To Ian Dalton,

You’re not one to open a letter without checking the sender, so you know well enough this is from William. I’ll skip the pleasantries. I have no interest in your well-being.

After returning from that grand hunting party you hosted, I asked Janet to attend every teatime she was invited to. As a result, I learned that the talk of every London teatime is that you and Miss Lance are already engaged.

Ian Dalton, do you even realize what you’ve done to Miss Lance?

Do you think it’s acceptable to ruin another lady’s reputation to win the affection of the one you love?

I’m deeply disappointed in you over this. I’m seriously considering cutting ties with you. If you don’t resolve this situation, I swear I won’t speak a single word to you until my dying day.

Come to London at once. Either propose to Miss Lance or publicly declare that you used her to win another lady’s heart—do whatever it takes to save her. That’s the only way to prove you have any sense of honor.

Ian Dalton, the person you love isn’t the only one who matters. The immature ladies you so despise are just as much God’s cherished creations.

I hope this opportunity teaches an arrogant, selfish man like you that lesson.

Yours,

Once your friend,

William Fairfax

P.S. I recently received a letter from Miss Hyde. She mentioned that Miss Pendleton—no, Miss Sheldon—has started working as a translator. If she sets her mind to it, she could earn far more than the governess salary you offered. She can now live comfortably on her own. So stop loitering around her. Your sister-in-law says she’s rented a space in a milliner’s warehouse—are you out of your mind?

I pity Miss Pendleton, caught up with someone like you.

As Ian read through the letter, his expression grew deeply serious.

William had never scolded him in such a grave tone before. Since childhood, William, with his generous heart, was the kind of friend who laughed off most things. Yet here he was, threatening to cut ties and reprimanding him.

Had William not added that postscript, Ian might have given more thought to Miss Lance’s feelings and situation, which he’d never paid much attention to before.

But those few lines in the postscript completely erased Miss Lance from his mind.

“Laura has started translating?”

How could Laura, who was enjoying a holiday in Bath, suddenly become a translator? It puzzled him. But since William mentioned Miss Hyde by name, it must be true.

It was good news for Laura. She was intelligent, with exceptional linguistic skills, and she loved books dearly—a profession perfectly suited to her talents.

Laura’s brilliant intellect was one of the reasons he loved her, a precious treasure that endlessly captivated him. The opportunity for her to unlock that talent was a joy not only for her but for Ian as well.

Yet the possibility that she could earn far more than a governess’s salary unsettled him deeply, especially since it wasn’t certain whether she’d ever return to Yorkshire.

“She has no reason to come back now. She’s found work that pays better and is less taxing than teaching Latin verbs to mischievous boys. She… she…”

He dropped the letter and buried his face in his hands.

“She might forget me and go off somewhere.”

He slid down the wall, collapsing as fear swirled around him like dust in a warehouse, soon settling into despair upon his shoulders.

London in autumn lacked the extravagant indulgence of the social season, but it had its own peculiar charm.

The ornate four-horse carriages racing down the streets and the elegantly dressed ladies strolling through Hyde Park had all departed for resort towns. Now was the time for London’s true natives—refined, leisurely middle-class folk who genuinely enjoyed the city for what it was.

Mr. Fairfax loved London during this season. The dreary weather required always carrying an umbrella, but the leaf-strewn streets evoked a poetic melancholy, and the muted hues of British buildings revealed their true dignity amidst autumn’s solitude.

Mr. Fairfax often took walks during this time. Wearing a frock coat with the collar turned up over a sweater knitted by his sister Janet, he found that strolling London’s streets refreshed his mind, usually preoccupied with business.

That day, too, he was walking the streets of London, his coat collar up and a black umbrella in hand. But he couldn’t enjoy the usual pleasure of his walks.

He was returning from the post office, hoping for a letter from his friend Ian Dalton.

No letter had arrived. It had been a week since he sent the one threatening to cut ties.

“That scoundrel. He’s single-handedly ruining a man’s honor. A rogue who knows nothing of dignity.”

He cursed his friend inwardly. Since they were tied by family at eight years old, he’d endured Ian’s sharp tongue and insufferable arrogance. But Mr. Fairfax, ever optimistic by nature, had always found Ian amusing and tolerated him generously.

Not anymore. He was thoroughly angry with Ian Dalton.

He passed Regent’s Park and entered a nearby upscale residential area, one of the affluent districts where nobles and gentry who stayed in London resided.

Soon, a lavish mansion built of marble came into view. A plaque bearing the Lance family name hung on the gate. He stood before it.

“Will I be turned away again today?”

He gazed at the gate with a heavy heart.

A month ago, after an unfortunate incident in Whitefield, Mr. Fairfax had accompanied Miss Lance on a night train to London, escorting her back. No words passed between them, but he could sense how heartbroken she was.

His heart ached. Why hadn’t he noticed sooner? If he’d paid just a little more attention, he could have seen where her heart was leading.

For a woman, twenty was often considered the prime age for marriage, yet it was still a tender and innocent time. She had overheard the man she loved express his desire for another woman, in the presence of others no less. Mr. Fairfax couldn’t even fathom the depth of the wound she must have suffered.

And the recent rumors were more than enough to fester that wound.

The rumor of Miss Lance’s engagement to Ian Dalton had been the talk of the social season. But after the hunting party in Whitefield, the rumors took a different turn—people began saying Miss Lance had been abandoned by her fiancé.

Unfortunately, Miss Lance hadn’t shown restraint in an environment full of watchful eyes. Throughout the hunting party, she followed Ian Dalton, acting coyly toward him and growing anxious when he was out of sight.

In contrast, Ian Dalton’s response had been nothing but cold. It was no surprise the rumors had shifted.

Moreover, Ian Dalton openly introducing Miss Pendleton as a member of his family in front of London’s nobility didn’t help.

People began whispering that Miss Lance had lost her fiancé to Miss Pendleton. It was a rumor far more damaging to her than a broken engagement itself.

In the marriage market, Miss Pendleton’s worth was so low that she had to feign delight at the advances of elderly gentlemen. It was lamentable, but in a market where wealth and lineage were the only scales of value, Miss Pendleton was utterly insignificant.

And yet, Miss Lance had lost her fiancé to such a woman. Gentlemen and matchmakers were convinced there must be some flaw in Miss Lance, while ladies reveled in the fall of a beautiful rival.

In the aristocratic social sphere, the only “employment market” for noble ladies, Miss Lance’s value had plummeted to rock bottom.

Mr. Fairfax had been so worried about Miss Lance lately that he could hardly focus on work. He feared that her sensitive nature might lead her to make a drastic choice.

He wanted to believe she wasn’t that reckless, but it wasn’t uncommon for ladies entangled in unpleasant rumors to give up on life.

He urged Janet to visit Miss Lance often. Janet, who still idolized Miss Lance, eagerly went to the Lance household. But the Lance family had ceased hosting teatimes and refused visitors.

Janet, after several fruitless visits, took offense and began spending time with other friends instead. Even when Mr. Fairfax urged her to try visiting the Lance household again, she brushed him off, heading to Harrods for shopping or to the opera with friends.

In the end, Mr. Fairfax decided to visit the Lance household himself.

He wasn’t sure if he could offer her any comfort, but he wanted to tell her: Miss Lance, you are still a radiant star, and my heart still holds you as a dear friend.

Mr. Fairfax passed through the gate and knocked on the door. A middle-aged maid appeared. He informed her he was there to see Miss Lance.

He held little hope. This was his third visit. Each time, the maid had said they weren’t receiving visitors, and he’d left his calling card behind.

But today was different.

“Come in, sir,” the maid said, ushering him inside.

Surprised, he asked, “Has the lady of the house resumed social engagements?”

“They still aren’t receiving visitors. However, Miss Dora saw your calling card, Mr. William Fairfax, and instructed that you be shown to the drawing room next time you came.”

Mr. Fairfax was led to the drawing room. He sat on a sofa, waiting for Miss Lance. Soon, Miss Lance entered, wearing a simple dress intricately embroidered with lavender.

Surprisingly, there was no trace of despair on Miss Lance’s face. She was slightly thinner, but neither pale nor shadowed under the eyes.

“Welcome, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, offering a faint smile and extending the back of her hand as usual.

Mr. Fairfax kissed her hand. “A pleasure, Miss Lance.”

“Likewise. I’m sorry for making you call three times in vain. My mother can’t bear to look at calling cards, so the maid, Jenny, always burns them.”

“Why the calling cards?”

Miss Lance sat across from Mr. Fairfax and said, “Lately, elderly gentlemen have been coming to our house with gifts. My mother enjoys the company of wealthy gentlemen, but when she realized they were after me, she stopped all social engagements entirely.”

Mr. Fairfax furrowed his brow. It seemed that older men seeking remarriage had sniffed out Miss Lance’s fallen reputation and were flocking to court her.