boy, are you?" cried Lydia angrily. "You're a man and a father, but for some reason, you cannot act like one! You don't care that Benjamin died, you barely cared that I ran to London to find him, and all you care about is your gambling and your fun!"

Her father staggered up from the couch, fury in his blood-shot eyes.

"Now you hold a civil tongue in your head, miss, or—"

"I won't! I won't keep still any longer, I will not! You're terrible, and I will not—"

Her father's hand flashed out, his palm cracking hard against her cheek. Lydia's head snapped back, her ears ringing, and for a moment, she thought that she only imagined her father's rough cry.

Then she looked up and found her father pushed back in the chaise, a look of shock on his face as Nicholas loomed over him.

"Now someone tell me what the hell is going on," he said, his voice deadly smooth.