“No,” West interrupted. “I’ll take no credit for this. You alone decided to take on the burden of the estate. You made the decisions that led to the lease deal and the discovery of the iron deposits. Has it occurred to you that if any of the previous earls had bothered to make the land improvements they should have, the hematite bed would have been discovered decades ago? You certainly would have found it when you ordered the drainage trenches dug for the tenant farms. You see, Eversby Priory is in good hands: yours. You’ve changed hundreds of lives for the better, including mine. Whatever the word is for a man who’s done all that… it’s not ‘scapegrace.’” West paused. “My God, I can feel sincerity rising in my chest like a digestive disorder. I have to stop. Shall we go to the house for you to change into some field boots? Then we can return here, talk to the surveyors, and have a walk around.”

Pondering the question, Devon dropped the pebble into his pocket, and met his brother’s gaze squarely.

One thought was paramount: None of this mattered without Kathleen. He had to go to her at once, and somehow make her understand that during the past few months, he had changed without even being aware of it. He had become a man who could love her.

God, how madly he loved her.

But he had to find a way of convincing her, which would not be easy.

On the other hand… he wasn’t a man to back down from a challenge.

Not any longer.

He glanced at his brother and spoke in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “I can’t stay,” he said. “I have to go back to London.”

The morning of Devon’s departure, Helen didn’t come downstairs for breakfast, but sent word that she was suffering a migraine and would stay in bed. Unable to remember the last time that Helen had been ill, Kathleen was deeply concerned. After giving Helen a dose of Godfrey’s Cordial to relieve the pain, she applied cool compresses to her forehead and made certain that the bedroom was kept dark and quiet.

At least once an hour, as Helen slept, Kathleen or one of the twins tiptoed to the doorway of her room to look in on her. She didn’t awaken during any of the visits, only twitched like a sleeping cat and drifted through dreams that seemed far from pleasant.

“It’s a good sign that she has no fever, isn’t it?” Pandora asked in the afternoon.

“Yes,” Kathleen replied firmly. “I expect that after the excitement of the past week, she needs rest.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is,” Cassandra said. She had perched on the settee with a brush and rack of hairpins and a fashion periodical in her lap, experimenting with Pandora’s hair. They were attempting to copy one of the latest styles, an elaborate affair that consisted of locks of hair rolled and pinned into puffs atop the head, with a loose double chatelaine braid falling down the back. Unfortunately Pandora’s chocolaty hair was so heavy and slippery that it refused to stay in its pins, the locks sliding free and collapsing the puffs.

“Be stern,” Pandora encouraged. “Use more pomade. My hair will respond only to brute force.”

“We should have bought more at Winterborne’s,” Cassandra said with a sigh. “We’ve already gone through half the —”

“Wait,” Kathleen said, staring at Cassandra. “What did you just say? Not about the pomade, the thing you said about Helen.”

The girl brushed out a lock of Pandora’s hair as she answered. “I don’t think she needs rest because of too much excitement. I think…” She paused. “Kathleen, is it tattling if I say something about someone else that’s private and I know they wouldn’t want it to be repeated?”

“Yes. Unless it’s about Helen and you’re telling it to me. Go on.”

“Yesterday, when Mr. Winterborne came to visit, he and Helen were in the downstairs parlor with the door closed. I was going to fetch a book I’d left on the window ledge, but I heard their voices.” Cassandra paused. “You were with the housekeeper, going over the inventory list, so I didn’t think it was worth bothering you.”

“Yes, yes… and?”

“From what little I could hear, they were quarreling about something. Perhaps I shouldn’t call it quarreling, since Helen didn’t raise her voice, but… she sounded distressed.”

“They were probably discussing the wedding,” Kathleen said, “since that was when Mr. Winterborne told her he wanted to plan it.”

“No, I don’t think that was why they were at odds. I wish I could have heard more.”

“You should have used my drinking glass trick,” Pandora said impatiently. “If I’d been there, I would be able to tell you every word that was said.”

“I went upstairs,” Cassandra continued, “and just as I reached the top, I saw Mr. Winterborne leave. Helen came upstairs a few minutes afterward, and her face was very red, as if she’d been crying.”

“Did she say anything about what happened?” Kathleen asked.

Cassandra shook her head.

Pandora frowned, reaching up to her hair. Gingerly touching the pinned section Cassandra had been working on, she said, “These don’t feel like puffs. They feel like giant caterpillars.”

A swift smile was wrenched from Kathleen’s lips as she regarded the pair. Heaven help her, she loved the two of them. Although she was not wise or old enough to be their mother, she was all they had in the way of maternal guidance.

“I’ll look in on Helen,” she said, standing. She reached for Pandora’s hair and separated one of the caterpillars into two puffs, using a pin from Cassandra to anchor it.

“What are you going to say if she tells you that she had a row with Winterborne?” Cassandra asked.

“I’ll tell her to have more of them,” Kathleen said. “One can’t allow a man to have his way all the time.” She paused reflectively. “Once Lord Berwick told me that when a horse pulls at the reins, one should never pull back. Instead, loosen them. But never more than an inch.”

As Kathleen let herself into Helen’s room, she heard the muffled sounds of weeping. “Dear, what is it?” she asked, moving swiftly to the bedside. “Are you in pain? What can I do?”

Helen shook her head and blotted her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown.

Kathleen went to pour a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand and brought it to her. She propped a pillow beneath Helen’s head, gave her a dry handkerchief, and straightened the covers. “Is the migraine still bad?”