by Anna Bennett
“Please, join me.” Lily smiled warmly and gestured at the chair beside her, wondering if Serena’s palms were as clammy as her own. She couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so anxious. She’d had plenty of occasions to be nervous before, including visits to her headmistress’s office and her many escapades dressed as a boy, but this … this was different.
This meeting with Serena went to the very heart of who she was—and the person she wanted to be. Her relationship to her birth mother didn’t define her, but the way she chose to deal with it might.
Serena sat next to Lily and gracefully lifted her veil, revealing lines of concern on her pretty face. “It was very kind of you to invite me here today,” she began, “but you must know that it’s not seemly for a proper young lady like you to entertain someone like me—especially in your sister’s home.”
Lily leaned forward and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I am less concerned with what is proper than with what is right—and I happen to know that Fiona and Gray, my brother-in-law, feel the same way. I wanted to thank you for responding to the advertisement I placed in the Hearsay. The duke told me that you refused the reward.”
“Learning that you were safe and well was all the reward I could have hoped for,” Serena said earnestly. “I never meant to insert myself into your life. I thought it would be best for you if you didn’t know me—for obvious reasons.”
“Because you’re the proprietress of a brothel?” Lily saw no need to dance around the issue.
Serena arched a winged brow. “Precisely. I am not ashamed of my establishment—on the contrary. But I understand the rules of polite society. You are a part of that world, and flouting its rules comes with a price.”
“I appreciate your concern for me, and you’re right. There are many who would judge me harshly for meeting with you. But if they do, I don’t much care about their opinion,” Lily said firmly.
Serena smiled, instantly transforming her face from pretty to beautiful. “That is a very sweet sentiment. But consider this. I gave you up twenty-two years ago so that you could have the education, upbringing, and respectability that I couldn’t give you. If you toss it away now, that will all be for naught.”
Lily hesitated, contemplating this. “I feel confident we shall be able to find some middle ground—between blindly adhering to the ton’s strictures and flagrantly defying them.” She cast Serena a wry smile. “You might be surprised to learn that I often skate along the edges of propriety, regularly testing the boundaries.”
Serena’s hazel eyes shone with affection. “Given that my blood runs through your veins, I’m not surprised at all.”
They sat in companionable silence while Lily poured tea. At last, Serena said, “I’m sure you must have many questions. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
Lily took a fortifying breath. “Why the Hartleys?” she asked simply.
Serena sipped her tea, thoughtful. “One day, a month or so before you were born, I was sitting on a bench in the park. I was sixteen years of age, tired and hungry, and my clothes were little more than rags. Mrs. Hartley—not your stepmother, but the original Mrs. Hartley—happened to be walking by with a basket on her arm. She paused as she passed me and asked if she could join me on my bench.”
Just the mention of Lily’s mother made her tears well. “You met her?”
Serena nodded and briefly closed her eyes as though she was remembering it all. “She proceeded to share everything she had in her basket—bread, fruit, cheese, and sandwiches. She ate little herself, actually, merely nibbling as we talked so that I wouldn’t feel shy about filling my own belly. She asked me how I was feeling and whether I had a warm bed to sleep in. I told her I did. I never admitted to her that I was a prostitute, but I think she knew. Before she left, she pressed a few coins into my hand and insisted that I keep the basket and the rest of the food.”
“That sounds just like my mother,” Lily said. “She was beautiful, inside and out.”
“Indeed.” Serena smiled at the memory. “The basket she gave me had her card inside. And it was the same basket I placed you in on the night I left you on their doorstep,” she said hoarsely. “I cried for days afterward. For weeks I barely ate or slept. I held on to your bootie, consoling myself with the fact that Mrs. Hartley would be a far better mother to you than I ever could have been.”
“You were so young,” Lily said, sympathetic.
Serena swallowed. “Yes. And I couldn’t work, which meant I had no money to provide for you.”
“What about my father?” Lily asked.
Serena shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know who he was. It could have been a number of men. I tried very hard to prevent pregnancy, but my methods were far from foolproof. And once you were born, I had no regrets about having you. I knew you were my very own miracle.”
Warmth blossomed in Lily’s chest. “You were very brave. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been in your shoes.”
“I didn’t want anyone to have to go through the same experience I did,” Serena said soberly. “That’s why I decided to run my own establishment. It took several years for me to make it happen, but I started small and gradually built a reputation. My girls have a clean, safe place to live and work. They keep all the money they earn. And if they find themselves in trouble, I help them. They’re never alone.”
“That seems like a very worthy mission to me,” Lily said, smiling.
“I’d like to think so.” Serena took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Composing herself, she asked, “What about you? Have you found your life’s passion yet?”
Lily hesitated for a beat but decided that if there was anyone in the world she could trust to keep her secret, it was Serena. “I have,” she admitted. “I am the authoress of The Debutante’s Revenge. I try to arm other young women with information and engage in meaningful conversations about courtship and love.”
Serena’s eyes shone with something akin to pride and awe. “I am very familiar with your column. My girls and I anxiously await each edition and read it at breakfast every Friday.”
“I’m honored,” Lily said, touched.
“So, you have found a way to make a difference in the world, and that is wonderful,” Serena said. “But what about your own happiness?”
Lily blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You give advice about love.” Serena eyed Lily over the rim of her teacup. “Have you found it?”
“I do love someone,” Lily said, gulping. “But he doesn’t love me the same way.”
Serena reached for a scone. “I presume we are talking about the duke?”
There was no sense denying it. “Yes.”
“That day at Mr. Drake’s office,” Serena said slowly. “I saw the way he looked at you—with tenderness and longing. It certainly looked like love to me.”
“It’s quite complicated,” Lily explained. “His twin sister died tragically several years ago. His other sister—who happens to be a devotee of my column—is currently missing, and he feels the column may be partly to blame. Sadly, he could be right. But the biggest obstacle is that he claims he cannot give his whole heart, and he knows I won’t settle for love in half measures.”
“Nor should you,” Serena said, emphatic. “I don’t claim to know all the particulars, but I will say this. If you’re fortunate enough to find love, fight for it. Use every means at your disposal. Bring all your talents to bear. Find a way to make your duke realize that denying his feelings will do nothing but make both of you miserable.”
Lily considered this, and the seed of an idea took root. “I think you could be right,” she said.
But the first step to breaking down Nash’s walls was figuring out how to bring Delilah home.
Lily mentally scrapped the column she’d been planning to write and deliver that evening. This week’s edition was going to be different from anything she’d written before—and she prayed that it would be enough.
/> Chapter 29
“If a gentleman is truly smitten, you will remain in his thoughts … even when you are apart.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
Four days after saying goodbye to Lily, Nash returned from his country house—without his sister. He’d traveled all day, and it was well after midnight when he stumbled into the dark foyer of his London town house. The staff had long since retired for the night, and the thud of his boot heels on the marble floor echoed into the soaring entryway ceiling. The house felt appropriately empty and cold—as did he.
He strode to the stairs, too weary to shuffle through his mail or even shed his coat.
All he wanted was the oblivion of sleep, a brief respite from the fear and guilt that had been gnawing away at his insides for days.
Because of him, Delilah seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d driven Lily away as well.
He trudged up the stairs, wondering if he’d ever be whole again. If he’d ever breathe easy or smile.
He reached the top landing and started to turn down the corridor to his bedchamber when he saw a soft glow from beneath a door—Delilah’s door.
Heartbeat thundering in his ears, he rushed down the hall and pushed open the door.
There, sitting in her bed, reading by the light of the lamp, was Delilah.
“Nash!” she cried, her face instantly crumpling.
He stood on the threshold, momentarily frozen, trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
She leaped out of bed, threw herself into his arms, and hugged him fiercely.
Thank God. He squeezed her tightly to his chest and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
“You’re home now,” he said, his throat clogged with emotion. “That’s all that matters.”
But it seemed Delilah couldn’t stop the tears from coming. She clutched his jacket as she cried, and he did his best to soothe her. What he’d told her was true—now that she was safe, their little family could overcome anything else fate might throw their way. As long as they stayed together.
Eventually her sobs turned to hiccups, and she peeled her blotchy face away from his waistcoat. “I owe you an explanation,” she said.
He pulled a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. “You are my sister,” he said. “And I will always want to protect you. But the last few days have made me realize something. You are capable of protecting yourself.”
“Oh dear. You heard what I did to Brondale?”
“I saw your handiwork with my own eyes,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Delilah arched a brow. “What have you done with my brother?”
He chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one who’s growing up. But in spite of your note assuring me you were safe, I confess I’ve been beside myself with worry.”
She blotted her face with his handkerchief, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the mattress beside her. When he joined her, she took a deep breath. “I was scared after I hit Brondale. He was moaning, so I knew he wasn’t dead, but I couldn’t stay with him for another minute. So I ran.”
“Where did you go?” he asked. “I looked everywhere I could think of.”
She shot him an apologetic, wobbly smile. “I was staying at an inn just outside of London. I checked in under a false name and took all my meals in my room. It was as though I were paralyzed—incapable of deciding where to go and what to do. I’d risked everything for Brondale, and he made a fool of me.”
“Oh, Delilah.” Nash wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not very good at talking about feelings, and I’m worse at showing them. But we’re family … and I love you, no matter what.”
“I know,” she said with a sniffle. “It may seem like an obvious thing, but I didn’t realize the truth of it—until I read this.” She handed him the folded newspaper on her bedside table and pointed to the column featured in the center of the page.
The Debutante’s Revenge (Special Edition) Dear Debutantes,
The symptoms of romantic love are remarkably similar to the effects of too much champagne: a thrilling headiness, a sense of daring, and a blissful disregard for what is proper. All of which may lead a young woman to engage in behavior that is uncharacteristically bold. And sometimes, that behavior may lead to unforeseen—and undesirable—consequences.
If a young woman should find herself in such circumstances, it’s natural that she might feel some shame or hopelessness—but she shall quickly realize that neither of those emotions is particularly useful. Instead, she would do well to remember one deceptively simple adage: You may always go home.
No matter what deeds you have done, you may always go home.
No matter what scandal you have started, you may always go home.
No matter what your stubborn head may tell you, know and believe it in your heart.
You may always go home.
Go home, literally and figuratively—to the place where you’re surrounded by small comforts and cherished keepsakes. Return to the people who raised you and have always cared about you. Trust that those familial bonds will weather any storm and endure any test.
The ones who love you are waiting with open arms.
And all will be well.
Nash read the column twice before he set it aside and faced his sister. “It’s true, you know. Every word.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Damn, but I was wrong about The Debutante’s Revenge.”
Delilah nodded and looked at him earnestly. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Nash.”
Good God. He braced himself for the worst. “Go on.”
“I’m almost certain that the authoress of the column is Caroline.”
“Yes, she told me.” He chuckled, relieved that was the extent of her news. “There’s something I need to tell you too.”
She swallowed soberly. “Very well.”
“Caroline’s real name is Lily,” he said. “Her family, the Hartleys, are here in Mayfair.”
“Lily,” she repeated, as though testing out the name. “Mr. Stodges told me she’s gone. I miss her.”
“I do too,” Nash confessed. “But maybe there’s something we can do about that.”
Her blue eyes twinkled merrily. “Do you really think so?”
He grinned at her. “As a brother-sister team, I imagine we could be extremely persuasive. Even devious, if necessary.”
“Undoubtedly,” Delilah agreed, rubbing her palms together. “Tell me what you have in mind, dear brother.”
Chapter 30
“The best medicine for a bruised heart is the company of dear friends and a steaming pot of tea.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
“I know the art studio was supposed to be a surprise for your sister,” Sophie said over the rim of her teacup. “But I suspect that we’ll all spend many enjoyable hours in this room working on The Debutante’s Revenge. The space is so lovely and inviting.”
Lily looked around the nearly completed room. She’d worked from dawn to dusk the past couple of days, and the transformation was stunning. A pair of Fiona’s ethereally beautiful paintings adorned the pale blue walls, and a plush gold carpet covered the waxed wood floors. Sheer silk drapes billowed in the soft breeze, while colorful pillows encouraged lounging and lively conversation.
Sophie had added her signature touches to the studio too. Fragrant greenery and wildflowers spilled out of vases she’d placed on the mantel, shelves, and table. Vines trailed over the polished surfaces, softening the room’s edges and bringing it to life.
Lily sighed happily, confident her sister would adore the new studio. “It did turn out well. And the easel will be delivered tomorrow. It shall be the focal point—the piece that unites everything.”
“I’m certain it will be magnificent, just like the rest of your improvements,” Sophie said, thoughtful as always. “I hope you haven’t overexerted yourself
, rushing to ready the room. Forgive me for saying so, but you look rather weary. Almost … sad.”
Blast. Her friend was too insightful by half.
“I’m fine,” Lily fibbed. She’d barely slept since leaving Nash’s house. When she wasn’t worrying about Delilah, she was haunted by a pair of intense amber eyes, brimming with pain and longing. “Perhaps I am a bit tired,” she admitted. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I began working on next week’s column.” She retrieved her journal from the table, sat on the sofa beside her friend, and handed her the paper she’d slipped inside the book’s front cover. “Will you give me your honest opinion?”
Sophie acted as a curator for the letters Lily wrote and the sketches Fiona drew. She had the wonderful ability to sort through both their piles of work and select pieces from each that were perfect complements. She also had a keen sense of which topics the column’s faithful readers wanted to explore each week.
“You can always count on me to be honest.” Sophie eagerly took the paper and began reading aloud.
The Debutante’s Revenge Dear Debutantes,
Love is risky. Governesses, headmistresses, and matrons alike will warn you of its perils. They will advise you to exercise caution and guard your heart. But love does not work that way.
To experience true love, you must give your heart completely. You must disregard every urge to protect yourself and jump into it with utter abandon. For it is only by exposing your deepest, truest self that you can allow someone else to touch your soul.
Love is fraught with danger.
It is almost certain you will be hurt.
Even worse, you will likely hurt another.
Some days you will swear your heart has been ripped out of your chest.
But you must love anyway.
Sophie set the paper on her lap and narrowed her eyes. “Lily,” she said firmly. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”
