Chapter Eighteen: Lady Roynor's Opinion

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Laura dressed not in black but in white. She hadn't bought any black gowns with the money Richard had given her and, despite Miss Dalrymple's advice, she found she preferred white. Black was too much of a reminder that she was still supposed to be in mourning for her husband.

It was only before dinner, as the maid was doing her hair, that Laura realized she had neglected to buy herself any jewellery with Richard's money. Nor did she have any of her own. All her jewellery was still at her father's place. She would never get any of it back now.

She looked critically at herself in the mirror. She was hardly likely to cause a spectacle like this. It was true that the shoulders of her dress were very low, but this only made her throat seem all the more bare. She was unlikely to raise an eyebrow in a church, let alone an opera hall.

But there was nothing she could do about it now and she hated to keep Richard waiting. She shrugged an indigo shawl around her shoulders and went down to dinner.

It was a silent, slow dinner that night. By the shadows under Richard's eyes, she could tell he was fatigued. She was too preoccupied to provide him with conversation either. She had not been properly out in London since before Maidstone died. She was afraid of it, of the crowds, of the gossip, of the stares.

Over the port and nuts, she tried to back out.

"We don't have to go tonight, if you don't want to," she said. "We can go another time."

He looked up from his port, which he had not yet sipped. "I'm sorry. I'm not much of a conversationalist tonight. But we can go. After all, I haven't really taken you anywhere yet. You must be bored."

"It's the pleasantest boredom I ever had."

He gave her a weak smile and twisted the wine glass in his hand.

"Did you finish your speech?"

He frowned. "What— oh. Yes. I'll fix it up tomorrow." He took his watch out of his pocket. "Five to nine. If you don't mind, I'll go change my cravat."

"Please."

He left his port untouched on the table. Laura, finding the nuts unenticing, abandoned them there too and went next door to the study to wait for him. His low mood oppressed her. She could tell he was falling into one of his silences again. Something was wrong, and he didn't want to let her know what.

The papers he had been writing lay strewn across the desk. She hesitated only a moment and then crossed the floor and glanced down at them.

It was not a speech. It was a letter. A few legible phrases leapt out from her, between lines of scratched-out words:

...I thought from you of all people I could expect some measure of support...

...I am responsible for her welfare, certainly responsible in part for the position she is in — a position not unsimilar to yours, once upon a time...

...Your words give me pause, but I see no way out, no possible answer, that preserves Laura's safety. And I would sacrifice my honour, if any such thing remains...

A step on the stairs warned her in time, and when Richard entered the room she was intently examining the bookshelves.

"Should I start on Cicero next?" she said lightly.

"It's in Latin I'm afraid. I only keep it there to frighten my lawyer into thinking I'm an intellectual."

She laughed, turning to him, and then broke off. "What's that?"

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