Anne Trenchard was sitting at the breakfast table, eating scrambled eggs. She and James had been up half the night, trying to work out what they could do when Lady Brockenhurst acknowledged Charles. But in the end Anne was forced to admit that James was right. They would lose Charles the instant the Countess welcomed him into her family. They could never explain to him who they were, or how they were connected, not if they wanted to protect the memory of Sophia. It would have to be enough that James had invested in Charles’s business and been his benefactor. They must try to maintain some sort of link through that. Although they would have to be careful even there so that no one guessed the truth.

Turton leaned in. “Would you like some more toast, ma’am?”

“Not for me, but maybe for Mrs. Oliver.”

He nodded and left to give the order. Anne knew that Turton shared James’s opinion that it was eccentric for married women to come down for breakfast. They would have preferred them both to have trays in their bedrooms like the other women of their kind, but there was something in the habit that struck Anne as indolent and she had never succumbed. James had given up suggesting it. She stirred the eggs on the plate without lifting the fork to her mouth. It all seemed terribly unfair, but hadn’t she brought this whole situation upon herself? Hadn’t she and James sent the child away and kept him a secret? Wasn’t she the one who had told Lady Brockenhurst in the first place? Anne wondered, as she had countless times before, if there was more she could have done to save Sophia. Why had her beautiful girl died? What if they’d stayed in London? If they’d had a London doctor? She didn’t know whether to rage at God or at herself.

She was so full of such thoughts, thinking of things she might have done differently, that Anne barely noticed Susan enter the dining room.

“Good morning, Mother.”

Anne looked up and nodded. “Good morning, my dear.”

Susan was wearing a pretty gray morning dress. Speer must have spent a good half an hour on her hair, pinning it up at the back and creating two sets of tight curls on either side of Susan’s face, offset by a straight middle parting. “Your hair looks very nice.”

“Thank you,” replied Susan. She stood before the chafing dishes, then turned and went to her seat. “Turton,” she said as the butler reentered the room. “I think I’ll just have some toast and a cup of coffee.”

“The toast is on its way, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She glanced at her mother-in-law with a bright smile.

Anne smiled back. “Busy morning?”

Susan nodded. “Quite busy. Shopping, then a fitting and luncheon with a friend.” Her tone was as bright as her smile. In truth, Susan did not feel particularly bright. In fact she felt anything but bright. However, she was a good actress, and she knew that until she had made some decisions she must give away no clue as to what was worrying her.

“Where’s Oliver?”

“He’s gone for a ride. He’s trying out that new horse of his. He left at dawn, which was rather hard on the groom. He wanted to show the beast off in the park,” she added, before nodding at Turton who had arrived with a rack of hot toast.

“Thank you,” she said, and she took a piece, but she only played with it.

Anne sat and watched her daughter-in-law. “You seem distracted, my dear. Is it something I could help with?”

Susan shook her head playfully. “I don’t think so. It’s nothing. I’m just running through lists in my head. And I’m nervous about my dressmaker. The skirt was quite wrong when I went for the last fitting, and I’m praying she’s got it right this time.”

“Well, if that’s all it is.” Anne smiled. And yet there was something. Anne didn’t know what, but she could see the young woman was preoccupied. As she looked at Susan, it occurred to her that there was a slight softening of the lines of her jaw, and her cheekbones were not as prominent as they had been. I wonder if she’s putting on weight, thought Anne. That would explain her not eating. She decided to make no comment. If there is anything more tedious than being told you’ve grown heavier, she couldn’t imagine what it might be. Susan looked up, as if aware that her mother-in-law was studying her. But before she could say anything, Turton came back into the room with an envelope on a silver salver. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat as he walked toward her. “This has just arrived for you.”

“Thank you, Turton,” said Anne, retrieving it from the tray. She looked at the new Penny Red stamp, so sensible an innovation, and checked the postmark—Faversham, Kent—but she could not remember anyone who lived in the town.

“I shall leave you to your letter,” said Susan, standing up from the table. The truth was, she sensed that she was about to suffer a bout of nausea, and she wanted to be alone in her room if her instincts were correct. Lies are so complicated, she thought. And not for the first time.

Anne glanced up from the envelope. “Enjoy your luncheon. Who did you say you were meeting?”

But Susan had already left the room.

The letter was from Jane Croft, the woman who had been Sophia’s maid all those years ago in Brussels. Jane had been a nice girl, as far as Anne could recall, and Sophia had been fond of her. They didn’t discuss the matter at the time but, as a lady’s maid, Croft must almost certainly have guessed at Sophia’s pregnancy although she’d never said anything about it, as far as Anne knew, either before or after Sophia’s death. When they withdrew to Derbyshire, the plan was for Croft to remain in London on board wages until her mistress returned. Of course, that return never took place, and Croft had moved on to another job outside the city. But there was no ill feeling, only sorrow to see her go, and she’d left with a bonus and excellent references. These seemed to have done their work, and when Anne last heard, Croft had been hired as a housekeeper for a family in Kent, the Longworths of Sydenham Park. Presumably the house was near Faversham. Anne started to read, then stopped and took a breath. If she’d been surprised to hear from the maid after so many years, she was astonished by the contents of the letter.

Croft wrote how she and Ellis had remained in contact, exchanging notes every few months. However, Croft had been troubled by some gossip Ellis had included in her most recent epistle, about a young man called Charles Pope. “I would welcome the chance to discuss this with you in person, madam. But I would not care to write any more on the subject.” Anne stared at the words on the page, with a hollow feeling beginning to trouble her in the pit of her stomach.

At first she was simply furious with Ellis. Why on earth was she writing to Jane Croft about Charles? What would she have to say about him? He was a young businessman who was supported by Mr. Trenchard. Why would one maid write that to another? Then it struck her that Ellis might have been eavesdropping, spying on her mistress, listening to her private conversations with her husband. At the thought, a fist of ice closed around her heart. Ellis had certainly been behaving strangely over the past few months, that was clear—and what was that peculiar business about the lost fan that wasn’t lost at all? Anne looked up. Turton had resumed his position by the fireplace.

“Could you ask Ellis to join me in the drawing room?”

Turton received the request with his usual opaque stare. “Certainly, ma’am,” he said.

When Ellis came in, she could tell at once that this was not a simple meeting to discuss a frock or a new trimming for a hat.

“Will you please close the door?” Anne’s voice was cold and formal. As she turned away to carry out the instruction, Ellis tried to run through what might have given her away. Had she been seen talking to Mr. Bellasis? Was there someone in the pub who knew them both? She desperately raked her brain to come up with a believable story that would place them together without blame, but she couldn’t think of anything. She turned back to face her mistress.

“Ellis,” began Anne. “I have had a letter from Ellen Croft.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am?” Ellis allowed herself to relax slightly. She didn’t know what this would be about but it could not involve Mr. Bellasis, since she had definitely never written anything about him.

“Why were you writing to her about Mr. Pope?”

For a moment, her mind was a blank. Why had she written about Mr. Pope to Jane? Surely it could only have been that the master was taking an interest in him. What else would she have had to say about him? “I think I may have mentioned that the master was very kind to a new young protégé, ma’am. I don’t think it can have been more than that. I’m sorry if you’re displeased. I certainly had no wish to offend you.”

Her flustered loss of dignity was very effective. Anne stared at her. Maybe there was nothing to it, after all. James had taken an unusual interest in Charles’s business. That would be common knowledge downstairs, and what of it? She began to feel a little easier. But there were still matters to resolve.

“While I have you here,” said Anne, “why did you go to Brockenhurst House to find a fan that was never lost?”

Ellis looked at her. How had Mrs. Trenchard found out? Presumably that happy slave, Dawson, had given her away. She composed her features. “That’s not quite how it was, ma’am.”

“Oh? Then how was it?”

“You’d commented on the Countess’s hair on the night of her party. I went to see her lady’s maid, so I might ask how it had been arranged.”

Anne frowned. “I don’t remember saying anything about Lady Brockenhurst’s hair.”

“Oh, you did, ma’am. And I wanted to please you.” Ellis was now trying an expression of wounded affection. It worked quite well.

“And the fan?”

“That was a muddle of my own making, ma’am. I couldn’t find the fan after you got back from the party, and I assumed you must have left it there.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

Ellis smiled. She could sense she was winning. “I didn’t want to bother you, and I knew I was going there anyway, to talk about the hair.”

“Where was the fan in the end?”

“I’d put it in the wrong drawer, ma’am. I suppose I was so tired by the time you came home, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

This was well aimed. Anne could not rid herself of a feeling of guilt when she kept her maid up until the small hours simply to help her undress. And Ellis knew that.

“Very well. But in future, think twice before you start writing about the activities of this family to your friends.” Anne was convinced that she had overreacted. “You may go.” Ellis started toward the door. “One thing.” The maid stopped. “Croft will be coming to see me. I would like her to stay the night if she wishes. Can you please tell Mrs. Frant?”

“When will she be coming, ma’am?”

“I’m not quite sure. In the next few days. She’s on her way to join her brother in America.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Ellis nodded and left.

She closed the drawing room door with a slight sigh of relief. She had contained the problem. But the exchange had presented more questions than answers. She had hardly mentioned Pope in her letter to Jane, yet her friend had felt impelled to write to her mistress of a quarter of a century previously at the mere mention of his name. Why? And why had the mistress been incandescent when there was nothing in the contents of her own letter that was worthy of comment? Here was something to report back to Mr. Bellasis. If it wasn’t worth another sovereign, her name wasn’t Mary Ellis.

“Mr. Turton,” Ellis hissed as she came down the basement stairs. “I need to have a word.”

Turton did not enjoy being bossed around in his own household by a woman, but there was something about Ellis’s expression that forced him to comply. The fact was, he and this woman were both in the pay of John Bellasis, and she could put him in prison if she wished. He beckoned her into his pantry and shut the door.

“Jane Croft has written to the mistress and now she’s coming here.”

“Who is Jane Croft?”

“She was lady’s maid to their daughter in the old days. She left after Miss Sophia died.”

Turton looked rather impatient. “I don’t understand what all this has to do with me.”

“I’ve always kept in touch with Jane, and the other day I mentioned Mr. Pope in a letter to her.”

Now the butler seemed quite shocked. “Why ever would you do that?”

Ellis shook her head. “There was nothing to it. I just wrote about Mr. Trenchard having a new favorite. But it was enough to make Jane write to the mistress, and that was enough for the mistress to summon Jane up to London.”

Turton absorbed this. Of course he knew more than Ellis about Charles Pope’s connection to the family. That letter he’d stolen for Mr. Bellasis had made it clear young Mr. Pope was Mr. Trenchard’s son, but even he could not see what place the ex-maid of a dead daughter had to play.

The maid interrupted his reveries. “We should tell Mr. Bellasis.”

He nodded. “Yes,” he said. But he did not know what Mr. Bellasis would make of it. Still, it might be a way for Turton to worm his way back into Mr. Bellasis’s good graces. He knew he had not been forgiven for the double charge on the letter from Charles Pope’s adopted father. “You’re right. I’ll go.”

“No, I’ll go,” said Ellis. If there was a tip coming, she wanted to be there in person to receive it. “I’m the one to tell him what the mistress said, since she said it to me. You’ll have to think of an excuse if she rings for me while I’m gone.”

Turton nodded. “Tell him I told you to go.”

Ellis nodded. If she had suspected before that things were not entirely well between the butler and their joint employer, she knew it now.

Maria Grey was reading on a bench in Belgrave Square when she looked up to see her mother walking toward her. They did not live in the square, but since Chesham Street was so near, they had contrived to be given a key to the gardens, and it was a privilege they valued. Ryan, her maid, was sitting a little way off, knitting. The girl was so used to feeling like a prisoner under guard, she hardly noticed it any more. Lady Templemore paused for a moment to enjoy the sight of her daughter. Maria was dressed in a dark red dress with a tight waist and long sleeves. She looked like a medieval princess waiting for her lover to return from the Crusades. She was very pretty. There could be no question about it, and everything could still be well if only she, Corinne Templemore, could control her for just a little while longer.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading.” Maria held the book up for her mother to see.

“Not a novel, I hope.” But she was smiling as she said it.

“Poetry. Shelley’s “Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats.”

“How impressive.” Lady Templemore sat down next to the young woman. She was conscious of a need to hold her nerve, not to shout, not to criticize, just to hold her nerve until the situation had been managed. “I have some good news.”

“What’s that?”

“Louisa has written to ask you to Northumberland.”

“Northumberland?”

Lady Templemore nodded eagerly. “I envy you. Belford will be wonderful at this time of year.”

Maria looked at her mother. “What would I do in Northumberland?”

“What do you do here? Walk, ride, read—which you always enjoy.” She chattered on, as if the proposed trip were a marvelous bonus, one to be envied. “I long to get away from London, with all the dirt and fog. Just think. You’ll be walking along the cliffs, looking out to sea…” She trailed off, as if almost overcome by the power of this seductive image.

Of course her daughter knew what was going on. “But I don’t really want to leave London, Mama. Not at the moment.”

“Of course you do.”

“No.” Maria shook her head firmly. “I don’t.”

“My dear.” Corinne reached over and took hold of her daughter’s hand. “Won’t you allow me to know what is best? Just this once?” Her words were accompanied by a sweet and poignant smile. “I’ll have everything ready for you when you get back. How jealous the other girls will be.”

“What will be ready?”

“Why, your marriage. We’ll take you for a fitting before you go. Then, when the dress is made up in calico, someone can travel to Belford and try it on you there. And we can have a final fitting when you get back. There’ll be a day or two to make sure everything is just right.”

Maria closed her book carefully. “Have you settled on a date?”

Lady Templemore was chuckling inside. Her daughter seemed to be accepting it. She had been poised for tears and a struggle, but quite the opposite was happening. “We have. I’ve exchanged letters with the Reverend Mr. Bellasis, and we’ve settled on a Wednesday in early December. That way, you can spend the autumn in the north, and come back relaxed and happy and ready to take on a new adventure.”

“And John Bellasis is my new adventure?”

“Marriage for a young girl is always an adventure.”

Maria nodded solemnly. “And where is the adventure to begin?”

“They wanted it to be at Lymington, but unless you object I’m inclined to ask for Brockenhurst House instead. We really can’t traipse over to Ireland, and there’s no other place on our side with a stronger case. But I enjoy London weddings, and they are so much less trouble for everyone else. A nice Belgravia marriage. I like the sound of it.” She glanced through the trees to the line of windows on the first floor of the house as she spoke. There was the ballroom that would soon be the scene of the wedding that would ensure both their futures.

“That’s very kind of Lord Brockenhurst,” said Maria.

Lady Templemore nodded dreamily. “Apparently he is content to host it at either house. He’s pleased with John’s choice, they tell me, and he is more than glad to welcome you into the family.” The tone of this conversation was so normal that Corinne was beginning to allow herself to think that everything would be resolved satisfactorily, after all.

“What about Lady Brockenhurst? What does she say on the subject?”

Corinne glanced at the girl but she was looking straight ahead, without any signs of temper or stress. It was just a question. There was nothing more to it than that.

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”

“But you haven’t spoken about it yet?”

“Not yet, no.” She sighed with happiness at the prospect before her. “I’ll send a note and we can go for a fitting tomorrow morning. We might as well get the business en train.”

Maria was numb with dread as she followed her mother back across the road on their way to Chesham Street. She might be used to living under surveillance, but she was not used to the feeling of terror that gripped her now. The noise of children playing in the square, the birds, the wind, and the chatter of passersby faded into the background, until all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and forced her nails into her fingertips. She had to think, and think quickly. She could not marry that man. She would rather die. It had seemed like some distant, nebulous idea until this moment, a mad scheme of her mother’s that would never come to pass. But now it was on the brink of becoming a reality. She just couldn’t bear to think about it. But she must. Because one thing she knew absolutely: She must act before it was too late.

John Bellasis knew what Jane Croft’s secret must be. Ellis had hardly begun to sketch out the incidents of that morning before he realized that he had come upon the final missing piece of the puzzle. Jane Croft was the mother of Charles Pope. It had to be. While they were in Brussels, twenty-five years before, she and James Trenchard…

“Was she good-looking, this Jane Croft?” he said, catching Ellis by surprise. “When she was young?”

“Good-looking enough, I suppose. Yes. Why?” Ellis had lost her own train of thought. What could Mr. Bellasis be talking about?

From knowing who Jane was, John quickly moved to a clear and vivid understanding of why she was coming to London. She wants to see her son, he thought. She wants to see her son before she goes to America. She won’t be back and she knows it. She wants to see him, as a grown man, before she leaves England forever.

He turned to the waiting maid. “And before Miss Sophia died, this Jane Croft was kept on board wages for weeks, doing no work, waiting out her time? Is that right?”

“She did no work because the young mistress was away in the north.”

John nodded, the thoughts whirling through his brain. They kept her on, feeding her, letting her rest, until her time was almost come, and then she was sent somewhere for the baby to be born. James Trenchard arranged the whole thing, but he must have had his wife’s compliance. She must have known. Was she enraged? Or forgiving? Maybe the latter, if Croft wanted to see her old mistress now, twenty-five years after she had betrayed her. But these thoughts were unspoken and, for Ellis, his silence was becoming oppressive.

“I ought to get back, sir. Or I’ll be missed.” Ellis did not move. She was hoping for the tip that she would not be sharing with Turton.

“Report back to me when she gets to London. Bring me anything you learn. Engage her in conversation. Go through her things. Find out everything she knows about Mr. Pope.” He was almost excited. Of course there was still one clue that had to be solved, and in many ways it was the most important. What was the link to Lady Brockenhurst? It wasn’t surprising to learn that she was not Charles Pope’s mother. Susan was right about that. How would she and Trenchard ever have got together? But there was still some connection that held her fast. And Jane Croft might be the key to the puzzle. It was this particular link that would yield dividends. He was ready to bet his last penny on it. “Go. Let me know the moment you have anything.” But still Ellis did not move, and they both knew why. At last he felt in his trousers and produced a guinea. She took it and moved off, past the figure who ducked into a doorway at the sight of her.

Susan Trenchard hurried toward the entrance to John’s set. He was still at the bottom of the staircase when she appeared. “That was a narrow squeak,” she said. “I just missed my mother-in-law’s maid.”

“You should have told me when you were coming.”

“I did. You’re supposed to have luncheon ready for me.”

“Don’t worry. We can send my man to fetch something.” He started up the staircase. He hated entertaining at his home. He felt these modest rooms gave no impression of who he really was. “Why are you here? What’s the urgency?”

Susan looked up at him. “Well, I’m not going to tell you on the stairs.”

But she was going to tell him when they were safely in his rooms. Heaven only knew what would happen then.

Ellis had never considered herself a lucky woman. By her reckoning, being born into service was not to be envied, and she’d generally always found that she had to fight every step of the way through life. But just for a moment, on that day when Jane Croft arrived at Eaton Square for the meeting with Mrs. Trenchard, Ellis felt that, at long last, she had been dealt a winning card.

She’d been turning over John Bellasis’s plan in her head ever since their meeting. On the afternoon Croft was expected, Ellis was to get some time alone with her old friend to discover what Croft knew on the subject of Charles Pope, and preferably to find a chance to go through her things. She was to do all this before Croft had an opportunity to speak to Anne Trenchard. It was something of a tall order, but Mr. Bellasis had been insistent and there would be a good tip in it, that she knew for certain.

In the end, Ellis was lucky. Croft arrived only a few moments after Mrs. Trenchard had left the house to attend a charity gathering somewhere on Park Lane, and she was not expected back for at least two hours.

The passing years had been kind to Jane Croft, Ellis thought as she looked her old friend up and down. The former lady’s maid had been attractive enough to turn soldiers’ heads all those years ago in Brussels, when she and young Miss Sophia would gad about town, seemingly without a care in the world. The odd thing about war, Ellis was not alone in observing, was the way it made everyone so reckless and impetuous, as if the smell of approaching death encouraged the living to make as much of their time on earth as they could.

“You’re looking well. You hardly seem a day older,” she said.

“Thank you,” Croft replied, tidying her brown hair that had only grayed slightly at the temples. “You, too,” she lied politely.

“Mrs. Trenchard won’t be back for a few hours,” said Ellis. “Let’s ask Mrs. Babbage for some bread and cheese, and then we can have a good old chin-wag.” She signaled for her to take a seat in the corner of the servants’ hall while she went to give the order.

“Thank you. That’s kind of you,” said Croft, suspecting nothing.

So over bread and cheese and a glass of cider, they caught up on each other’s news. Croft’s life since she left the Trenchards’ service had worked out well, and it seemed she had enjoyed her time as a housekeeper, with all the responsibility and extra money that entailed.

“Then what’s this I hear about your going to America?”

Croft smiled. It was exciting. “My brother emigrated to America years ago now, not long after we got back from Brussels, and he has prospered in the building industry.”

“What part of America has he settled in?”

“New York. There’s been a lot of development since the turn of the century, and he has risen on that wave. Now he is building a new house for himself on a street they call Fifth Avenue, and he wants me to come over and run it for him.”

“As a servant?”

“As his sister. He never married.”

Ellis raised her eyebrows. “He might marry now if he’s as rich as you say.”

“He’s thought of that. He wants me to live with him, whether or not he takes a wife.”

Ellis found herself becoming rather jealous. Croft was to leave service and run a fine house in a new country. How fair was that, when Ellis still had to bow and curtsy and try to eke out a living by spying and stealing? There didn’t seem to be any justice in it. “I hope you can adjust to the different climate,” she said sourly. “I believe the extremes of heat and cold can be very trying to the spirit.”

“I think I’ll manage,” said Croft, well aware of what was going through her friend’s mind. “Of course I’ll have to decide what to do with my spare time. It’s not something I’ve ever known before.”

“What a problem to have,” said Ellis, giving a rare smile. “When do you sail?”

“Thursday. I’ll make the journey to Liverpool in the morning, which I am not looking forward to, but I’ve sent all but one bag ahead to my hotel, so that’s something. Then I’ll spend the night there and go on board the following morning.”

Ellis felt a strong desire to talk this adventure down and spoil Croft’s obvious pleasure, but she resisted it. There were more important things at stake. “What was it you wanted to see Mrs. Trenchard about?” she said.

Croft gave a slight shrug. “It’s something or nothing.” She hesitated, unsure whether she should say anything more.

“You know you got me into trouble by mentioning that I’d written about Mr. Pope.” Ellis looked wounded rather than severe.

“No, I didn’t know that. I’m ever so sorry.”

“So I think you owe me an explanation.”

Croft nodded. She had no idea that the woman before her was anything but a slightly envious friend. “I was tidying everything up when I was packing, going through old letters and the like and throwing out what I did not want to keep forever. You know the sort of thing.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I came upon some papers of Miss Sophia’s that I wanted to pass on. I don’t know if the mistress will keep them, but I just didn’t feel I had the right to destroy them. So I thought, why not deliver the bundle in person before I go? I daresay she’ll throw them on the fire the moment I’m out of the room.”

“It seems a long way to come for that.”

“Not really. I was in Kent, so it just breaks the journey to Liverpool. Besides, I’ve not been to London in years. I’ve heard about the master’s building work and read descriptions in the papers, but I wanted to see for myself what the city’s become, before I left. I don’t know that I’ll be back this way, if you know what I mean.”

Ellis knew at once that this was her chance. “Of course I understand, and I’ll tell you what. If you go now, you’ll have plenty of time before the mistress gets home. She won’t be back for at least two hours. Let me give you a list of the streets and squares you ought to visit, make an outing of it, enjoy yourself.”

Croft nodded, but there was something nervous in the movement. “I don’t suppose you could come with me? Only it’s been a while since I was out walking in London.”

Ellis gave a light laugh. “The chance’d be a fine thing! I’ve got work up to my ears. But don’t worry. I’ll give you some money if you like, for a cab to take you around.”

Croft shook her head. “No, I’ve got money.”

“Then you mustn’t miss this chance. It won’t come again.”

“Well, that’s true. What shall I do with my bag?”

“I’ll have one of the hall boys take it upstairs to your room. You’re sharing with me tonight.” At this, Croft stood and went to reach for her cape, which was hanging in the passage outside.

It was not much more than five minutes before Ellis had taken her bag into Turton’s room and the two of them were searching the contents.

In even less time they found what they were looking for. Inside a large leather envelope there was a bundle of letters, together with other papers.

“We need to be quick,” she said, watching the butler as he scanned the papers carefully.

But Turton was thinking. “What will he give us for them?”

“We can’t steal these, or we’d be discovered as soon as the mistress gets home and asks to see them. We must make copies now, at once, before she returns.”

He did not seem quite convinced. “But how do we know he’ll pay enough?”

Ellis was becoming impatient. “Mr. Turton, I don’t know why, but you’ve fallen out with Mr. Bellasis and it is clouding your judgment. I have not. This is our chance to have something worth selling that he will want to buy. We can haggle later, but right now we must make copies so he can buy them if he wishes, which he will. Then the mistress is given the originals and nobody is any the wiser.”

“Why don’t you make the copies?”

“Because I—” Ellis was silent for a moment. She was going to say she couldn’t write, but that wasn’t true. She could. But not well enough for Mr. Bellasis’s eyes. What annoyed her was that Turton knew it.

Turton stared at her, enjoying her discomfort. “Very well. I will copy the papers as quickly as I can, and then you can take them over to Mr. Bellasis. But you are not to put them into his hand until you have decided on the price. Unless you want me to go.”

“No. If he’s angry with you, it may make him less inclined to pay.” Turton nodded. There was logic in this.

Having resolved to do it, he was quick. He sat down at his desk with a steel-nibbed pen and ink while Ellis stood guard. He barely spoke as he scratched and scribbled on the thick white paper, copying down the information. He nodded gruffly to Ellis as soon as he’d finished. “Put the real ones back and then take these to him.”

“Are they worth something?”

Turton thought for a moment. “They are either worth a great deal to Mr. Bellasis or nothing at all.”

Ellis didn’t understand him. “How’s that?” she said, but he did not elaborate. Instead he handed her the leather envelope of papers so that she could place them back in the bag and carry it upstairs to her bedroom on the women’s side of the servants’ attics.

Half an hour later, Ellis was standing in the entrance courtyard at Albany as a servant came out of the porch to tell her that Mr. Bellasis was indeed in residence and would receive her.

John’s reaction to the papers was not quite as she had expected. He read them through, in absolute silence, while she waited by the door. Then he read one of them again and his face was so still that he could have been a statue. She could not tell if he was delighted or fascinated or horrified. At last he looked up. “Where are the originals?”

“Back in the case where Miss Croft left them. Up in my room.”

“Fetch them.” His tone was as stern as a commander in chief giving the order to charge.

Ellis shook her head. “I can’t. She’ll know who took them. And then what?”

“Do you think I care? Fetch them at once. I will give you a thousand pounds to compensate you if you should lose your place.”

Ellis could not believe her ears. How much? A thousand pounds, more money than she’d ever dreamed of, for some papers that Croft had described as “something and nothing”? She stared at him.

“Have I made myself clear?” he barked, and she nodded, still rooted to the spot. “Then go!” His shouting seemed to wake her from a dream, and she flung open the door of his set and started to hurry down the stairs. She was running by the time she reached the pavement, careering down Piccadilly, so that people stopped and turned to watch her hurtle by.

When she reached the basement door of number 110, she was panting, drawing in her breath in gasps. Turton was still in his pantry. He looked up. “How well did we do?”

She ignored the question. “Is Jane Croft back?”

“She’s been back for twenty minutes. She was only a quarter of an hour ahead of the mistress.”

Ellis’s heart was pounding in her chest. “The mistress is back?”

“She is. She asked after you, but I said you’d gone out and she didn’t seem to mind. She went upstairs, took off her cape and bonnet, and went straight into the drawing room.”

“So Jane…?” Ellis’s voice trailed off.

“She’s in there with her now. The mistress rang for her as soon as she was settled and Miss Croft has just gone up.”

There was a moment of hope. If Croft had gone straight in, maybe the papers would still be in her case. Without a word, Ellis turned on her heel and started to race up the stairs, on and on, two at a time, past the drawing room floor, past two floors of family bedrooms, until at last she had reached the attics. She raced to her own room, but the case was on the bed, open, and the leather envelope was gone.

It was the nearest Mary Ellis would ever come to owning a thousand pounds. Or anything like it.

Anne could not have been more delighted to see Sophia’s former maid. The sight of the woman, older of course but not so changed as to be unrecognizable, reminded Anne that she had always liked her. And talking together seemed to take them both back to happier times. She invited the maid who was no longer a maid to sit in her presence. She had asked for some cordial to be brought up, and now she offered her visitor a glass.

“Do you remember the Duchess’s famous ball?” asked Anne.

“I should, madam. I’ve been asked about it often enough in the years since.” She took the cordial and sipped it. She found it a little sharp, but the honor of being invited to take a glass with the mistress was reward enough. It didn’t have to taste nice. “And I remember how beautiful Miss Sophia looked in her dress.” Croft smiled.

“Her hair was so pretty.” Anne was in her own reverie.

“I took some trouble over it, I can tell you,” said Croft, and they laughed.

It was good to laugh and not cry for once, thought Anne; to share their happy memories of Sophia before they parted. But then that same memory forced her to change the tone. “She was very upset that night, when we got home.”

“Yes,” said the maid, but she did not dare elaborate.

Anne stared at her. “It’s a long time ago now, and I’m glad to hear you’ve prospered. I’m sure your life in America will be rewarding and full. But since we may not meet again…” She hesitated.

“We won’t meet again, madam,” said Croft softly.

“No.” Anne looked at the fire burning in the grate. “So I wonder if we may be honest with each other for this last moment together?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Do you know what happened that night at the ball?”

Croft nodded. It was odd to be having this conversation with a woman she would once have curtsied to. It was almost as if they were equals. Which in a way, when it came to this business, they were. “I know that Lord Bellasis, him that we’d all thought such a proper gentleman, had tricked and betrayed her, and she learned it that night.”

“Did you know about the wedding charade before then?”

“No.” The maid was anxious to show that she had not been party to hiding secrets until Sophia forced her to be. “She never told me anything about it until it was found to be false. And of course it was only later that she…” Croft sipped her cordial and looked at the floor.

“That she discovered she was pregnant.” It was odd for Anne, too, to be able to talk about the subject with another human being who was not her husband or Lady Brockenhurst. She had never done such a thing before.

“I asked her to tell you, ma’am. Right away. Straight off. But it was as if she was in a daze and somehow couldn’t think.”

“She told me in the end.”

“Yes,” said Croft.

They stared at each other. They knew so much that no one else knew. No one else except James. Even Lady Brockenhurst, who thought she knew everything, had never met Sophia, so she was missing half the story. Anne spoke again. “She told me in time to make our plans for traveling north. And all might have been well, if only…”

“If only she hadn’t died.” Croft’s eyes were full of tears and, as Anne watched, one brimmed over and ran down the former maid’s cheek. Anne loved her for crying over her lost child. “I suppose the baby’s grown up by now. Is he still living with the Reverend Mr. Pope? Or is he in London now? I assume he’s the young Mr. Pope that Miss Ellis told me about?”

“But how did you know about the Reverend Mr. Pope?”

Croft looked at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know as you’ll want to hear it.” She stopped.

“Go on,” said Anne. “Please.”

Her visitor’s tone was apologetic when she spoke again, revealing the secrets of long ago. “You see, Miss Sophia used to write to me, ma’am. Up until the end. We talked about the baby and what would happen, and she wrote that he or she was to go and live with the Popes in Surrey. I seem to remember that Mrs. Pope was childless, although I’ve lost the letter where she said it.”

Anne was astonished. “So you know everything.”

“I haven’t told a soul, I swear. Hand on my heart,” said Croft, doing just that. “I won’t ever discuss it with anyone, either.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Anne. “I find it comforting. That she had someone else to talk to.”

And now Croft took up the leather envelope and placed it on her lap. “I have some papers here, madam.” She hesitated. “One of them testifies to the false marriage. It’s signed by the man who said he was a priest. He names himself Bouverie. I suppose you’d call it the marriage certificate, if it weren’t a lie. Then there’s a letter from Bouverie describing how the young couple came to marry in Brussels so far from home.” She paused as she pulled out the two sheets of paper. “She gave them to me that night in Brussels, when she got home from the ball, and told me to burn them, but I never did. I didn’t have the nerve. I didn’t feel they were mine to destroy.”

“I see that.” Anne took the papers and glanced through their contents.

“But I’m leaving the country now, and especially as Miss Ellis mentioned Mr. Pope in her letter to me, I thought it would be best to give you everything. I don’t know if you’ll want to keep them safe. You might want to burn them yourself. But that’s for you to decide, not me.” With that, she handed the leather satchel over.

“Thank you, Croft—I should call you Miss Croft now—that is generous and thoughtful.” Anne took it and looked inside. “What are the rest?”

“Some letters from Miss Sophia about the plans for the baby coming, describing the doctor and the midwife and suchlike. I didn’t want to risk my dropping dead and some stranger coming upon all that information. Again, it’s best with you. I’ve kept one of her letters to remember her by, but there’s nothing in it that a stranger might not read.”

Anne smiled at this, her eyes starting to fill again, and then she looked at the writing on the envelopes. She slowly ran her fingertips over the curls of each letter. Darling Sophia—even now, the mere sight of her handwriting was enough to make the tears flow. How young the writing looked, with its loops and swirls. Sophia’s hand had always been flamboyant. Anne imagined her, sitting at her desk, quill in hand. “Thank you,” she said again, looking directly at her visitor. “I am very touched. We have so little left of Miss Sophia, you see. Not enough memories. It’s wonderful to have something of her returned to us after so many years.”

That night, alone in her bedroom, Anne read them through again and again. She couldn’t stop the tears, but the love she felt for this lost child, hearing her voice again as she read the phrases Sophia had chosen, was so fierce it almost felt uplifting. She would not tell James yet. She wanted to keep the letters to herself for a while. She rose and locked them in a small cupboard in her room, before her husband made his appearance.

Oliver was looking forward to having luncheon with his father at the Athenaeum. The uncovering of Pope’s dubious past had been tiring and expensive, but it was done, and he hoped that now there could be a new rapprochement between his demanding parent and himself. After all, he’d done James a favor, enabled him to withdraw before he made a fool of himself over Pope and his wretched cotton. James had told him that Charles had not denied the accusations, which had interested Oliver. The letters confirmed Pope’s guilt, of course, but still, Oliver had expected him to try to weasel his way out in some way, and he had not. So be it. It was time for Oliver and James to move forward with their lives, in a new and enriched spirit of familial love and cooperation.

“Good day, sir,” said the club servant as he collected Oliver’s silver-topped cane, gloves, and silk hat. Oliver smiled. He liked it here; it was civilized. It was where he should be. Following the man through the hall and past the sweeping staircase, he walked into the large dining room with its tall windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor. The dark wood paneling on the walls and the deep maroon patterned carpet gave the room an intimate, discreet feeling.

“Father.” He waved with a slight gesture at James, who was waiting at a round table in the corner. The older man stood in welcome.

“Oliver,” he said, with a jovial smile. “I’m glad to see you here. I hope you’re hungry.” James was in the mood to humor his son. The previous few months had been fraught and uncomfortable, and he was eager to mend bridges and defuse the tense atmosphere they had been living with for some time. But on this day he was not confident his goal could be achieved, given what he knew he would have to say.

“Excellent,” replied Oliver, rubbing his hands together as he sat down. James could see his son’s optimism and confidence, and he was only too aware of what they probably stemmed from. Still, he thought, let Oliver be the one to introduce the subject.

They picked up their menus. “Where were you this morning?” said James.

“Riding,” Oliver replied. “It was a beautiful day and Rotten Row was very crowded, but I’m pleased with that new gelding.”

“I thought I might see you at the meeting in Gray’s Inn Road.”

“What meeting?” Oliver squinted at the list before him. “What’s hogget?”

“Older than lamb, younger than mutton.” James sighed gently. “We were discussing the different stages of the new development. Didn’t they tell you it was happening?”

“They might have done.” Oliver caught the eye of a waiter. “Shall we get something to drink?”

James watched him as he ordered a bottle of Chablis to start with, and then a bottle of claret. Why was his son so endlessly disappointing? He’d managed to secure him a position on one of the most exciting projects in the country, and the boy could barely raise even a flicker of interest. Granted the development was not at its most fascinating stage—dredging vast tracts of marshland in the East End—but the problem was deeper than that. Oliver did not seem to understand that the only real fulfilment on this earth was to be gained through hard work. Life as a series of momentary pleasures satisfied no one. He needed to make an investment in it, an investment of himself.

If Oliver had heard these thoughts spoken aloud, he would have been incensed. He was willing to make an investment in life, just not the life his father had planned for him. He wanted to live at Glanville and come to London for the Season. He wanted to watch over his acres and talk to his tenants and play a role in the county. Was that wrong? Was it dishonorable? No. His father could never appreciate a set of values different from his own. That is what he would have said and, to be fair to Oliver, there was some truth in it. But as they sat nursing glasses of the wine he had ordered, they both knew that the figure of Charles Pope was looming over their conversation, standing behind their chairs, and the subject would have to be addressed before much more time had passed. Eventually, Oliver could resist no longer.

“So,” he said, slicing into his meat. “Did you let Mr. Pope down lightly?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? You’ve always been such a stickler for honest dealings. Don’t tell me you’ve dropped your standards?”

“It’s true that I have kept my money in his company,” said James carefully. “It remains a good investment.”

Oliver leaned forward. “What about the letters I gave you?” His voice was low and aggressive. “You said you’d charged Pope with them and he didn’t deny a thing.”

“That’s true.” James had chosen partridge and he was regretting it.

“Well, then.”

When James replied, his voice was as smooth as silk. If he had been talking down a wild animal, he could not have been more subtle. “I did not believe the whole thing was quite… right.”

“I don’t understand.” Oliver’s mouth was set. “Are you saying it was all a lie? In which case, am I the liar? Is that it?”

“No,” said James, trying to appease his son, “I don’t think anyone was lying. Or at least, not you—”

“If the men who wrote the letters had not been telling the truth, Pope would have denied it.”

“I’m not so sure. And besides, when you’re in trade…” Oliver winced. Why wouldn’t his father let the family move on from their trading roots? Was it so much to ask? “When you are in trade,” his father repeated firmly and on purpose, “you get an instinct for people. Charles Pope would never try to cheat the customs men. It’s not in him.”

“I say again, why didn’t he deny it?” Oliver screwed up his napkin.

“Keep your voice down.” James looked around him. A few of the other diners were beginning to glance over at their table.

“Must I ask you again?” Oliver spoke, if anything, more loudly than before. He also tossed his knife and fork as noisily as possible onto his plate. James didn’t need to look about them to be aware that they had become the chosen spectacle of the dining room and would be the subject of excited conversation afterward in the library. It was so exactly what he didn’t want.

“Very well. If you insist. I believe that Charles Pope was reluctant to be the cause of a quarrel between you and me. He did not defend himself because he did not want to come between us.”

“Well, he has come between us, hasn’t he, Father? This Mr. Pope? He’s been standing between us for some time!” Oliver pushed his chair back and stood, boiling with fury. “Of course you’d take his side. Why did I think for one moment you would not! Good day to you, Father. I wish you well of your Mr. Pope!” He spat the words out as if they were poisonous. “Let him comfort you. For you have no son in me!”

The room was silent. When Oliver turned he saw at least a dozen pairs of eyes trained on him. “To hell with the lot of you!” he declared, and with a toss of his head he marched out of the club.

At that precise moment, Charles was sitting in his office, staring at the portrait of his adopted father. He should be feeling excited, he told himself. This was a key stage of his career. His business was funded, including his proposed trip to India, and everything was set fair. But somehow he didn’t want to leave London now, and his prospects had lost their luster. The truth was, when he thought about it, it was Maria Grey he did not want to leave. He picked up his pen. Was he really prepared to sacrifice everything he had worked for to stay near a woman who could never be his wife? Why must life be so impossible. How could it have happened? He was in love with a woman who was betrothed to someone else. Worse. Who was entirely out of his reach. Only misery and humiliation could lie ahead. He stared up again at the pastel. What advice would that wise man have given him?

“Excuse me, sir?” A clerk rapped quietly on the open door, holding an envelope.

“Yes?”

“This came for you, sir,” said the clerk. “It arrived just now by messenger. He said it was urgent.”

“Thank you.” Charles nodded, holding out his hand and taking the letter. He glanced at the writing. “Is the messenger still here?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Charles again, waiting until the man had left before opening it.

“My dear Charles.” He could hear her voice as he read. “I need to see you at once. I shall be in Hatchards bookshop until four o’clock this afternoon. Please come. Yours affectionately, Maria Grey.”

He stared at the letter for a moment, then snatched his watch out of his pocket, his heart beating wildly. It was already a quarter past three. There was very little time. He grabbed his hat and coat and ran out of the office past his startled clerks.

He had three quarters of an hour to get to Piccadilly. He sprinted down the stairs and ran out into the street, staring anxiously up and down Bishopsgate for a hackney carriage. But there was none to be seen. He stood on the pavement, surrounded by a melée of people, workingmen and women shuffling along, going about their business. Which was the quickest way to Piccadilly? If he started to run, could he make it in time? His palms were sweating and his chest was heaving. He felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He raced down the pavement, then changed his mind and hurried out into the road again, frantically searching for a cab.

“Oi!” yelled a large man driving a dray. “Get out of the way!”

“Please God,” Charles prayed as he ran toward Leadenhall Market. “I’ll never ask anything from you again. If you will just help me to a cab.” And then, just as he turned the corner of Threadneedle Street, he spotted a hackney carriage. “Here! Here!” he shouted, waving his arms.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, coming to a halt.

“Hatchards in Piccadilly, please,” said Charles as he collapsed onto the black leather seat, his heart still pounding in his chest. “And please be as quick as you can.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you, God,” he mumbled under this breath. But of course, he would ask his maker for other favors, and he knew it.

It was five minutes to four when Charles finally arrived outside the bookshop. He leapt out of the cab, paid, and tipped the driver before bursting through the double doors of the bay-windowed emporium, where he came to an abrupt halt. Where was she? The shop was enormous. He had not remembered it to be so large, and at this hour of the day it was crowded with women, all wearing bonnets that shaded their faces. He checked his watch again. Surely she’d wait; surely she knew he was bound to come?

But where would he find her? He looked among the shelves displaying works of fiction, weaving his way through a sea of wide skirts held out by the heavy petticoats beneath. He strained to glimpse under the brims of bonnets as their owners perused the books in their hands, gently calling her name as he went. “Maria? Maria?” One girl smiled at him but most gave him circumspect glances and, avoiding his eyes, attempted to move away. He picked up a copy of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen and pretended to read it as he searched up and down the aisles. Where would she be? What did she like? What subject might interest her?

Suddenly, he spoke aloud. “India!” he said, and the customers near him edged away. “Excuse me!” He hurried over to a man who was stacking shelves nearby. “Where would I find a book about India?”

“Travel and Empire.” The shop assistant sniffed at his ignorance. “Second floor.”

Charles bounded up the staircase as if he were a hurdler on a sprint, and then, suddenly, there she was, standing in an alcove, leafing through a book. She had not noticed his arrival, and for a moment, now that he had found her, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the sight. She was dressed in a fawn skirt and jacket with a matching bonnet trimmed in leaves of lime-green silk. Her face, intent on what she was reading, was even lovelier than he remembered it. That’s true, he thought with a kind of wonder, no matter how beautiful she is in my imaginings, when I see her again, she is more beautiful still.

Then she looked up as if aware of his eyes trained upon her. “Charles,” she said, clutching the book to her chest. “I thought you’d never come.”

“I only got your message at a quarter past three. I’ve been running ever since.”

“He must have stopped on the way, the wicked man.” But she was smiling. Charles was here. Everything was well again. She had put her hand in his at their greeting but he had not surrendered it. Now she remembered why she had summoned him and drew it back. Her expression grew serious. “You have to help me,” she said.

She spoke with a kind of urgency that told him at once that he had not been called for frivolous reasons. “Of course I will.”

Maria wanted him to know the full truth. “Mother means to send me away, to her cousin in Northumberland, to get me out of London while she plans my wedding to John Bellasis. She has already set the date.” Much to her annoyance she started to cry, but she wiped her eyes on her glove and shook her head to rid herself of any weakness.

Against his better judgment, Charles allowed himself to slip an arm around her shoulders. “I’m here now,” he said, quite simply, as if that fact would make all the difference, as he intended that it should.

She looked up at him fiercely, with the face of a warrior. “Let’s run away together,” she whispered. “Let’s leave everyone and everything.”

“Oh, Maria!” His emotions were in turmoil. With every fiber of his body he wanted to say that he’d loved her ever since he first saw her on the balcony at Lady Brockenhurst’s soirée. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing more in the world he’d rather do than run away with her. Run away and never come back. He touched her soft cheek with his hand. “We can’t. You must know that.”

She took a step back as if she’d been slapped. “Why not?”

He sighed. Some of the other customers were watching them, these two lovers, with the woman on the brink of tears. He had a sinking feeling that they were enjoying the spectacle.

“I won’t be the person responsible for your ruin. If you ran off with a merchant from the East End, every door in London would be slammed in your face. How could I do that to you? If I loved you?”

“If you loved me?”

“Because I love you. I will not be the instrument of your downfall,” he said, shaking his head sadly. He looked around again. “Even this meeting is asking for trouble. How did you get rid of your maid?”

“I shook her off. I’m getting rather good at it.” But her tone was more sad than playful. “So what are you saying? That I must die an old maid? For I will not marry John Bellasis, not if Mama locks me in a tower and feeds me on bread and water to the end of my days.”

He could not resist a smile at her fighting spirit. “We should go,” he said. “We’re beginning to attract attention.”

“Who cares?” Her sorrow was gone. Now she was defiant.

“I do.” Charles was thinking furiously. What could they do that would protect Maria and not ruin her? Then, suddenly, he realized where they should go next. “Come with me,” he said, more determined now. “I have an idea.”

“Is it a good one?” asked Maria. She was starting to recover her spirits. Charles might not be willing to elope with her, but he clearly was not going to abandon her, either.

“I think so. I hope so. We’ll find out soon enough.”

And he drew her gently toward the staircase.

It was half past four when the vehicle came to a halt outside Brockenhurst House in Belgrave Square. Maria and Charles got out, paid, and walked quickly toward the door. “The Countess will have an idea of what we should do,” Charles assured Maria as they stood on the steps. “I don’t pretend to know her well, but she is fond of you and she is fond of me. She’ll have something to say on the matter.”

Maria was less convinced. “All that may be true, but John is her husband’s nephew, and in our world blood trumps friendship every time.”

At that moment the door was opened by a footman in dress livery, and as they stepped inside it was at once obvious that the house was full of activity, with maids waiting to take the ladies’ cloaks and other footmen standing by the staircase.

“What’s happening?” said Charles.

“Her ladyship is giving a tea party, sir. Are you not invited?” He frowned. He had only admitted them on the assumption that they were.

“She will be pleased to see us, I’m sure,” said Charles smoothly.

The footman received this information but it made him nervous. What if they had not been invited for a reason? He was trying to weigh which action—turning them away when they were wanted, or letting them in when they were not—would get him into the most trouble. In the end, he knew he had seen both of them at other gatherings given by his employer, and so he thought it was probably better to send them up. He nodded to a man at the base of the stairs. “Take Mr. Pope and Lady Maria Grey to the drawing room.”

They started toward the steps. “I’m rather impressed he should remember our names,” said Charles.

“It’s his job,” replied Maria. “But are we right to do this?”

When they reached the entrance, the principal drawing rooms of Brockenhurst House, for there were two of them, linked by double doors, seemed to be entirely filled with women. At least, there were few men in their midst, chattering and laughing, their black morning coats in sharp contrast to the sea of color surrounding them, as the vast skirts of the ladies’ costumes billowed about like water lilies on a lake. Servants walked among the guests carrying plates of sandwiches and cakes and filling cups from teapots. One or two of the ladies looked up, curiously.

“Where will we find her?” said Maria, but the answer came quickly from behind them.

“Here,” said Lady Brockenhurst.

They turned and there she was, smiling, perhaps a little surprised. “We’re very sorry to have forced our way into your party, Lady Brockenhurst—” But Charles got no further.

“Nonsense. I’m delighted to see you.” The Countess allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sight of him. “I would have invited you both if I had thought you’d find it in the least bit amusing.” She was wearing a dress of pale pink damask edged in lace, with a little ruff at her neck, a stiff costume in its way but still becoming. Only Maria knew it was not a color the Countess would have worn until recently.

“We need your advice,” said Charles.

“I’m flattered.”

“But it may not be advice you’re willing to give.” Clearly, Maria was altogether less optimistic about the outcome. “You might feel you must support the other side.”

“Are we to take sides?” Caroline Brockenhurst’s right eyebrow rose in an ironic arch. “How interesting. Would you like to come with me to my boudoir, my dear? It is only across the landing.”

Maria was slightly taken aback. “Can we leave your guests?”

“Oh, I think so.” Lady Brockenhurst already knew what was coming, since she had been expecting it for some time. She also knew how she intended to deal with it.

“And Charles?”

“Mr. Pope can stay here. It won’t be for long. He will not mind that.”

“No, indeed,” said Charles. He was delighted that their hostess seemed so willing to get involved in their troubles.

The women walked toward a door that was different from the one they had come in by. Then they stopped. “I should warn you, Mr. Pope,” said Lady Brockenhurst. “I am expecting Lady Templemore.”

Maria caught Charles’s eye. This was not what they wanted to hear. “Consider me warned,” said Charles.

In fact, at that moment Lady Templemore was standing in the doorway at the other end of the double drawing room. She had been told downstairs that her daughter had already arrived, accompanied by Mr. Pope, news she had received in complete silence. She’d suspected something of the sort when Ryan had told her that Maria had given them the slip. But to find them here and together was a shock. It must mean that they believed Lady Brockenhurst would be their friend, and yet how could she be? Corinne Templemore was reluctant to think such evil of her old ally. Until, that is, she witnessed Maria leaving the room with a smiling Caroline, and Mr. Pope left to look after himself, surrounded by the elderly beauties on the guest list. As she stood there, some of the ladies nodded to her, but she approached none of them. Among the crowd, sitting on a damask bergère opposite her, was a distinguished-looking woman in her late fifties. Dressed in blue silk trimmed with gilded braid, she wore a heavy rope of gleaming pearls around her neck and pearl earrings. Her hair was curled and pinned up at the back and on her lap lay a feathered fan.

“Lady Templemore,” she said. “Good day to you.” She had seen that Corinne’s eyes had never left that young man sitting on the other side of the drawing room and she was curious. There was something fascinating in the other woman’s stillness. Was this an unlikely liaison? A May-September romance in reverse? Whatever the truth, it was clear that some sort of intrigue was being played out before her, and she was enthralled.

Corinne stared at her for a moment, brought out of her daze by the question. “Duchess,” she said. “How pleased you must be by the success of the fashion you invented. Afternoon tea will clearly outlast us all.”

The Duchess of Bedford accepted the compliment modestly. “You’re kind, but we never know what will last,” she said, allowing her eyes to follow Lady Templemore’s to the distant seated figure of that handsome young man.

Corinne smiled coldly. “Maybe not.” She spoke in a voice so hard that the Duchess knew at once that her seeming obsession with the dark stranger was anything but a concealed passion. “But we sometimes know what will not last. Not if I have anything to do with it.” With that, she moved forward, gliding through the throng, managing her skirts, looking neither to left nor right until she faced the figure of Charles Pope.

He was talking to a woman at his side and did not notice her at first. Then she spoke. “Mr. Pope,” she said. He turned.

“Lady Templemore. Good afternoon.” In his mind, he thanked Lady Brockenhurst for giving him a warning, or the shock might have shown on his face.

“I might have known you’d be involved.” Lady Templemore’s face was implacable.

“Involved in what?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Charles felt a strange calm spreading through his whole being. He had always known the day would dawn when he would have to fight it out with Maria’s mother. Even when he told himself Maria was beyond his reach and tried to accept it, still, at the back of his mind was the sense that this battle would be joined. “I am not a liar,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “I will tell you anything you wish. I found her in Hatchards. She was distressed and so I brought her here. She is with Lady Brockenhurst now.”

“I know you have been meeting in secret. Don’t think I don’t. I know everything about you.” Corinne had dropped her voice, but even so, a woman near them rose and moved to a different seat, aware that something more important than tea-party gossip was happening and it would behoove any listener to give the couple space.

It was not, of course, entirely true that Corinne knew everything about him, but she did know quite a lot. After that first encounter, the maid, Ryan, had reported back with enough information for her to make further enquiries. It did not take long to establish that he was a country vicar’s son starting out on a career in trade. The idea that he should imagine he could court her daughter offended Corinne Templemore to the very core of her being.

Charles, aware of the curious looks they were receiving, had also dropped his volume, but he hoped he was speaking firmly. He did not intend to be bullied by this woman, whoever she might be. “We have met a few times, it is true, but not really in secret,” he said. Of course he was being a little jejune and he knew it. That meeting in Kensington Gardens, for instance, might have been in a public place, but it was still a secret. Or why had he scuttled away through the bushes like a runaway convict at Lady Templemore’s approach? Still, he justified his words to himself by the thought that it was not for him to reveal their love to her mother. That was for Maria to do, in her own time. She might, after all, decide against such a revelation, although he did not now think she would. If she was prepared to elope, surely she was strong enough to face her parent.

Corinne had some justification. Born pretty and well-bred, if not rich, she might have achieved an enjoyable life if she had not been married off at sixteen to a man seemingly in a permanent rage from the moment they left the Church. As a result, she had spent almost thirty years in a freezing house in the middle of nowhere dodging her husband’s insults. He had even died angry. Out hunting, his horse refused a gate, and he whipped it with such fury that it reared and threw him. His skull was dashed against a rock, and that was the end of the fifth Earl of Templemore. After her release from the storm of her marriage, she saw in John Bellasis a haven of peace and comfort that was surely earned, and she looked forward to it. At least until this outsider from nowhere overturned the cart.

But Corinne’s decision to confront Charles was ill judged. Had she been more moderate, had she chosen to woo Charles and appeal to his sense of honor, she might have hoped to send him packing. But a direct attack was bound to be counterproductive. As Charles studied the angry, flushing face of the woman before him, he was struck by the irony that Lady Templemore had changed his mind. The thought would have enraged her, but it was true. He’d refused Maria’s plea in the bookshop because he believed it his duty to make her give him up rather than live her life in the shadow of a scandal, but this imperious, arrogant woman had altered his view of the matter. In fact, if Maria had returned at that moment and asked him again to elope, there and then, he would probably have agreed.

At all events, Corinne Templemore had not come here to bandy words with this impertinent nonentity. She was only frightened that her rage was so great it would run away with her tongue and she would create a scene that would be all around Belgravia before it grew dark. In an effort to compose herself, she smoothed the violet silk of her skirts. Then, when she was sure she was in command of her temper, she looked at his face once more. “Mr. Pope,” she said. “I am sorry I was rude just now.”

“Please.” He lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t think of it.”

“You misunderstand me. I am only sorry because it may lead you to ignore what I am saying. The fact is, to indulge the notion of any connection between you and my daughter is either criminal or unbelievably stupid. You will know which.” She waited for his answer.

Charles stared at her. “Maria and I—”

“Lady Maria,” she said, waiting for him to continue.

He took a breath and tried again. “Lady Maria and I—”

But she cut him off once more. “Mr. Pope, there is no ‘Lady Maria and I.’ It is an absurd concept. You must understand just this: My daughter is a jewel as far above you as the stars. For your own sake as much as for hers, forget her. Leave her alone if you have a shred of honor in you.” So saying, she walked back to a seat near the Duchess, took a plate and a cup from a passing footman, and began to chatter to her neighbor without so much as a glance at the man whose life she had attempted to grind into the dust.

As soon as they were in her boudoir, Caroline shut the door and waved the girl to a seat. “I suppose this is about my husband’s nephew?”

Maria nodded. “In part. I will not marry him, whatever Mama says.”

It was Caroline’s turn to nod. “You made that clear enough when we heard about the announcement of your engagement in the newspapers.”

“Things have gotten worse since then.” As Maria spoke, she allowed her eyes to wander around this pretty room with its delicate furniture and fire twinkling in the grate. Some invitations were jammed into the gilded looking glass. A half-finished piece of embroidery, stretched across a round frame, lay on the worktable. Books, flowers, letters all contributed to the charming, relaxed jumble. How untroubled Lady Brockenhurst’s life must be, she thought; how easy, how enviable. And then she remembered that her hostess’s only son was dead.

Caroline stared at her. “You’re making me impatient,” she said.

“Of course.” Maria cleared her throat. It was time to tell the story. “Mama is ordering me to leave London and stay with her cousin, Mrs. Meredith, in Northumberland.”

“Which would be disagreeable to you?”

“It’s not that. I like her. But Mama wants to make the preparations for my marriage while I’m away, so that I would come home and be married a few days later.”

Caroline thought for a moment. So she was right. The whole situation was coming to a crisis. The moment she had imagined for so long was almost here. Still, she knew what she must do. She felt a slight pang as she prepared to break her promise to Anne Trenchard, but in all honesty, could it be avoided? The other woman would forgive her when she knew the facts. “Maria,” she said, “I have something to tell you that I had rather we keep a secret from Charles Pope. It will not be for long, and he will know the whole truth in the end, I promise.”

“Why can you not tell him now?”

“Because the secret is about him, and naturally it will be more traumatic for him than for you. And I must explain it in front of Lord Brockenhurst, who is away. You will be there when I tell him, but you must give nothing away until I do. I must have your word on it.”

This was probably the most intriguing thing Maria had ever heard anyone say in her entire life. “Very well,” she said carefully, adding, “if he will learn it eventually.”

“I am telling you now because I think you will see that it affects your own position. It will change things, not so much as your mother would have liked, but it will definitely make your position different, and it is possible that she may be brought around.” Lady Brockenhurst had declared her side in no uncertain terms.

“What should I do in the interim?”

“You will stay with me, here, in this house.”

There was something almost unsettling in the unhesitating conviction behind every word Lady Brockenhurst spoke. She was in no doubt whatsoever about the desirability of the lovers’ preferred outcome, nor did she seem to question that she could bring it about.

Maria shook her head, as if to clear it of the glistening dreams that were finding their way into her mind and her heart. “Mama will not be brought around to Charles. I would love to believe she could be, but she won’t. If we are to be together, we must break away and make our own life, apart from her.”

“What does Charles say to that?”

“He won’t do it.” Maria stood and went to the window, looking down on the carriages of the guests standing in the square. “He says he will not be the cause of any scandal that would harm me.”

“I should have expected no less of him.”

Maria turned back into the room. “Maybe. But you must see that my situation is hopeless.”

Lady Brockenhurst smiled. She did not appear to understand that this conclusion was final at all. “Sit down, my dear, and listen.” And when Maria was settled back on a little satin sofa next to her chair, she continued. “I think you will know that Lord Brockenhurst and I had a son, Edmund, who died at Waterloo.”

“I did know that, and I am very sorry.”

How strange, thought Caroline, that she could speak of Edmund again as part of a positive and life-affirming story, and not just from behind a veil of tears. She looked back at this young woman who she was determined would be a central part of her life from now on.

“Well, before he died…”