As if drawn by Jacob’s presence, she walked over to Laurence’s dressing table and spied a miniature of their son. It had been painted just before he’d gone off to fight Napoleon. She picked up the portrait with numb fingers. “My baby boy.” Her chest still ached with the sight of his precious face. It hurt her to know that she couldn’t share any news with him, like Marigold’s pregnancy. She knew he would have been a spectacular uncle, for he’d always had a boyish charm that endeared everyone to him.
Mena recalled that devastating moment, when Marigold had still lived at home, and they had received the message telling her that Jacob had been struck through the chest with a French bayonet. He’d died with honor on the battlefield, but Mena hadn’t cared about any of that at the time. She’d been struck with the grief that her child was dead. It had taken months for her to think of Jacob without bursting into tears.
A single tear splashed the frame of the portrait, and Mena set the picture back down and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Then again, there were times she still had difficulty facing the truth. He was gone.
She squared her shoulders. And so was Laurence.
It was time to put the past to rest and move on. That was a chapter of her life that was over. Thus, she made a mental note of what she wanted changed in the master’s chamber before she closed the door on all that pain. While it would never subside completely, Mena vowed to focus on the positive things in her life from now on. She would look to the future.
She was about to become a grandmother, after all.
The next afternoon, Mena’s good friend Phoebe Grant, Viscountess of Snowden, paid her call. They greeted each other with a warm embrace. She had been one of the first people who befriended Mena when she’d moved to London after her marriage. Two years older than Mena, Phoebe had also lost a son at Waterloo. Their loss had carried them through the early months when their grief had been acute. It had also brought them even closer together. There weren’t any confidences they hadn’t shared since then.
Until now, Mena amended silently.
After they were left alone with the teacart and a few treats, Phoebe wasted no time in clapping her hands together. “It’s so good to see you, Mena. You’re looking as well as ever. I swear you haven’t aged a bit in the intervening months Abraham and I have been abroad!”
Mena smiled. Phoebe had always been one to embellish the truth a bit, and she was a fantastic gossip. But her friendship had always been genuine, for nothing Mena told her had ever ended up in the scandal rags London was infamous for. And with her winning smile, bouncy auburn curls, and twinkling blue eyes, it really was hard not to like her on sight. “You’re the true miracle of youth. Where did you hide that fountain?”
Phoebe laughed. “If only I knew you could rest assured it would be transported to Abraham’s estate.”
Mena grinned as she took a sip of her tea.
“I can’t put my finger on it yet.” Phoebe waved her finger in front of her as if she meant to do so literally. “But there is something quite different about you. I daresay the only time I have that glow is when Abraham and I…” She stopped and her mouth fell open. “You’ve met someone!”
Mena slowly lowered her cup. This was the inquisition she had been dreading. “It’s complicated…”
Phoebe went on as if she hadn’t even spoken. “I can’t believe it! I’ve been here for nearly a quarter of an hour and I had to guess for myself! Why didn’t you tell me? Or more importantly…” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Who is he?”
Mena debated on how much to tell Phoebe, but in the end, she decided that if she was looking for advice, the viscountess would be the best person to offer it, for she certainly didn’t wish to speak of Julian with Marigold. At least, not yet. “His name is Julian Solomon. I met him years ago, before I married Laurence.”
Phoebe nearly clapped with glee. “Ooh. A secret romance. I love it. Keep going.”
“Well, not precisely,” Mena corrected. “We were only friends.” She paused. This is where it was going to get tricky. “He recently returned to London about a week ago. I happened to stumble onto him one day while I was out shopping.” Quite literally, she thought, but did not add that bit.
Phoebe huffed. “I doubt it was as innocent a reunion as you choose to believe.”
Mena frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Men are treacherous creatures,” Phoebe said pragmatically. If it wasn’t for the fact she’d been happily married for twenty-five years, Mena might have thought she was speaking somewhat cynically. “They will stop at nothing to get what they want, and I have a feeling he’s returned for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mena waved a hand and then looked down as she took another sip of her tea.
“Am I? Tell me, has anything else transpired during the time of his resurgence?”
Mena hesitated.
It was enough for her friend to pounce like a cat on a helpless mouse. “I suppose it must have something to do with this mysterious suitor.”
Mena felt her eyes widen. “How…?”
“You’ll find that nothing escapes my hearing, even in Italy,” Phoebe returned dryly. “Come, come. Tell me the rest, for you know I will learn the truth one way or another.”
Mena sighed. She was absolutely right. In a city like London, it was hard to keep such a secret. She was almost surprised that more people hadn’t come to her door wanting the full on dit. She explained about the packages, whereas Phoebe nodded now and then.
When she was finished, the viscountess said rather adamantly, “They must be from this Mr. Solomon.”
Mena circled the rim of her teacup with her finger. “I don’t know. I keep thinking it’s something of a lark. Besides,” she shrugged. “I received a package when Julian was here last night and he didn’t seem to know anything about it.”
“Of course he’s not going to show his hand this early in the game, you peagoose!” Her companion rolled her eyes. “He wants to make sure that you are head over heels in love with him first.”
Mena snorted. “Don’t be nonsensical. We are mature women.”
“I am being perfectly logical and you know it.”
“No, I don’t.” Mena set her cup down with a rattle. “All I know is that Julian is in London on business that has nothing to do with me.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” Phoebe pointed out. “Perhaps you are his unfinished business that he has returned to complete.”
“Alright, fine.” Mena held up her hands in surrender. “If you are so convinced that Julian is my secret admirer, then why didn’t he just declare his feelings last night when he had more than enough opportunity to do so?”
“As if a man is thinking past a certain appendage in the bedchamber.”
Mena couldn’t help but redden at her friend’s bold words.
Phoebe leaned back against the settee. “Have you received anything today? By my calculations it is day number eight.”
