Susan Trenchard lay in bed listening to the church bells of All Saints, Isleworth. Every now and then she could hear the noises of the river: watermen calling to each other, the splash of an oar. She looked around the room. It was decorated like a bedchamber in a great house rather than a lodging, with heavy brocade curtains, a classical chimneypiece, and a fine four-poster which she found so comfortable. Another woman might have been alarmed to discover that John Bellasis kept a small house in Isleworth with a single room for eating, a large and luxuriously appointed bedroom, and more or less nothing else beyond a service area and presumably a room for the near-silent man who ministered to them. Again, the fact that the servant had asked no questions when they arrived but simply produced a delicious luncheon before ushering them into a bedroom where the curtains had been drawn and the fire lit might have implied that he knew the form for this type of encounter a little too thoroughly for comfort. But Susan was too content, too satisfied—indeed, more satisfied than she had been in years—to pick holes in her present happiness. She stretched.

“You should probably get dressed.” John stood at the foot of the bed, buttoning his trousers. “I’m dining in town, and you should be back in time to change.”

“Do we have to?”

Susan propped herself up in the bed. Her auburn hair snaked in curls over her smooth white shoulders. She bit her plump bottom lip as she looked up at John. In this mood, she really was quite irresistible, and she knew it. John walked over and sat down next to her, running his index finger down the side of her neck, tracing the curve of her collarbone, while Susan closed her eyes. He cupped her chin and kissed her.

What an extraordinary proposition Susan Trenchard had turned out to be. Their meeting at his aunt’s soirée had been quite fortuitous and entirely unplanned, but she was his best discovery this Season. He really believed she would keep him entertained for weeks.

He had Susan’s maid, Speer, to thank for the ease of their adventure. For a wiry, miserable-looking woman she was prepared to be remarkably complicit in her mistress’s seduction. Not that Susan had really needed much encouragement, especially when faced with someone as proficient in the bedroom arts as John. He’d always had a sharp eye for a woman who was likely to stray. Her boredom and lack of affection for her husband had been obvious to him as soon as he’d approached her that evening at Brockenhurst House. All he’d had to do was flatter her a little, tell her how pretty she was, frown with interest at her opinions, and slowly but surely he knew he would be able to prise her away from the weak-looking Oliver Trenchard. In the end, women really were very simple creatures, he thought now, looking into her pale blue eyes. They might tremble with indecision, affect shock and dismay at the very idea, but he knew these for the stages they felt obliged to go through. From the moment she’d laughed at his jokes, he knew he could have her whenever he wanted.

He’d followed up that first encounter in Belgrave Square with a letter. For discretion’s sake, he had sent it by post, for the price of a new Penny Red stamp. In it he declared, in the most florid and romantic of terms, how much he had enjoyed their conversation and how rare a beauty he thought she was. It was impossible to get her out of his head, he’d enthused, smiling as he imagined her reading his words.

He’d suggested they meet for tea at Morley’s Hotel in Trafalgar Square. It was a well-frequented establishment, but not usually by anyone with whom John was closely acquainted. The invitation had been something of a test. If Susan was the sort of woman who could manufacture an excuse to travel across London and meet him in the middle of the day, then she was a woman who was free with the truth, capable of duplicity, and therefore worth pursuing. He barely managed to contain his feelings of triumph as she walked through the glass revolving door of the hotel, accompanied by Speer.

Of course it must be said that in most of this John was entirely mistaken. He thought so much of his powers of seduction that it never occurred to him that Susan Trenchard had no need to be seduced. The truth was that when she learned of John’s dazzling prospects, coupled with the very real attraction she’d felt for him at their first meeting, Susan had decided that she would be first John’s mistress and then, if things went well, she would decide how far things might progress. He should have known that the mere fact she’d brought her maid into the secret—as she must have done by getting her to accompany her to the hotel—meant that she was an active, and not a passive, participant in the plan. Susan knew well enough that no one would question a wife leaving the house with her maid. There were plenty of legitimate reasons for her to be traveling around London or elsewhere shopping, lunching, visiting, as long as she was accompanied by a maid. Bringing Speer into her confidence had ensured the success of Susan’s scheme. She would certainly allow John to give himself the credit for turning her head and luring her into sin—all men like to feel they are leading the dance—but the truth was that if Susan had not made the decision to go astray, it would not be happening.

On the day in question, she told Oliver she was meeting an old school-friend up from the country and taking in an exhibition at the National Gallery. Oliver had not even bothered to ask the name of the woman she was meeting. He just seemed to be glad that she was keeping herself busy.

Speer very tactfully disappeared as soon as they entered the foyer of the hotel, leaving her mistress to approach John on her own. He was sitting in a corner, next to the grand piano, with a flourishing potted palm just behind him. He was more attractive than she remembered, much more attractive than her wretched husband. As she wove her way through the chairs and tables, she found, to her surprise, that now the moment had actually arrived, she felt a little nervous. It wasn’t the prospect of an affair. She had known for a year or two that she would fall into one sooner or later, so unsatisfactory had the occasional fumblings with Oliver become. And she was barren—something that had caused her a good deal of heartbreak in the past but which had its uses now. She allowed herself a smile. Her nervousness must be all that remained of her girlish modesty, a fragment that had somehow survived her hardening into the woman she’d become. She kept her head down to avoid eye contact with the groups of ladies who were sitting together, drinking tea. Morley’s was not the sort of hotel that any of her close circle would frequent, John had been right in that at least, but one could never be too careful. The capital was a small place, and a reputation could be ruined in one afternoon.

She sat down swiftly with her back to the room and gave John a look. Well versed in these matters, or so he thought, John took it on himself to put her at ease, which she allowed. Susan knew well enough that he would need the thrill of conquering a virtuous woman for him to enjoy the experience fully, and the fact was she wanted him to enjoy himself very much indeed. Her blushing modesty played its part, and sure enough, it was not long before he started to suggest that they might meet again, but this time in slightly different circumstances.

The truth was, Oliver Trenchard was not enough of a husband for Susan. For the first five years of their marriage they had tried, unsuccessfully, to conceive, but after that Oliver had all but left her alone. She did not entirely blame him. Once it became clear there would be no child, they did not like each other enough for the thought of their coupling to be enticing to either of them. It was not something they discussed, unless it was a casual insult during an argument, or they might save it for a particularly tight-lipped conversation in her dressing room after dinner, most especially if Oliver had been drinking too much.

But what she had come to realize was that, as a childless wife, she had lost her hold on her husband, and she would never achieve much control over her parents-in-law. From this it followed that, if she wasn’t careful, she might end up with nothing. Even her father had lost interest in her. She might have blamed her own extravagance for this, at least in part, but instead she chose to put it down to his disappointment at her inability to be a mother. He would have no descendants, and she wasn’t sure he could forgive her for that, while the Trenchards would no doubt have been glad if some disease had carried her off, allowing Oliver to find another wife who would fill the nurseries in Eaton Square. It was perhaps the realization of this bitter truth that inclined Susan to believe it was time to forge her own path if she was ever to know any fulfilment at all. Naturally, this journey took time—to travel from optimism through disillusionment to a determination to find her own life—and it was just as these ideas had fully formed that she met John Bellasis.

So when, that afternoon, John suggested a trip to Isleworth where he kept “some rooms that allow me to escape the hurly-burly of London,” Susan had made a poor pretense at hesitation. All she had to do was fashion an excuse to visit Isleworth for the day. She’d decided not to lie about her destination, as she might be seen by someone and there was no need to risk being caught out. In the end, she decided to say she was thinking of purchasing an orchard and she wanted to look at what was on offer. Many of the great London houses had orchards there, to supply them with fresh fruit through the late summer and autumn, and while Oliver grumbled that it would be he who would be doing the buying, he had raised no objections. To complete her image of innocence, she would travel with Speer and arrange where the maid would wait until Susan was ready to leave.

And that was exactly what they had done. The Bridge Inn, a little way along the river from John’s lodgings, would be where Speer would wait from three o’clock onward. Once that was settled, she strolled away, leaving the assistant coachman in total ignorance. Even the servants had been told about the garden purchase, as it would give Susan the excuse for many such visits in the future.

“I was thinking I might give my horse a rest and come back with you.” John stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” she replied with a sleepy stretch. “If only we could.”

“Can’t we?” He was rather surprised.

She gave him a languid smile, promising more to come in better times. “I’m traveling with my maid in my husband’s carriage.”

John could not understand the problem at first. Why couldn’t they put the maid up on the box with the coachman and ride happily back to town? He didn’t much care if he was seen with a pretty married woman in her husband’s carriage. But, when he thought about it, even he could see it would matter a great deal for Susan to be recognized, and her face made it clear this was not going to happen. For a second, he almost glimpsed that she was as strong as he was, and quite as much in control of events, but then the vision was gone, and all he saw was a laughing woman lying back on the pillows with her eyes half shut, madly in love with him. This he felt comfortable with, and did not push the point further.

With a sigh, implying as she meant it to that her most fervent wish would be for them to stay together for always, she got out of bed and slipped on her chemise. She walked barefoot to the window, dragging her feet across the luxurious Turkish carpet, and picked up her corset.

“Speer is waiting for me at the Bridge Inn.” She pursed her lips coyly. “So I need some help with this.”

John raised his eyebrows and made a show of sighing, too. She laughed and he joined her, although in truth he did find the complexities of women’s fashions terribly tiresome. “Do I have to lace it?”

“No. That’s only for comedies in the theater. The laces are tied, but the hooks down the front can be stubborn.” It took him over five minutes to fasten the beastly hooks, only for her to ask for help doing up the fiddly little buttons all the way down the back of her dress. It was getting increasingly hot in the room, and his fingers were sweating as he fumbled at the yellow silk.

“Next time,” he suggested smoothly, “it might be an idea if you were to wear something a little less… complicated.”

“I can hardly walk the streets in a dressing gown. Even for you. And you didn’t make such a fuss when you were helping me to undress.” Once again, he had a sneaking suspicion that she was mocking him; somehow he was doing her bidding and not, as he had thought, the other way around. But again he dismissed it.

“Shall we meet in London next time?” suggested John as he checked his pocket watch. “Or at least somewhere a little closer?”

Susan nodded. “What a difference these new railways will make.”

“In what way?”

She smiled. “I only meant we could meet in a faraway place and be back in time for tea. They say it won’t take much more than an hour or two to get to Brighton, and only five or six hours to travel to York. The prospect of it makes me feel quite breathless.”

He wasn’t so sure. “I don’t see why everything has to keep changing. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”

“Well, I wouldn’t change anything about the afternoon we’ve just enjoyed.” She pumped up his vanity just as he liked it pumped up. Which of course she knew. “And now I really must be gone.” She kissed him once more, letting her tongue touch his lips before she drew back, a promise for the next time. “Don’t make me wait too long,” she whispered into his ear, and before he could respond she was through the door and on her way down to the hall, where the silent servant waited to see her out. It was clearly a routine that held no surprises for him.

Susan’s only challenge was to get from John’s rooms to the Bridge Inn. After that, she would have her maid and her carriage and she’d be as sedate and proper as any matron in the town. She wore a thicker veil than usual, so nobody who glimpsed her could be quite sure, but her nerve held and she walked calmly back to the hotel and safety. Speer was waiting demurely, with an empty teacup in front of her. She stood as Susan approached. “I’ve been for a walk, ma’am.”

“I’m glad. I should hate to think of you cramped up in a public house all afternoon.”

“I went to see an agent, and he has given me some descriptions of garden properties that are for sale.” She produced the selling sheets for three or four orchards and kitchen garden properties. “I thought they might come in useful.”

Susan said nothing as she took the papers, folded them carefully, and put them into her reticule. Her alibi was rock solid.

Is there such a thing as a losing streak? Stephen Bellasis wondered idly as he saw his counters being swept away again by the dealer. Everyone talks of a winning streak, a lucky streak, but what of an unlucky streak? Because if it were a streak, then it must come to an end, but his losing never seemed to end. He had already lost a good deal that afternoon. A small fortune, in fact. As his son was entertaining himself in Isleworth, Stephen was already a thousand pounds down at Jessop’s Club, just off Kinnerton Street.

Jessop’s was not one of those clubs ambitious men aspired to join; it was one of those places wastrels ended up. Fetid, filthy, and strung out over four floors, the club was composed of a series of dingy rooms in which disparate gamblers were served low-grade alcohol while they frittered away any money they had left, or any money they had managed to beg, borrow, or steal from others. This was another side of Belgravia.

A few years before, Stephen had been a member of Crockford’s in St. James’s, where the great and the good would go for a little supper and a lot of fun. But William Crockford was a wily man who’d studied the histories and the members of the country’s great families, and he knew how much they were worth. He knew to whom he should extend a long line of credit and to whom he should not. Needless to say, the Honorable and Reverend Stephen Bellasis did not last long at Crockford’s. Somehow he convinced himself that one had no need for a fancy French chef and smart company to accompany one’s gaming and began to inhabit less lofty establishments. He grew increasingly fond of the Victoria Sporting Club on Wellington Street, where the members talked not about gambling but “gaming,” and he placed bets for runners at Ascot or Epsom. Unfortunately, he seemed to be as lucky with horses as he was with cards.

But how he loved that feeling of victory! It would not take much, just a whiff of a win, a few pounds on a winner, and he’d be off again. Sometimes to enjoy the sedate charms of the Argyll Rooms, where he’d celebrate in his own inimitable style—with a bottle of port and the chance of a fumble under the skirts of a pretty dancer. At other times, he would be more daring, drifting east to the Rookery around Seven Dials, where even the police would not go if it could possibly be avoided. Like a man risking his life on a whim, he would drink in the bars he found there, chatting with thieves and prostitutes, occasionally letting the night take a frightening turn, wondering whether the morning would find him dead in the gutter with a knife in his side, or back in his own bed, next to the wife who gave him no pleasure.

Today, however, victory was nowhere to be seen. He was not untalented at whist, if there was a game he could play to some effect, and he often made back some of his losses, he thought, as he sat shuffling the cards. But somehow, on this afternoon, nothing was working. Lady Luck had most definitely deserted him, and he was beginning to regret being quite so cavalier with his money.

In fact, Stephen was not only regretful, he was terrified. A thousand pounds was a large sum of money, and he had no way of paying, unless somehow he could make it back. As he continued to lose, the poorly lit room became increasingly claustrophobic. The temperature in the dark-paneled basement was stifling, and he tugged at the collar that encased his clammy neck. He never wore his clergyman’s bands to play, but the thick neckerchief he had replaced them with seemed to choke him in its folds. The gin he’d swallowed was not helping either, nor the constant fumes from Count Sikorsky’s pipe. Stephen felt he could barely breathe.

There were three other players seated around the sticky card table, two of them acquaintances of Stephen’s. There was Oleg Sikorsky, the aging Russian aristocrat with a crumbling estate in the Crimea he could no longer afford to visit. Sikorsky talked endlessly about the good old days in St. Petersburg, sipping champagne on the Fontanka, while he slowly worked his way through his grandmother’s fortune, a venerable lady who, if he was to be believed, had once had the ear of Tsar Alexander I. Next to him was Captain Black, an officer in the Grenadier Guards and a friend of John’s. He was new to the table, having picked up the gambling bug from his men. He had an agile mind and was good at remembering tricks, but he was also prone to rash moves and flamboyant gestures that rarely resulted in a large win, though he was doing well enough this afternoon, God knew. The fourth player was a Mr. Schmitt, a bear of a man whose skull had apparently been damaged by a hammer during a fight at some point in his misspent youth. Oddly, he’d survived the attack, the evidence of which was a frightening indentation in his forehead. Schmitt had gone on to found a successful moneylending business, which was why he was here. For not only did he enjoy gambling, he also facilitated the habits of others. And today he’d been very generous to Stephen. In short, his generosity meant that Stephen now owed Schmitt one thousand pounds.

“I think I might fold now,” declared Oleg, puffing on his unsavory pipe. “I need to rest. I’m going to the theater this evening.”

“You can’t fold!” protested Stephen, his heart starting to race as he reached for the last of his gin. “You’re my partner! We’re about to have a winning streak!”

“Winning streak?” Schmitt snorted. He placed his heavy forearms on the table and stared at Stephen. “You mean like the Spanish Armada?”

“I am sorry, Bellasis”—Count Sikorsky rubbed his bespectacled face—“but I have no choice. I’m out of funds and I already owe Mr. Schmitt from last week.”

“Two hundred guineas,” said Schmitt. “Plus the three hundred for today. When will you pay?”

“We mustn’t bore the others,” said the Count, clearly reluctant to share details of the state he was in.

“When will you pay?” said Schmitt.

“Friday. And now I really must go.” Oleg nodded.

“Well, if you’re off, Oleg,” said Black, “I may as well make tracks myself. It is not often a chap finds himself seven hundred pounds up on the day.” He laughed, and scraping his wooden chair across the stone floor he rose rather unsteadily to his feet. They had been sitting around the table for the past three hours, and it took a while before the blood started to circulate through his limbs. “I am not sure I’ve ever had quite such a success before.” He gathered up his money, pushing the pile of large notes into a bundle. “Bad luck,” he said, patting Stephen on the back. “See you next week?”

“No!” said Stephen loudly. There was a trace of panic in his voice, which they could all hear. As if to save a situation that was already lost, Stephen let out a bold laugh. “Please, no!” He put his hand in the air, waving it jocularly, trying to take control. “Come on, can’t we play one more round? Surely? It’ll only take twenty minutes. Oleg, you can go straight to the theater from here. Black, you can’t just leave the table, you have to give a chap a chance to win back some of his money!” He looked from one man to the next, his small dark eyes pleading. “Just one more round. It’s not much to ask…”

Stephen’s voice trailed off. He was aware of how pathetic he sounded but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to do something. They were getting up now, leaving the table, leaving him here in the dark basement with Schmitt. And there was no telling what the man might do. Stephen had owed him money in the past, but it had never been as large a sum as this, and he’d always managed to pay Schmitt back.

He remained seated as Captain Black and Count Sikorsky ascended the staircase, their feet on the wooden steps sounding unnaturally loud in the echoing space. The wax from the cheap brass candelabra slowly dripped onto the table in front of him.

“So, your lordship,” said Schmitt sarcastically, getting out of his chair and stretching his large frame.

“Yes?” Stephen shook his head defiantly. He was not going to be intimidated by this frightful man. He had connections, he reminded himself, friends in high places.

“There remains the question of one thousand pounds.”

Stephen winced, waiting for the man to crack his knuckles or hammer his fist down on the table. But Schmitt did neither. Instead, he paced the stone floor, his hobnailed boots clicking as he went.

“We are both gentlemen,” began Schmitt. Stephen resisted the temptation to point out that perhaps Schmitt, as a moneylender with a dented head, was not. “I am also a pleasant fellow, and I’m prepared to be reasonable.”

“Thank you.” Stephen’s reply was barely audible.

“So you have two days to get the money. Two days to deliver it to me.” He paused, and with a sudden gesture smashed the empty gin bottle on the table right in front of Stephen, shattering the glass. Stephen leaped out of his seat. “Two days,” Schmitt hissed, his odd-shaped skull bearing down on Stephen, the broken bottle still in his hand. “Two days,” he repeated, bringing the jagged glass edge closer and closer to Stephen’s neck.

Stephen ran out of there as quickly as a small, fat man full of gin possibly could, and he kept on running until he reached the corner of Sloane Street. It was only then, while he stood, panting and huffing, leaning against a wall for support, that he realized something else was wrong. Two ladies taking a late-afternoon stroll avoided him. A man drew near and then quickly crossed the road. He ran his fingertips over his face. It felt wet. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his skin. It came away covered in blood. A nearby shopwindow told him that there were cuts all over his face, from tiny splinters of shattered glass.

The next day things looked a little better. Or at least Stephen’s face did, as he checked himself in the glass. It was only a few small cuts, he told himself, nothing too bad, nothing too remarkable—which was fortunate, as he was about to go, cap in hand again, to his brother. The last thing he needed was to look remotely disordered.

Downstairs in the bleak dining room of their Harley Street home, the atmosphere between Stephen and Grace was frosty. Neither of them really enjoyed living there. The house had been a wedding present from Grace’s mother, but, like most things associated with Grace, it was now a little faded and shabby around the edges. With so many developments and so much building in the capital, it sometimes seemed to him that one day Harley Street would be left behind. And the house itself was narrow, dark, and always cold. No matter the weather outside, there was still a chill in the air; whether this was to do with Grace’s parsimony when it came to lighting fires or whether it was the lack of staff to keep those fires lit, the net result was the same. Guests had a tendency to shiver as they crossed the threshold. Not that they entertained much. Grace occasionally had some ladies up from the parish, or from one of her charitable committees, but usually Stephen dined out and Grace ate alone.

They survived with a skeleton staff: a cook and a kitchen maid, a butler who doubled as valet, a head housemaid who dressed Grace, and two other maids who seemed to leave with numbing regularity. Grace told herself this was because of the low wages they offered, but she’d come to suspect that Stephen might be behind several of the hurried departures. The truth was, they couldn’t really afford a London life, and if they’d had any sense they would have sold the house years ago and been content in Hampshire, saving the money they had to spend on their curates. But then they had no sense. Or Stephen had no sense, thought Grace wryly; no sense, no ambition, and, heaven knew, no intention of performing his parish duties, light as they were. She ate her unappetizing breakfast. Grace always prided herself on not having breakfast in bed like the other married ladies she knew, but today she rather regretted it. At least her bedroom was warm. She picked up the envelope on the table.

She did not raise her eyes from her daughter’s letter when her husband arrived downstairs. She knew he’d been out gambling the day before and that he’d probably lost. She could tell by the way he sighed when he sat down. If he’d won, he would have clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together as he walked into the room. There would have been a spring in his step. Instead, he could barely be bothered to eat. He lifted the lid of the chafing dish and stared down at the dried-out scrambled eggs.

“Emma is well,” said Grace, eventually, lifting her eyes to his face and stiffening with shock. “Good God, what happened to you?”

“Nothing, nothing. A window broke when I was standing near it. How are the children?” He helped himself to a sliver of lukewarm bacon.

“She says Freddie has a cough.”

“Good, good.” He slumped into his chair.

“Why is it good?” Grace looked down the length of the dark table. “Why is it good if the boy is not well?”

Stephen looked at her for a moment. “I was thinking I might visit my brother today.”

“Does this have something to do with how you spent yesterday afternoon?” Grace said, rising from her chair.

“It wasn’t one of my best.” He spoke without lifting his eyes, as if he were voicing some inner thought without reference to his wife.

To Grace, this did not bode well. As a rule Stephen never admitted to defeat or failure of any kind. In fact, he would seldom admit to gambling. “Exactly how bad was it?” she asked, thinking there wasn’t much left in her depleted jewelry box that they could sell. Thank heaven she’d already paid John’s rent on his rooms in Albany, though why he wouldn’t live with them in Harley Street she simply could not understand.

“Nothing to worry about.” Stephen had regained control of himself, and now he smiled blandly at his wife. “I’ll sort it all out this afternoon.”

“Sort out your face first.”

When Stephen arrived at the house in Belgrave Square he paused before making his presence known. Standing on the wide paved street, staring up the steps at the shiny black door flanked by white Doric columns, he shook his head at the iniquity of it all, singing the same refrain as always in his head. Why, by some fault of birth, did Peregrine get to live in such splendid surroundings, while he had to contend with his own cramped and grubby house? No wonder he gambled, Stephen thought. Who wouldn’t gamble when life had dealt them such a bitter blow? Was it any wonder he sought comfort in the embrace of women with loose morals? Was it his fault if he was addicted to the thrill and danger of the game?

Stephen knocked on the door. It was answered by a young liveried footman who ushered him into the library to wait for his brother.

“What an unexpected pleasure!” declared Peregrine, walking in some five unhurried minutes later. “I was just about to head out to White’s.”

“Then I’m glad to have caught you,” said Stephen. He was not quite sure how to open the conversation, even though he knew only too well that his brother already expected what was coming.

“Whatever’s happened to your face?” Peregrine stared at the spattering of small scabs across Stephen’s cheeks.

“I had a bad experience at the barber’s,” replied Stephen. It seemed better than the broken window, but they both knew it was untrue.

“Remind me never to use the fellow.” Peregrine chortled, sitting down at his desk. “So, to what do I owe this honor?”

They both knew he was teasing. Stephen only ever wanted money from him, but Peregrine needed to hear his brother say it out loud. If he was going to give him anything, he demanded that the maximum humiliation should precede it.

“It seems I’m in a spot of bother,” began Stephen, bowing his head. He hoped if he displayed remorse, or made a show of genuflection a little in front of his brother, Peregrine might be more generous.

“How much bother?”

“One thousand pounds’ worth of bother.”

‘A thousand pounds?’ Peregrine was genuinely shocked. Everyone enjoyed a flutter now and again. His old friend the Duke of Wellington was easily capable of dropping more than a thousand in one night playing whist at Crockford’s, but he could afford to do so. Really, Stephen had lost a thousand pounds? He raised his eyebrows. He had not been expecting such an enormous sum. Quite apart from the fact that he had already given his brother almost as much quite recently, after luncheon at Lymington.

“I wouldn’t normally ask…”

“Yes, but the thing is you do normally ask,” interrupted Peregrine. “In fact you ask continually. I cannot remember when you last came to my house without asking for money.” He paused. “No.”

“No?” Stephen was confused.

“No. I won’t give it to you. Is that clear enough?” Was Stephen hearing correctly? “Not this time.”

“What?” Stephen was incredulous. The feigned humility drained out of his face to be replaced by simple fury. “But you have to! You have to! I’m your brother, and I need it! I must have it!”

“You should have thought of that before you gambled it away. You played with money you did not have, and this is the result.”

“I didn’t gamble it away! That wasn’t what happened at all!” Stephen’s plump hands were clenched into fists. This was not the outcome he had imagined. His brain was whirring. If he hadn’t gambled, what was his excuse? What could he say had happened to the money?

“We both know that is a lie.” Peregrine felt quite calm. His brother was intolerable, devoid of the slightest trace of responsibility, a disgrace to his blood. Why should he keep financing the wastage of his life?

“How dare you accuse me of lying?” Stephen puffed himself up. “I am a man of the cloth!”

“I say you are lying because it’s the truth.” Peregrine shook his head. “I will not pay any more of your debts. You have a decent income from your inheritance and the Church, or you should have, and your wife provides you with additional funds. You must simply learn to live within your means.”

“Live within my means!” Stephen was ready to explode. “How dare you? Who do you think you are? Just because you’re two years older than me you take the title, the house, the estates, and all the money—”

“Not quite all.”

“Do you ever think how unfair it is? Do you?” Stephen was spluttering. “And you have the audacity to tell me to live within my means?”

“Life is not fair,” agreed Peregrine. “I will grant you that. But it is the system into which we were both born. Nobody ever told you to expect any more than you were given. There are many men who would think it a fine thing to be a cleric living in a large rectory, without having to do a stroke of work from January to December.”

“Well, one day John will inherit.” Stephen raised his chin triumphantly. “My son, not yours, will have everything.”

This was a low blow, but Peregrine decided to rise above it. “And when he does I would remind you that, by definition, you will be dead and so it will be too late for him to take over the funding of his father’s vices.”

Stephen stood staring, his teeth gritted and his scabbed face bright pink. He was so angry he was at a loss for words. “Well, well,” he said at last. “Good day to you, brother!” He marched out, slamming the door hard enough to make a little sprinkle of plaster fall from the wall.

Outside, on the landing, Stephen stopped for a moment. He had no idea what to do next. Peregrine had not followed him out of the room. He had not run after him and pushed a collection of notes into his hand. What was he supposed to do? He had no way of paying his debts. As for Schmitt, even the thought of him made Stephen shiver. He paced up and down, wondering if he should go back inside and beg, tell his brother how sorry he was, appeal to his better nature. He needed a plan. Should he stay? Or should he go? He tugged at his chin, deep in thought.

The sound of laughter rang out, a woman’s laughter. He looked across the gleaming stairwell. It was coming from Caroline’s sitting room. Had she heard their argument, he wondered? Was she laughing at him? She was definitely laughing. Was she delighting in his downfall? Stephen crossed the gallery, toward the door. There she was, that hateful woman, giggling away, and was that a man’s voice he could hear? Who could possibly be entertaining Lady Brockenhurst so much? He knelt down to put his ear right next to the keyhole. Then the door opened.

“My God! Stephen! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Caroline clutched her chest in shock. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

“Nothing,” said Stephen, standing up with some difficulty, his eyes narrowing. Who was that dark-haired fellow? He looked familiar. The young man’s cheeks were flushed, as if he’d been caught out. Caroline was still looking at him. “I was just…” His voice trailed off.

“Do you remember Mr. Pope? He was here the other evening,” said Caroline, taking a step back and proudly presenting her guest.

“Yes, I do,” nodded Stephen. He remembered the fellow, all right. This was the young man who had been seated next to her in the place of honor. He was the man she had paraded around the party. He was working at something with that pompous fool Trenchard. And now here he was again.

“Charles has just been telling me all about his plans. He has a cotton mill in Manchester.” She was beaming.

It seemed very strange to Stephen. “Are you interested in Mancunian cotton mills?” he said.

“Lady Brockenhurst has given her patronage to my efforts.” Charles smiled, as if this explained anything.

“She has?” Stephen looked from one to the other.

The Countess nodded. “Yes,” she said. But she did not elaborate. Instead, she ushered Charles toward the head of the stairs. “And I have delayed him quite long enough.” She laughed lightly, sweeping past Stephen to follow Charles down the stairs. “I have so enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Pope. I look forward to our next meeting.” In the hall, the waiting footman gave Charles his coat and held the door as he left. Caroline glanced up, but rather than rejoin her brother-in-law, she walked into the dining room and closed the door. It was some minutes before Stephen came down. He had the nagging suspicion that what he had just witnessed and his need for money could somehow be combined to his advantage, but he had not yet formulated how.

When Charles Pope walked out of Brockenhurst House into the bright sunshine of Belgrave Square, he was excited. His meeting with the Countess had gone well, and she had promised him more money than he could possibly have hoped for, double the amount she had originally proposed. Of course the burning question was why? But then why had Mr. Trenchard been so generous in advancing the deposit for the mill in the first place, on such advantageous terms? Now his new patroness would allow him to establish his cotton sources in India and expand the business in a way that he’d thought would take another decade. Again, why? It was very puzzling. He felt truly honored to have been invited to Lady Brockenhurst’s house, and she had made him feel welcome. But he could not help wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve such good fortune.

“Someone looks terribly pleased with himself.”

Charles spun around and squinted into the sun. “You?”

“Me?” The girl smiled.

“Lady Maria Grey, if I am not mistaken?” He had asked after her at the party, pointing her out to their hostess, and so he knew her rank. It was a blow. If he had hoped she was within his grasp, he knew at once that she was not. Still, it was good to see her again. He couldn’t deny it.

“The very one. And you are Mr. Pope.” She was wearing a tight, buttoned, dark blue jacket over her wide petticoats and a bonnet trimmed with flowers of the same color. He thought he had never set eyes on a lovelier sight. “And why, may I inquire, are you so full of the joys of spring?” She laughed pleasantly.

“Just business. You’d find it very dull,” said Charles.

“You don’t know that. Why do men always presume that women are only interested in gossip and fashion?” They stared at each other. There was a slight cough. Charles turned to see a woman in black. She must be Lady Maria’s maid, he thought. Of course. She’d never be allowed out unchaperoned.

“Forgive me,” replied Charles, bringing his hands together as if in supplication. “I meant no offense. I simply didn’t think the financing of a cotton supply would be particularly diverting.”

“I shall be the judge of that, Mr. Pope.” She smiled. “So, tell me some more about your mill and your cotton, and if I find the subject tiresome, I shall stifle a yawn behind my gloved hand and then you’ll realize that you have failed. How would that be?” She cocked her head to one side.

Charles smiled. Maria Grey was unlike any woman he’d met. She was beautiful and charming, certainly, but also forthright, challenging, and possibly rather stubborn. “I will endeavor to meet the challenge,” replied Charles. “Are you on your way somewhere?”

“I’m going to the new London Library; I was thinking I might join. Mr. Carlyle is a friend of Mama’s, and he waxes lyrical over its merits, which, according to him, are vastly superior to those of the library at the British Museum, although I find that hard to believe. Ryan is accompanying me.”

She nodded at the woman with her, but Miss Ryan did not seem very comfortable with the way things were progressing. At last she spoke. “M’lady—”

“What is it?” But the maid was silent, so Maria took her to one side. She returned in a moment, smiling. “She thinks Mama will disapprove of our being seen walking and talking together.”

“Will she?”

“Probably.” But this answer did not seem to indicate that the proposed adventure was not going to happen. “Where are you headed?”

“I was on my way back to my office.”

“And where might that be?”

“Bishopsgate. In the City.”

“Then we shall walk with you for part of the journey. The library is at forty-nine Pall Mall, so we won’t take you out of your way. And while we go, you shall explain to us the world of cotton and exactly what you’re planning to do in India, in as entertaining a manner as possible. Then we shall part and continue about our business.”

And so, for the next half an hour, as the three of them walked through the Green Park, Charles Pope explained the intricacies of the cotton trade. He talked about how he planned to expand, and after that about a new loom that had an automatic braking system that would shut down as soon as the threads broke. And all the time Maria was watching his excitement and listening to the fervor in his voice and enjoying the way his lips moved. By the time they reached the corner of the Green Park and Piccadilly, Maria knew almost everything there was to know about the harvesting, supplying, and weaving of cotton.

“You win!” she declared, spinning her lilac parasol on her shoulder.

“Win what?” Charles was confused.

“I did not have to stifle a single yawn. You were both informative and amusing. Bravo!” She laughed, clapping her gloved hands. He made a bow. “I should love to come and see your offices for myself one day,” she said.

“I’m afraid if your mama did not think we should walk together”—he looked across at Ryan, who was standing with a stony face—“I’d find it hard to believe that she would think a visit to Bishopsgate quite the—”

“Nonsense. You say Lady Brockenhurst has taken an interest in your company, so why shouldn’t I come and see it for myself?”

“I don’t see the connection.” Charles frowned.

But Maria had spoken without thinking. Now she stumbled over her reply. “I’m… engaged to her nephew.”

“Ah.” How foolish he was to feel disappointed. To feel worse than disappointed, as if he had lost a pearl of great price. What was he thinking? That someone as beautiful and clever as Maria Grey would have no suitors? Of course she was engaged. And anyway, she was the daughter of a noble family and he was a nobody, the son of no one. But still all he could say was, “Ah.”

“Perhaps Lady Brockenhurst and I could visit you together,” continued Maria a little too brightly.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.” Charles Pope smiled and raised his hat. “To work,” he declared, then he bid them good day, turned, and walked off up Piccadilly.

John Bellasis was in Mr. Pimm’s Chop House at number 3 Poultry, sipping a tankard of ale, when his father marched through the door and sat down opposite him. John had been visiting a broker friend who had an office around the corner in Old Jewry, as he did most Tuesdays. He was already working out ways to expand and invest his future fortune. It was important to be seen to go through the motions, he told himself, so that those to whom he currently owed money would have confidence they might eventually be paid.

“There you are,” announced Stephen.

“Good day, Father. How did you know where to find me?”

“You’re always here,” said Stephen, leaning in. “So.” He slapped his hands hard on the table. “He said no.”

“Who?” John put down his pint and pushed away his plate of well-chewed mutton bones.

“Your uncle, of course.” Stephen tugged at his bands. “What am I to do?” He knew his tone was becoming shrill, but he was panicking. “I only have two days… or rather, one day now.”

“How much did you ask him for?” John didn’t need to guess the reason for his father’s distress. It was always about money and bad debts.

“A thousand pounds.” Stephen looked down at John’s plate to see if there was anything worth picking at. His fingers hovered over the bones but eventually plumped for a cold buttered carrot. “I owe Schmitt.”

“Schmitt? That brute!” John raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Then you had better pay him.”

“I know.” Stephen nodded, chewing the carrot. “Can you think of anyone who could help me?”

“You mean a moneylender?”

“Of course I mean a moneylender. If I could borrow from them to pay Schmitt, that would give me a few days to negotiate a loan, or something. There’ll be an interest payment, but if I can borrow even five hundred then I might be able to buy myself some extra time.”

“I know a few. But I am not sure you could get that amount of cash so quickly. Why can’t you go to a bank?” John drummed his manicured fingers on the table. “They know who we are, they know the family has a fortune and that eventually it will come to me. Couldn’t you borrow against that?”

“I’ve tried before.” Stephen was holding nothing back. “They think my brother is too healthy and the wait will be a long one.”

John shrugged. “I do know a Polish chap, Emile Kruchinsky, who lives near the East End. He could get you the money in time.”

“What does he charge?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Fifty!” Stephen puffed his cheeks out as he watched the waitress bend over to clear the small wooden booth opposite. Her plump backside swayed left and right as she wiped the table. “That’s a bit steep.”

“It’s the going rate for emergencies,” replied John. “They have you over a barrel and they know it. Is there really nothing left to sell?”

“Only Harley Street, and that’s mortgaged to the hilt. I doubt we’d walk away with a penny piece.”

“Then you must convince the bank or visit the Pole,” John said, and sniffed.

“Do you know whom I saw in Belgrave Square today, at your uncle’s house?” Stephen said, frowning. “That man, Charles Pope.

“Trenchard’s protégé? The one who was at the party?” John looked confused. “Why was he there again?”

“Who knows?” nodded Stephen. “But he was. He and your aunt were laughing away, in her private sitting room of all places. I caught them as he came out. It seemed very rum to me. The boy blushed when I saw him. He really blushed.”

“You don’t suppose they were enjoying an assignation?” John joked.

“Good gracious, no.” Stephen chuckled as he leaned back into the banquette. “But there is something going on there, let me tell you. She’s investing in his business.”

“She is?” John sat up. Now that money had been mentioned, he was suddenly interested. “Why would she take an interest in any business, let alone business with an unknown man from nowhere?”

“Exactly,” agreed his father. “And they were very friendly, for two people who have just met. Do you remember the way she paraded him around the rooms at her soirée? It was almost unseemly. A woman in her position, and such a young man.…”

“Who is he? Does anyone know anything about his background? There must be something we can turn up.”

“Not that I can tell. I don’t like the look of him myself, and I certainly don’t like the hold he has over my Lady Brockenhurst. She’s making a fool of herself.”

“Do you know how much she’s invested?”

“Well, young Mr. Pope looked exceptionally pleased with himself when he left,” mused Stephen. “So I imagine it must be a good sum. Why on earth is she giving money to a stranger when my dear brother will not even help out his own flesh and blood?”

“Exactly.” John nodded. They both sat at the wooden table in silence for a moment, contemplating the injustice of the situation.

“We need to discover who this man is,” said Stephen eventually.

“I think I may be able to help you,” said John.

“How?” Stephen looked at his son across the table.

“I’m quite friendly with the younger Mrs. Trenchard,” John ventured. “She told me that her father-in-law has known Pope for a while.”

His father was looking at him. “How friendly?”

“I bumped into her at the National Gallery and we had some tea.”

“Indeed?” Stephen knew his son only too well.

John shook his head. “It was all perfectly respectable. She was there with her maid. I could ask her what else she knows.”

“The maid?”

“I meant Mrs. Trenchard, but perhaps that’s not a bad idea. Servants always find out everything. And whatever is going on with this Charles Pope, I want to know about it. All we have to go on is that he’s a business friend of that clodhopper James Trenchard, and now, suddenly, my fastidious aunt is throwing money at him, money that should one day, given a cold breeze in the right direction, be ours. Is it so unreasonable that we should want to know why?”

Stephen nodded vigorously. “The answer must lie with the Trenchards.”

“And when we unravel that, we can trace the connection with my aunt.”

Stephen nodded again. “There has to be some history between them. Between Mr. Pope and Caroline, or possibly between him and Peregrine. And if we find it out, then maybe, as Caroline is being so free with her finances at the moment, she’ll pay to keep that information secret.”

“Are you suggesting we blackmail my aunt?” John looked at his father. For once, he was almost shocked.

“I most certainly am. And you will start us off by learning the secrets of the Trenchard household.” Stephen’s right leg began to bounce up and down under the table. This could be the answer to all his prayers.

Two days later, John walked into the Horse and Groom public house in Groom Place. It might have been only a few minutes’ walk from Eaton Square and the grand houses of Belgravia, but it was a different world.

He had managed to arrange a brief meeting with Speer on the pavement opposite the Trenchards’. On the pretext of planning another rendezvous with Susan, he’d picked the maid’s brains as to where the members of the Trenchard household enjoyed spending their hours off. Of course she knew he was up to something, and, for a moment, he’d contemplated asking her to do a little digging on his behalf, but he suspected she and Susan shared most of their conversations and he did not want Susan privy to too much of his business quite yet. She was delightful, of course, but the speed with which she had fallen into bed made him wary. She was clearly not a cautious woman, and he was not sure how far he could trust her. Eventually, the maid suggested that if he wanted some inside help, he should start with Mr. Turton, the butler, and he always drank at the Horse and Groom around the corner. John was surprised at first. The butler was usually the best paid and therefore the most loyal in a household. But he decided Speer must know what she was talking about.

As he walked into the public house, the smell of spilled beer and damp sawdust was overwhelming. John was well used to some of the seamier parts of town, but even he found the Horse and Groom a little too much for his taste.

He ordered himself a pint of beer and stood in the corner with his back to the wall, waiting. Speer had told him that Mr. Turton always looked in for a quick one at around five, and sure enough, on the dot of five, when the clock over the bar was actually striking, a tall, slim, gray-faced man wearing a black coat and shiny black shoes walked through the door. He looked quite out of place in this establishment, yet as he pulled up a chair the barman walked over with a bottle of gin and poured from it into a small glass without a single word being exchanged. Turton nodded. He may not have been an ebullient sort of fellow, but he was obviously a regular here and a creature of habit.

“Mr. Turton, isn’t it?” asked John.

Turton knocked back the glass of gin then looked up at him. “Might be.” Close up, he looked weary. “Do I know you?”

“No,” said John, sitting down opposite him. “But I understand we might be able to do business.”

“You and me?” Turton was slightly unnerved. He was in the habit of selling on the odd side of beef, rolling out some good cheese, or a few nice bottles of claret that nobody would ever notice. He and the cook, Mrs. Babbage, had an understanding. She would overorder slightly, nothing too drastic—some extra pheasants to be sent up from Glanville, a touch more mutton than they would need, and he would sell on the extras. He was well known in the pub; he’d sit there from five to six of an afternoon and do a little business of his own. Naturally, he gave Mrs. Babbage a cut. Not perhaps as much as she deserved, but he was the one taking the risk; all she had to do was make a deliberate mistake with the orders and nobody could ever build a charge on that. He’d worked for the Trenchards for almost twenty-five years, joined them not long after their daughter died, so they trusted him. The only person he really had to keep an eye on was Mrs. Frant. She was an irritating busybody, always poking her nose in. He and Mrs. Babbage had a good thing going, and he was determined that the housekeeper wouldn’t get the chance to destroy it. Now he checked John up and down, taking in the expensive clothes and the gold chain of a pocket watch. He did not look like a man in need of a haunch of ham.

“I doubt you and I would have much business in common, sir,” he said.

“Oh,” said John, “but that’s where you are wrong.” He took a sip of his ale. “I am looking for some help in a private matter, and you could be just the right man for the job. There would be a small reward, of course.”

“How small?”

John smiled. “That rather depends on the results.”

Which got Turton’s attention. It was all very well selling a cut of beef here and there, but some proper money, a nest egg, that would be very welcome indeed. So he allowed this young gentleman to buy him another gin while he listened carefully to what he was after.

Forty minutes later, the two of them walked out of the Horse and Groom and headed back toward Eaton Square. Turton asked John to wait for him at the corner of the mews. He would be back in a few minutes. He had the perfect person, he said: someone else who had worked in the household for years, and who was always partial to extra money. “She’s a woman who knows what’s good for her,” he said before he disappeared around the corner. “You mark my words.”

John stood on the street, underneath a gas lamp, with his collar turned up and his hat pulled down. This was all too close to the Trenchards’ home for comfort. He wished the man would hurry up. The last thing he needed was to bump into Susan, or Trenchard himself for that matter.

Eventually, Turton returned with a stout-looking party by his side. She was wearing a black bonnet and an expensive maroon lace shawl. “Sir,” Turton said, his hand outstretched. “This is Miss Ellis. Mrs. Trenchard’s maid. She’s been working in the household for thirty years. What she doesn’t know about the comings and goings of this family isn’t worth worrying about.” It was irritating to Turton that he couldn’t manage this commission without the help of Miss Ellis, but he knew he couldn’t. He and Mr. Trenchard got along well enough, but they were not confidants by any stretch of the imagination, while Miss Ellis… She and Mrs. Trenchard were as thick as thieves. It was a wonder that the mistress never suspected that all Ellis needed to betray her secrets was a sufficient offer, and now, with any luck, they were going to get one.

“Ah, Miss Ellis.” John nodded slowly. He was annoyed that Speer hadn’t steered him toward Ellis in the first place. He suspected Speer resented Ellis’s superiority within the household, and in this he was quite right. Now he would have to pay enough money to keep them both happy, which was tedious, but Turton was correct. A valet or a maid could winkle out a family’s secrets quicker than anyone. He had heard tell that half the major powers paid valets and maids to spy for them. He smiled at Ellis, who was waiting in silence. “I wonder if we might be able to come to some arrangement?”