She did not expect Eliza.
Of all the possible visitors London might have thrown at her—glowering creditors, oily suitors, indignant matrons—her cousin was the one Mira had foolishly relegated to the box marked “country, safe, elsewhere.”
So when the butler announced, in his most disapproving tone, “Mrs. Eliza Blackwood,” Mira’s first reaction was to assume she had misheard.
“Eliza?” she echoed, rising.
Eliza swept in as if she owned the room.
She always had a talent for that.
Her gown was a fashionable shade of lavender, her pelisse trimmed with fur, her bonnet adorned with just enough feathers to be jaunty without indecent. Her dark hair was tucked neatly away, her cheeks flushed with the healthy color of women who walked briskly in brisk air.
“Mira,” she exclaimed, arms out. “You wicked creature. Is this what you call ‘mourning quietly in Sussex’?”
Mira laughed, the sound bubbling up in surprise and delight.
“Eliza,” she said, moving forward to embrace her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Eliza hugged her fiercely. “Rescuing you, obviously. Or at least…assisting.”
Mira pulled back, blinking. “Assisting with what?”
“With whatever madness you’ve embroiled yourself in,” Eliza said cheerfully. “Do you think the country is deaf? Or that scandal sheets don’t reach sleepy villages?” She tapped the folded Gazette poking from her reticule. “You are *everywhere.* It’s marvelous. Infuriating. I had to come.”
Mrs. Willoughby, who had been napping with a book over her face, stirred. “Who is this delightful person, and why has she not visited before?”
“Eliza,” Mira said, “this is Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Bennett. Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Bennett—my cousin, Eliza Blackwood. She married a man with more patience than sense and has been tolerating him in Derbyshire ever since.”
Eliza laughed. “He tolerates me,” she corrected. “We are mutually tolerant. As all good marriages are.”
Lady Bennett eyed her. “You are not easily cowed, I take it.”
“No,” Eliza said. “Are you?”
Lady Bennett’s mouth curved. “We shall get on.”
Mrs. Willoughby clapped her hands. “At last, another ally. Mira collects dangerous people like trinkets; it’s about time she had a female one who isn’t me or the dragon here.”
Eliza’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, I’ve always been dangerous,” she said. “I simply lacked a stage. Mira has kindly provided one.”
Mira blinked. “You truly came because of…this?” She waved a hand vaguely, encompassing warehouses, Caine, Harcourt, Daniel, and gossip.
“Yes,” Eliza said simply. “Because you did not write. Because I heard strangers discussing you over bread at the inn as if they knew you, and I thought: *No. That is mine.* And because—” Her expression softened. “Because I know you. And if you are stirring this much trouble, it must be for reasons that matter. You would not risk your reputation for mere frivolity.”
“Thank you,” Mira said, throat tight.
Mrs. Willoughby squinted. “You have not yet heard what she has been doing.”
Eliza shrugged. “Does it matter? I know her. Therefore, I assume she is right until proven otherwise.”
Lady Bennett snorted. “A dangerous level of loyalty.”
“Yes,” Eliza said. “I excel at it.”
Mira sank back onto the sofa, still dazed.
“Tell me everything,” Eliza demanded, perching on the edge of a chair. “From the beginning. Not the version you would write to Aunt Lydia. The real one.”
Mira took a breath.
She found, to her surprise, that she could speak of it more easily now.
She told Eliza about the ledgers, the debts, the vanished money. About Pell. About Harcourt. About Caine. About the warehouse door. About Good Friday. About Milton’s tea.
She did not, at first, speak of Daniel.
Eliza, being Eliza, did not let that slide.
“And this Ferris,” she said eventually, head tilted. “You have mentioned him six times. Seven. Your voice changes when you do. Tell me.”
Mira hesitated.
Mrs. Willoughby made an exasperated sound. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. She loves him. He loves her. It’s all very inconvenient and very charming. They have not yet had the decency to do anything I can vicariously enjoy. There. You’re caught up.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Mira stared at Mrs. Willoughby. “You are incorrigible.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It’s why you love me too.”
Eliza turned back to Mira, her expression a mixture of delight and concern.
“When did this happen?” she asked softly.
“Slowly,” Mira said. “And all at once.”
Eliza nodded. “Is he…good to you?”
“Yes,” Mira said. “Infuriatingly so.”
“Does he challenge you?” Eliza pressed.
“Constantly,” Mira said.
“Does he respect you?” Eliza asked.
“Yes,” Mira said without hesitation.
Eliza’s mouth curved. “Then I approve.”
Mira exhaled.
“You will meet him,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “At dinner. I insist. We shall have a small party. Just us, Reggie, perhaps the vicar if he’s in town, to make it seem respectable. And Ferris, to make it…less so.”
Eliza beamed. “I look forward to terrifying him.”
“Oh, he is unflappable,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “He only flaps when Mira is involved.”
Mira buried her face in her hands. “I regret everything.”
Eliza laughed and tugged her hands away. “You regret nothing,” she said. “That is why I came.”
***
Daniel, when informed that Mira’s cousin had arrived and wished to meet him, reacted with appropriate dread.
“She will interrogate me,” he said. “She will ask whether my intentions are honorable. I will have to lie.”
“Are they not?” Mira asked.
He considered. “No,” he said. “I intend to do thoroughly dishonorable things if circumstances ever permit. But I also intend to be kind, respectful, and supportive in between. It is a muddled state.”
She bit back a smile. “Eliza will like you,” she said. “She likes muddled men. My uncle is one. She tamed him.”
“That does not reassure me,” Daniel said.
At dinner, Eliza proved her cousin’s assessment correct.
She was warm, quick, and entirely unwilling to play the demure country relative.
“So,” she said to Daniel over the soup. “You are the one.”
He nearly choked on a spoonful of broth. “The one what?”
“The one Mira has chosen,” Eliza said blithely. “We must all be grateful she did not pick Harcourt. Or Caine. Or that boy who once tried to kiss her at the harvest fair and fell in the duck pond.”
“Edwin Thatch,” Mira said drily. “He tripped over his own arrogance.”
Daniel’s eyes sparkled. “I like these stories. Do continue.”
Eliza leaned in conspiratorially. “Ask her about the time she tried to rescue a kitten from the rectory roof and got stuck.”
“I was twelve,” Mira said. “And the kitten was ungrateful.”
Daniel grinned. “You have always been this way,” he said. “It explains so much.”
Eliza studied him over her cup.
“You care for her,” she said. “Not just in the way men like to talk. Properly.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You will not expect her to become…smaller,” Eliza said. “To fit into some corner of your life. You understand that she *is* your life, if you are to have one together.”
“Eliza,” Mira protested, flustered. “This is not—”
“No, she’s right,” Daniel said quietly. He looked at Eliza. “I learned that slowly. Painfully. Watching what happened to Godwin. He tried to keep her safe by keeping her uninformed. It failed. I will not repeat his mistake.”
Eliza’s gaze softened.
“Good,” she said. “Because if you hurt her, I will ruin you.”
Daniel blinked.
“Eliza,” Mira said weakly.
Reggie choked on his wine.
Mrs. Willoughby clapped, delighted. “Marvelous. I must have you to dinner more often.”
Daniel recovered. “You will have to get in line,” he said to Eliza. “Cobb, Bess, Lady Bennett, Mrs. Willoughby, Caine—though I doubt he’d waste the effort—and, somewhere, my mother, all have claims on my ruin.”
Eliza smiled. “We shall form a society.”
They all laughed.
Beneath the levity, Mira felt something…settle.
Eliza’s approval mattered.
Family’s did.
Not because she needed permission.
But because their acceptance knit this new life more firmly into the fabric of the old.
Later, after dinner, when the men had moved to the smaller parlor for port and talk, Mira and Eliza sat by the fire with Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Bennett, embroidery neglected.
“Well?” Mrs. Willoughby demanded. “Do you find him acceptable?”
Eliza smiled. “He is entirely wrong for her,” she said. “And therefore perfect.”
Mira snorted. “Thank you.”
“He is honest,” Eliza went on. “More than he thinks. He looks at you as if he cannot quite believe his luck. And as if he is terrified to break it.”
“He should be,” Lady Bennett said. “Luck is fragile. You are not.”
Mira felt her chest warm.
Eliza leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder, as she had when they were girls whispering secrets under quilts.
“You will be happy,” she murmured. “In your own, strange, infuriating way.”
“I hope so,” Mira said.
“You will,” Eliza said. “You have decided to be. That is half the battle.”
***
The next morning, a letter from Gilbert arrived, ink blotched at the edges as if he had gripped the pen too hard.
*Mira,*
*Ellison writes of warehouses and inquiries as if they are a matter of course. He says your name is kept clear—for now. I trust that is your doing. I am grateful.*
*He also writes of your continued…activities. I am less grateful. I know you find my concern tedious. I will not press that point. I simply write to say: if you need to leave, at any time, if London becomes too much, Linton is here. I am here. The chickens are unreasonable, but we bear it.*
*Thomas would never forgive me if I let stubbornness kill you.*
*Yours,*
*Gilbert*
Mira smiled, eyes stinging.
“He loves you,” Eliza said, reading over her shoulder. “In his stodgy way.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “I know.”
“Will you go?” Eliza asked quietly. “When this is…done. Whatever ‘done’ looks like.”
Mira thought.
Of Sussex. Of Linton. Of quiet.
Of London’s noise, its danger, its possibilities.
Of Daniel.
“No,” she said. “Not yet. Perhaps not ever.”
Eliza nodded. “Good,” she said. “I have just arrived. It would be tiresome to visit you in the country.”
---