“Not too much,” Charlie warned. “Artemis lives here, you’ll remember.”
“Scared of her, are you?” Toss said.
“Absolutely.” Charlie laughed. “And her Huntresses gear up for battle rather too quickly for my peace of mind.”
“We’ll behave,” Duke said.
“I vow not to make any enemies while I’m here.” Toss even raised his arm as if swearing an oath.
“At least one of us is already too late,” Scott said.
Toss looked intrigued. Fennel looked confused. Duke looked indifferent. But Charlie . . . Charlie looked worried.
Scott held his hands out in a show of innocence. “Miss Phelps, one of the Huntresses, all but glared me into the grave. I don’t know what I did, but I have my suspicions that she hates me.”
Toss clasped a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Lost the good opinion of a lovely lady in fewer than five words? You will fit right in among us.”
For the first time in ages, Scott laughed aloud.
Chapter Five
The Huntresses were finding theyliked Charlie’s friends. Gillian was finding she liked Charlie’sgarden.
Her promise to Mrs. Brownlow likely meant she should have been participating in the socializing, but trees were generally more comfortable companions than people. Perhaps that was why her beloved benefactress was so convinced Gillian would spend her life alone.
She set her gaze on the mountain in the distance, visible above the walls of the garden. The sunlight was soft today, and the air was crisp with the approach of autumn. A light breeze rustled the leaves on the nearby shrubs. The spot was peaceful, and she needed that.
Charlie had reassured her his three Cambridge friends were reliable and trustworthy. She had been able to set aside her worries about them. Those three.
Then Mr. Sarvol had arrived, unannounced, unexplained, and without any previous declarations of his decency. She wanted to believe he wasn’t a bad addition, that she didn’t need to worry. But she couldn’t help it.
Did that make her paranoid or simply cautious? She hoped she at least wasn’t unreasonable, but life hadn’t precisely taught her to be trusting.
Her first London Season had required painstaking caution throughout every interaction she’d had. Mrs. Brownlow had been very careful to avoid any discussion of her father, simply telling anyone who had inquired about Gillian’s situation that she was the daughter of a cousin and was living quite happily at Houghton Manor. Most of thetonassumed Gillian was an orphan living off the charity of a distant relative. It was best that way. Even poor relations weren’t as looked down on as the daughter of a servant would be. If anyone discovered the truth,there would be no hope of a future, no chance of making any sort of match. Even if a gentleman fell in love with her enough to marry her despite her low connections, Society was unforgiving enough that not only would she and her hypothetical husband be subject to utter rejection, but their future children would also be. Generations of punishment.
Knowing how easily the strangers in thetoncould destroy her life, Gillian had learned to be cautious, perhaps overly so. The arrival of an unexpected stranger at this house party brought that out in her.
Gillian pulled her shawl more tightly around herself, though the weather was fine and not overly cold. She was not often assaulted by her memories, but when she was, they left her feeling vulnerable and exposed.
The early weeks of her first London Season had been a nightmare. She’d been awkward, noticeably uncomfortable, constantly terrified that her father’s position would become known. In the end, her own discomfort had brought on her biggest difficulties. She’d become a source of amusement to people, and not in pleasant ways. She was laughed at and ridiculed and made the unwitting target of unkindnesses.
The Littletons’ ball was an important one each Season, and Mrs. Brownlow had secured an invitation for herself and Gillian. Though the prospect had made her nervous, Gillian had donned her finest gown, though it had not been of the highest fashion, and attended with some hope of at least not making a fool of herself.
She’d not been there long when she’d been separated from Mrs. Brownlow. A young gentleman Gillian had encountered before and from whom she’d heard a few unflattering evaluations, had crossed her path, surrounded by a group of his friends. He had looked her over and sneered, making no attempt to hide his disdain.
“Ah. Mrs. Brownlow’s stray cat.” His nostrils had flared, and his lips had twisted a bit. “I hadn’t realized the Littletons had extended their guest list to include strays.”
Mrs. Brownlow was out of sight. No one nearby seemed inclined to come to Gillian’s defense.
“Scamper on home,” the same gentleman said, even adding a shooing motion with his hands.
“I’m not—I’m not a stray.” Her self-defense emerged soft and broken and unconvincing. “I-I-I was invited.”
“Were you?” the gentleman gave her an utterly pitying look. “A charity invite, no doubt.”
Many people snickered. Many more laughed. Whispers would soon spread from where they were. She suspected she would be known from then on in the fashionable set as “the stray” or “the charity invite,” neither of which could be overcome by someone of her low standing.
Without warning, Artemis stepped up beside her and linked their arms. Gillian was too shocked to say a single word. She, of course, knew who Artemis was—everyoneknew who Artemis was.