Page 33 of A Question of Worth

Eliza!

He looked for her. His gaze moved past the masks, past the turning heads, and found her — and did not move on. "Miss Fairleigh has done nothing wrong, either in her actions or her conduct," he said, his voice carrying across the room, "and yet, because of my great-aunt's generosity to her — something she did not ask for nor demand — society has shunned her, sought to ruin her reputation with fiction and gossip. I refuse to be complicit; I refuse to be silent." His words rang around the room, sharp and clear. "I will be glad to have Miss Fairleigh as my acquaintance and will not step back from her. She deserves nothing but your acceptance and, if I may be so bold, fervent apology for the lies that have been spoken about her. Mayhap now, in knowing the truth about Lady Warrington's decision to give that gift to Miss Fairleigh, you might see her plainly, just as she is."

Just as he finished speaking, Eliza took the mask from her face and stood tall. She did not flinch as some turned to see her, her chin lifted and her expression composed. Candlelight kissed her features, revealing a fresh resolve and a renewed confidence that shone in her blue eyes. A hush fell across the crowd as Nathaniel, looking towards her, smiled. The knot of worry and anxiety he had carried into the room untied itself all at once, and he could breathe again. He could practically feel the change in society's mind, could see how she herself had been protected and championed by Lady Warrington's notice of her.

"Ashcombe?"

Nodding to the orchestra that they could now continue, Nathaniel looked to his brother, who, somewhat shamefaced, had his mask gripped in one hand. "James."

"Is...?" James frowned. "Is that true? All of it?"

Nathaniel nodded, putting one hand on his brother's shoulder. "Our great-aunt had a past we did not know of, James. A father who would have left her future desolate, had she not been saved from it by her marriage to Lord Warrington — a marriage arranged by her uncle. I believe that, in seeing Miss Fairleigh in the very same position as she had once been, our great-aunt offered a generous fortune so that she too might be spared from desolation and loneliness. It was protection, brother. And it came from her generous heart."

James closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders heavy. "I spoke unkindly."

"Yes, you did," Nathaniel agreed, without hesitation. "You were willing to listen to the gossip and the whispers that so many others involved themselves in. I say that not to condemn you but to ask you to think of apologizing to the lady."

His brother grimaced. "At this very moment?"

"If you would." Nathaniel held his brother's gaze. He did not press further — but his expression did not leave room for refusal either. "It would allow those present to see that you stand with her now, that you reject all that you once said. I know it would alter the thinking of some, and that is what is important at this juncture." Lifting his hand, he offered a wry smile. "I have had to apologise to the lady also, if it makes your guilt lessen. I too, when we were first connected, sought to keep myself back from her, to make certain society did not see us in conversation."

With a lift of his eyebrows, James studied Nathaniel with careful eyes. "But you have changed completely, have you not? Is it because you realized what our great-aunt had seen in her?"

Nathaniel smiled gently, looking through the crowd and seeing Miss Fairleigh smiling at one young lady who was now speaking to her, noting how Lady Newark, her own mask gone from her face, was pressing a kerchief to her eyes. "Not only that," he said, half to himself and half to his brother, "I realized just how beautiful a character she is. In truth, brother, Miss Fairleigh has become deeply precious to me. It was only when I feared she would be gone from my life that I realized the true depths of my feelings."

His brother's gasp of surprise made Nathaniel grin. "Then — then you intend to pursue her?"

"I intend to make certain she gets her inheritance," Nathaniel stated firmly. "What will come thereafter, I cannot yet say." His heart leapt as Miss Fairleigh's gaze caught his, her smile brightening. "But I can hope."

15

Lord Atherby's townhouse stood on the quiet end of Brook Street, its stone facade darkened with age, its windows tall and narrow. Eliza climbed the steps beside Lord Ashcombe, her gloved hand resting on his offered arm, and felt the weight of the morning pressing down upon her with every step.

The unfinished moment from the masquerade had not left her. She had stepped back from him in the shadows of his ballroom, and neither of them had spoken of it since. Now she found herself holding a careful inch more distance between them than the narrow steps required, her gaze fixing to the door rather than his face. He, too, seemed to feel it. Twice on the walk from the carriage his glance had come to her and then moved away, as though he did not quite trust himself to let it rest.

"You are certain he is expecting us?" she asked, her voice lower than she had intended.

Lord Ashcombe glanced down at her. "I wrote to him yesterday evening, directly following the ball. He responded before breakfast." His fingers shifted beneath her hand — notpulling away but settling more firmly, as if to anchor her. "He wishes to speak with you, Eliza. With both of us."

The use of her Christian name in front of Lady Newark, who walked two paces behind them, should have startled her. It did not. After what had passed between them at the masquerade — his declaration to society, her unmasking, the look that had held between them across the ballroom — formality seemed an affectation neither of them could sustain.

The butler admitted them without delay and led them through a hallway lined with portraits, their gilt frames catching the pale morning light. Eliza studied them as she passed, looking for something of Lady Warrington in these faces but finding only the solemn features of men she did not recognise. The air smelled of old leather and beeswax, the kind of scent that clung to houses where history was not merely recorded butlived in.

They were shown into a study at the rear of the house, its walls panelled in dark oak, its shelves heavy with books that looked as though they had been read and reread many times over. A fire burned in the grate despite the warmth of the morning, its light dancing across the patterned rug. Two wingback chairs had been arranged before the desk, with a third set slightly behind them for Lady Newark.

Lord Atherby rose from behind the desk as they entered. He was older than Eliza had expected — white-haired and slightly stooped, with eyes that were sharp and blue beneath thick brows. His face was heavily lined, each crease etched deep, as though the years had carved their record directly into him.

"Lord Ashcombe." His voice was firm, carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being listened to. He extended his hand. "I received your letter. I confess, I have anticipated this conversation for some time."

Lord Ashcombe shook his hand and then turned to Eliza. "Lord Atherby, may I present Miss Eliza Fairleigh and her aunt, Lady Newark."

Lord Atherby's gaze settled on Eliza and held there. Something moved in his expression — recognition, perhaps, though they had never met. "Miss Fairleigh." He inclined his head. "Please, sit."

She did so, pressing her hands flat in her lap to keep them still. Lord Ashcombe sat beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm near her own. Lady Newark settled into the chair behind them without a word, her silence a gift.

Lord Atherby lowered himself into his own chair with careful deliberation, as if his bones complained of the movement. He studied Eliza for a long moment, his blue eyes moving over her face with an attention that was not unkind but was deeply assessing.

"You look nothing like her," he said, at last.