Caroline Brockenhurst stared at her visitor. She could hardly take in what she was saying. “I don’t understand,” she said at last.

Anne was not surprised. It was a great deal to digest. She had thought for some time how best to explain the situation, but in the end she’d come to the conclusion that she just had to say it. “We know now that your son, Edmund, was legally married to my daughter, Sophia, before he died. Charles Pope is legitimate, and in fact is not Charles Pope at all. He’s Charles Bellasis, or to be exact, Viscount Bellasis, and the legal heir to his grandfather.”

James Trenchard had come home that day bursting with joy. He held in his hand the proof he’d been waiting for. His lawyers had registered the marriage and it had been accepted by the Committee of Privileges. At least, this last would take some time to complete, but the lawyers had scanned the evidence and they could see no difficulty. In other words, there wasn’t any further need to keep it secret. It was Anne who decided they must tell Lady Brockenhurst straightaway. So she’d walked round and found her alone. And now she had told her the news.

Caroline Brockenhurst sat in silence as a million different thoughts jostled for a place in her brain. Would Edmund really have married without telling them? And the daughter of Wellington’s victualler? At first she was filled with indignation. How could this possibly have happened? The girl must have been a little minx. She knew Sophia had been pretty. Caroline’s sister, the Duchess, had told her that much, but what a schemer she must have been into the bargain. Then the greater truth started to impress itself on her. They had a legitimate heir, she and Peregrine. And an heir who was industrious, talented, and clever. Of course he must abandon his trading at once, but he would. As soon as he knew the facts of the case. He could bring his abilities to bear at Lymington, or on their other estates. Then there were the London properties that no one had done much with in a century or more. There was such a lot for him to tackle. She concentrated again on the woman before her. They were not friends, exactly, even now, but they were not enemies. They had shared too much for that.

“And he knows nothing? Charles, I mean.”

“Nothing. James wanted to be quite sure there would be no obstacles that might have disappointed him.”

“I see. Well, we should send a message first thing in the morning. Come to dinner here tomorrow night, and we can tell him together.”

“What about Lord Brockenhurst? Where is he now?”

“He’s been shooting in Yorkshire. He’ll be back tomorrow, or so he said. I’ll send a telegram to confirm he’s to come here and not go on to Hampshire.” She thought for a moment. “If Mr. Trenchard was successful in getting the marriage accepted, how did he explain your daughter’s surname on the registry of the birth?”

Anne smiled. “All husbands are the legal fathers of any children born during a marriage.”

“Even when they’re dead?”

“If a child is born within nine months of a husband’s death, the legal assumption obtains that he is the father, whether or not the wife took his name, whether or not he is named as the father in the registry.”

“Can a husband not repudiate a baby?”

Anne thought. “There must be some mechanism for that, but in this instance one look at Charles’s face tells us all who his father was.”

“True enough.” And now, at last, the warm glow of relief and real joy was beginning to flood through the Countess. They had an heir, whom she already admired greatly, and he would soon have a family for her and Peregrine to love.

Anne must have been entertaining similar thoughts as she suddenly asked: “Where is Lady Maria? What does she know?”

Caroline nodded. “I’ve told her Charles is our grandson, as I thought then it might be enough to soothe the feelings of her mother. In fact, I was wrong, but that is what she knows.” She smoothed her skirts, relishing the knowledge of the news she’d have to tell the girl when she came back.

“Where is she now?” said Anne.

“With Lady Templemore. Her brother arrived from Ireland last night, and a footman brought a summons this morning. She’s gone there for dinner, partly to see him and partly to ask for his help in talking her mother around. I am tempted to send a note saying no such persuasion will now be necessary, but I suppose it must play itself out.”

Reginald Grey, sixth Earl of Templemore, was a man of real principle, if a little less passionate about his beliefs than his sister. He was handsome in his way, and upright, if perhaps a shade dull. But he loved his sibling fiercely. They had gone through a lot together, Maria and he, crouching behind the landing balustrade to listen from the nursery floor to the battles being waged below, and those unsettling years had created a bond between them that would not be easily broken, as their mother gloomily acknowledged. The family was sitting together in Lady Templemore’s drawing room, and it was easy to see that the mood in the room was not encouraging.

“How are things at home?” said Maria, in an attempt to move the talk along. She was wearing an evening frock in pale green silk, with embroidery around the low neck setting off her well-formed shoulders and bosom, even if the effect was wasted on her brother.

“Very good. We’ve lost two tenants recently, but I’ve taken their land in hand. I suppose I must be farming about a thousand acres directly. And I’ve decided to make more of the library. There’s a man coming to see me when I get back about installing new bookcases and moving down the chimneypiece from the Blue Bedroom. I think it’ll work well.”

Maria was listening intently, as if to show she was an adult making adult choices. “I’m sure. Papa would have liked the idea of that.”

“Your father never read a book in his life,” said Lady Templemore. “Not if he could avoid it.” She rose to rearrange the Meissen figures on the mantel shelf. She was not making things easy.

Reggie Templemore decided there was no point in avoiding the subject any longer. “I gather from your letters that you two have been at odds recently.”

Lady Templemore ceased her attentions to the display on the chimneypiece. “You gather correctly,” she said.

Maria decided to take the bull by the horns. “I have met the man I am going to marry. I hope this can be done with your permission and your blessing. I would like to walk down the aisle on your arm. But whether or not you approve, I will not marry anyone else.”

Reggie held up his palms as if to calm a frightened horse. “Whoa.” He smiled as he spoke, attempting to take the anger out of the situation. “There’s no need for fighting talk, not when it’s only the three of us here.”

“Maria has thrown away a great opportunity that would have transformed both our lives. She can hardly expect me to approve of her decision.” Corinne returned to her seat. If the moment for the discussion had arrived, she might as well involve herself in it.

Reggie waited for the ruffled feathers to settle back into place. “I do not know this man, of course. And I am sorry if Maria is not to wield the power to do good that was on offer, but I cannot pretend to any strong pangs of grief at the thought of losing John Bellasis as a brother-in-law. His personality was never as attractive as his position.”

“Thank you,” said Maria, as if her brother had already won the argument. “He didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. That’s all there was to it.”

“Then why did you accept him?” said her mother.

“Because you made me feel that, if I didn’t, I was a bad daughter.”

“That’s right. Blame me. You always do.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Hard as it was to believe, Lady Templemore had the uncomfortable sensation that matters were sliding out of her control. She had hoped her son might talk some sense into his sister, but he seemed to have sided with Maria from the start. “I do not think you understand, Reggie. The man she has chosen as a husband is a bastard and a tradesman.” It was hard to tell which she thought the worst insult.

“Strong talk, Mama.” Reggie was not sure he was quite comfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. “Maria?”

Naturally, Maria was made uncomfortable by this since, as far as she knew, both her mother’s accusations were quite true. Charles was a bastard, and he was a tradesman. She corrected the facts a little as she answered him, but she could not transform them. “It’s true he is the illegitimate son of a nobleman, received and welcomed by his father’s family. And he is a respected cotton mill owner in Manchester with plans to expand and develop his business.” As she spoke her tone grew more confident. “You’ll like him enormously,” she added for good measure. “I know you will.” To be fair, she was reasonably sure this was true.

Reggie was quite moved by his sister’s enthusiasm. Clearly she thought this man weighed equally with John Bellasis in the great scales of life. He found himself wishing that it could be so. “May we know the name of the nobleman who is so pleased to have an illegitimate son?”

Maria hesitated. She didn’t believe she had the right to name the Brockenhursts, not without their permission. “Actually, his father is dead,” she said. “It’s his grandparents who have welcomed him into their lives. But I’m not at liberty to name them just yet.”

Witnessing her daughter’s confidence that this nonentity could somehow be made to look the equal of her former suitor was driving Corinne to distraction. She turned to face them both, shrugging her shoulders as she did so. “But surely, when you match him against John Bellasis—”

“Mama.” Even Reggie was beginning to resist his mother’s obstinacy. “John Bellasis has gone and he will not be back. We couldn’t revive that even if we wanted to.”

“Which we do not!” added Maria, as forcefully as she dared.

“But a tradesman?” Corinne was not going to give in without a fight.

“Eight years ago—”

“Really, Maria. No more about the Stephensons.”

“No, not this time. I just wanted to remind you that Lady Charlotte Bertie married John Guest, and he was an ironmaster.” Maria had done her homework. She could probably list every mismatch in London’s recent history. “They’re received everywhere.”

Her mother was not so easily defeated. “Mr. Guest was also very rich and a Member of Parliament. Mr. Pope is neither.”

“But he will be both.” Maria did not of course have any idea if Charles even wanted to be a Member of Parliament, but she was certainly not going to allow any Welsh iron man to have the advantage.

“And you say his grandparents welcome him, but his father is dead?”

Maria looked nervously at her mother. Had she revealed too much? Had Lady Templemore guessed the connection with the Brockenhursts? Why had she been so detailed in her description? But before she could add anything more to the discussion, the door opened and the butler appeared. Dinner, it seemed, was ready.

“Thank you, Stratton, we’ll be there in just a moment.” Reggie spoke with the conviction of the man of the house, even though he was almost never there.

His mother looked at him in surprise. She’d been adjusting a loose shawl around her shoulders in preparation for the chill of the dining room below and was not aware of any reason for them to linger. But the man had nodded and retreated and the three of them were alone once more.

Reggie spoke. “I will see this man, Mr. Pope. I will send a message in the morning, and I am sure he will make time for me—”

“Of course he will!” said Maria, making a mental note to send a message of her own to Bishopsgate. A message that would get there first.

Reggie continued. For a man of twenty, he really did have authority, and Maria felt proud to call him her brother. “I will listen to what he has to say, and, Mama, I cannot promise to support your stance. If the man is a gentleman, then I suggest we should talk instead about real conditions, real agreements, by which he would protect Maria’s future and earn the right to join our family.”

Corinne threw back her head in disgust. “So you are defeated.”

Reggie was a match for her. “I am realistic. If Maria will not marry any other man, then let us at least try to see if we can come to terms with this one. In the end, Mama, I’m afraid your choice is going to be simple. You must decide whether you wish to get on with your children or live at war with them. Now, shall we go down?”

Susan Trenchard was checking her rooms. Everything they were taking was packed except for the clothes and things she would need on the journey. They were moving to Somerset. Anne had advised against traveling so far much later in the pregnancy, and so they had decided to go now. Susan did not relish it, either the journey or their future in the country, but she accepted both. They had a job ahead of them, to make the house and the estate their own, and she would like to get the nurseries into a respectable condition, even if superstition prevented her from redecorating them before the birth of the child. The only thing that concerned her was Oliver. True to their agreement, they had never mentioned the paternity of the baby since that night, and nor did she intend to, ever again. But he was still preoccupied, even maudlin, and she wondered if he was coming to regret his decision to go along with her plans. He could be difficult, as she knew well enough, and she prayed that he was not getting ready to be difficult now.

One case stood open in the corner, to take whatever was left. The rest had been carried out to the vast traveling carriage that had made its way up from Somerset and waited now in the mews behind the house. A hall boy would guard it overnight, and then they would leave as soon as they had breakfasted. Unlike her mother-in-law, she intended to make it to Glanville in two days, and for that they needed an early start. As she looked at the clothes she had retained for traveling, the door opened and Oliver came in.

“Are you ready to go down?”

She nodded. She was wearing a simple gray dress, which would be useful for the night they must spend at the coaching inn on the way. It was quite becoming but not as formal as James usually demanded. “I know this isn’t very smart, but I’ve kept a silver necklace out that may raise its rank a bit. Speer took it down to clean, and she’ll be back in a moment.”

Oliver was hardly listening. He nodded without comment, glancing around the room. “Will you miss London?”

“We’ll be back for the Season.” She spoke happily, because that was what she had decided. To be a happy wife from here on in.

“It’s a long way off.” But Oliver was not sneering or angry or even drunk; he sounded more wistful. Maybe he was worried for her. He slumped into a chair near the fire, glancing around him as if he were looking for something, but she could not guess what it might be.

She smiled. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

He did not deny it, which confirmed that something was amiss. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

But the door opened and the maid returned, holding the filigree necklace Susan had spoken of, and in another moment it had been fastened around her mistress’s neck. Susan and Oliver were ready to descend.

Charles Pope was torn. He’d only recently welcomed his mother to London and installed her in the rooms he had taken for them both in High Holborn. She’d been in the City for less than a week, and, although she professed excitement at this new turn her life had taken, she was also nervous to find herself in the rattle and clatter of a modern city after a lifetime in a rural village. He felt he should go home and see to her comfort, for a few more days at least, but instead he stared at the note in his hand. It had been delivered not much more than an hour earlier.

Dear Mr. Pope,

I wonder if you will indulge me with your company this evening. Very possibly not, after the last time we met, when I allowed my anger to overtake my manners. But I believe it would add greatly to the happiness of a man we both hold dear if we could manage to settle our differences. I am sure they are of my making and not yours, but I would take it as a great compliment if you would indulge me in this. I will be at the Black Raven on Allhallows Lane at eleven. I cannot get there sooner as I have committed myself elsewhere, but I would prefer to get things settled sooner rather than later.

Yours, Oliver Trenchard

Charles had read it several times by this point. The letter was undated and did not bear an address, but he had no reason to question its authenticity. James had shown him some notes Oliver had submitted on the Isle of Dogs development and the writing certainly looked genuine. And he knew only too well that he had caused difficulties between James and his son. It would be a good thing if they could move past their troubles, since it was a poor return, after all James had done for him, to make trouble in the family. For a moment he thought he might carry the letter to James’s house in Eaton Square, but then wouldn’t that be defeating the object? To call James’s attention to the quarrel before there was a solution? He did not know the public house named in the message, but he was familiar with Allhallows Lane, a narrow alleyway not far from Bishopsgate on the river’s edge and walkable from his office. Why must it be so late? If Oliver was busy that evening, why not just leave it for another day? But then, if he objected to the time, might it not be interpreted as a refusal to patch things up, when the truth was that he wanted nothing more?

In the end, he decided to walk back to his rooms, settle his mother, eat something with her and, after that, keep the appointment. She would retire to bed as soon as he left, if not before, and there was both a landlady and his own servant to keep an eye on her. With that in mind, he called for his coat.

Maria, her brother, and her mother had spoken of little that was contentious at dinner. They were served by the butler and the solitary footman and Corinne did not care to advertise her family’s difficulties to the servants. So they had discussed Reggie’s plans for Balligrey and gossiped about their friends and relations in Ireland until it was almost possible to forget that Maria and her mother were engaged in a struggle that could only end in victory for one of them. “You’re very secretive about your own life,” said Maria playfully. “Is there anything you ought to tell us?”

Reggie smiled as he reached for his glass. “Experience has taught me to keep my cards close to my chest.”

“That sounds promising. Doesn’t it, Mama?”

But Lady Templemore was not prepared to be drawn into merry banter when she had such heavy thoughts weighing on her mind. “I’m sure Reggie will tell us when he’s ready,” she said, nodding to the footman that they had finished. The man stepped in to remove the plates.

“I don’t want to wait,” said Maria, but she did not succeed in getting much more out of her brother. Only that he “might” have found the daughter of some friends of their parents very “congenial,” and it was “possible” that something could come of it.

“If her parents really are old friends, then that in itself is balm to this wounded soul,” said Corinne when the servants were momentarily out of the room, but she did not attempt to elaborate.

Only later, when they were back in the drawing room and the servants had left them, did she speak to any purpose. “Very well,” she said.

Maria was taken unawares, halfway through pouring a cup of coffee for herself. She looked up. “Very well what?”

“I will wait for Reggie’s verdict. If he likes your Mr. Pope, if he approves the match, then I will try to follow suit. He is the head of the family now. It is he who will carry the burden of this man as a brother-in-law. I will be dead soon, so what does my opinion matter?” She sat back on the sofa with a sigh, suggesting a vaguely infirm condition, and picked up her fan from the table by her elbow.

For a moment, neither Maria nor Reggie moved. Then the girl threw herself on her knees before her mother and, seizing her hands, began to kiss them as tears coursed down her cheeks. “Thank you, dearest, most darling Mama. Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“I am regretting it now,” said Lady Templemore. “But I cannot fight both my children. I am too weak. I will try my best to like him, this man who has stolen my daughter’s future.”

Maria looked up at her. “He hasn’t stolen it, Mama. I have given him my future quite freely.” At least the mother did not pull her hands away, letting them rest in her daughter’s, and although she shed a few tears that night as she lay in bed, over the loss of the paradise she had dreamed of, still, all things considered, Corinne Templemore preferred to be on good terms rather than bad when it came to her children. They had been down a difficult, rocky path together while their father was alive, and it did not suit her to fight with them now.

The fruit had come in, arranged on a silver epergne with little baskets held around a central bowl of roses all filled with plums and grapes and nectarines, glistening in the light of the candelabra at either end of the table. It looked like something from a painting by Caravaggio, thought Anne. Mrs. Babbage could be quite artistic when she put her mind to it. She had ordered a good dinner to send Oliver and Susan on their way, and, to be honest, she was pleased that Susan had somehow brought her son around. Anne intended to abide by the agreement and never mention the child’s paternity again. For a second she had thought of telling Caroline Brockenhurst that now all of Anne’s grandchildren would have Bellasis blood, but she knew that if she told even one person, eventually James would hear, and that she did not want. So Susan’s secret was safe with her, and Anne was glad. She wasn’t exactly fond of her daughter-in-law, but she thought Susan clever and competent when she put her mind to anything, and this latest fright, this brush with scandal, seemed to have brought her out of the selfish mist she moved around in and made her engage with the practicalities of their new life. Dr. Johnson wrote that if a man knows he is to be hanged the following morning, it concentrates the mind wonderfully, and maybe the same could be said of the threat of ruin. Anne was sorry to have surrendered Glanville. She would go there for visits, perhaps not much less than she did already, but it would no longer be her kingdom. Queen Susan would henceforth rule. Still, she knew it was a sacrifice worth making, to allow her son to live his own life instead of his father’s.

But when Anne looked down the table at her son, she realized that something still appeared to be troubling Oliver. She’d tried once or twice over the past few days to ask him what it might be, but with no success. He’d answered her inquiries, insisting that there was nothing amiss, but still…

“Have you seen Mr. Pope lately, Father?” Oliver’s words were a surprise, since they all knew he had no love for Charles Pope and would normally have preferred to steer clear of the subject. As far as Anne and James knew, he still had no idea of Charles’s true identity, as James felt it only right that Charles should learn it first, or at least no later than everyone else. He was, of course, quite ignorant of Susan’s role in the story, and Anne was not going to disabuse him. So she was content that Oliver should find out once Charles, Lord Brockenhurst and the Templemores had been told at dinner the following evening.

After pausing a moment to get over the strangeness of the question, James looked at his son. “What do you mean, ‘lately’?”

“In the past week.” Oliver was eating a peach and some of the juice dribbled down his chin. Susan noticed it and felt her jaw tightening with irritation, but she forced herself to let it go. If he wanted to have juice on his chin, then so be it. It was his chin, after all.

“No,” said James. “He’s moved lodgings to have some more space for his mother—” He caught Anne’s glance and corrected himself. “For Mrs. Pope, who is coming to live with him. He knew he would need a while to settle her in.”

Oliver nodded. “Do you know where those lodgings are?”

James shook his head as he began to peel a peach, puzzled as to where this conversation might be leading. “Somewhere in Holborn, I think. Why?”

“No reason,” his son replied. Anne caught Billy glancing at Oliver in curiosity until he saw her watching him and blushed. She would have to call him Watson now that he was the butler. They all would.

“I think there is a reason.” James’s voice had an edge to it, and Anne supposed it was because he knew he would have to defend Charles against Oliver’s criticism. But the younger man didn’t seem aggressive or angry or even rude. If she’d had to put a name to his mood, she would have said he was worried. “Oliver, can you come with me?” James threw down his fruit knife and stood, discarding his crumpled napkin on the table. He led the way across the hall to the library.

They walked in silence, but once they were there James shut the door and spoke. “Now, what is going on? Why are you preoccupied, and what has this to do with Charles Pope?”

In a way, now the question had come, it was a relief for Oliver to unburden himself. How he’d gone to the Horse and Groom hot with anger; how John Bellasis had found him there. “He knew I was in a rage about Pope, though I don’t know how, and he started to question me. He was curious about the man, and, as we know, Pope is a great favorite with Mr. Bellasis’s aunt. Perhaps he was jealous. I know I was.”

“But what happened? What did he do? What did you do?” Anxious for something to occupy his hands, James seized the poker and began to stir the dying fire back into life.

Oliver did not speak at once. He tried to think of ways to make what he had to say sound less serious. But he could not. “He said he wanted to teach Pope a lesson.”

“What sort of lesson?”

“I don’t know. I was pretty drunk before he arrived. And I was angry with Pope myself.”

“You don’t have to explain that you wished Charles Pope ill. I would expect nothing else from you. Go on.” His tone was anything but conciliatory, but Oliver had begun, so now he might as well finish.

“He asked me to write a note to Mr. Pope. He said he couldn’t write the note himself, as Pope didn’t care for him and wouldn’t respond to it. But if I wrote a message, saying that I was sorry we had fallen out, and that it would give you pleasure if we could be reconciled, then Pope might agree to meet me.”

“It would give me pleasure?” James gave a derisive snort.

“Somehow Bellasis knew you were unhappy that I’d taken against your protégé. Anyway, I wrote the note and had a drink with him and left.”

James stared in disbelief. “You wrote a letter to lure Charles Pope to a place where he… what? He would be beaten up? By thugs arranged by Mr. Bellasis? Was that it?”

“I told you, I was drunk.”

“But not too drunk to hold a pen, by God.” For Oliver, his father’s fury was washing away the precious peace he had been reaching for since they had made the decision to let him escape to Glanville. Here he was, once again, a disappointment, a failure, a fool. “When was this meeting to take place?”

“He didn’t say. He wouldn’t let me date the note, so that he could choose when to send it. I suppose he had to arrange a reception committee, and make sure everything was prepared. That’s why I asked if you’d heard from Pope.”

“Where was he to meet you? Or rather, to meet Bellasis?”

For Oliver, it was as if he’d been carrying a dangerous, half-formed secret locked in a bottle for the days since he’d done this thing. He had not wanted to acknowledge that he’d been stupid and a dupe, but of course he had. Now it seemed the poisonous secret had escaped from the bottle and it had grown large enough to push everything else out of his mind. “I can’t remember.”

“Then try harder!” James strode to the bell rope and gave it a tug. When the footman hurried across the hall from the dining room, James shouted almost before he’d opened the door. “Send the boy to tell Quirk to get a carriage out! The brougham! We’ll need to go fast!”

Oliver was bewildered. “But go where? You don’t know his present address, and I can’t recall where the note invited him. And why should it be tonight?”

James stared at him. “If it’s already happened and he’s seriously hurt, then I’ll never forgive you. If it hasn’t happened yet, then we’ll warn him, even if we have to wait all night outside his office. Now where was the meeting place? In the City? In the country? You must know that, at least!”

Oliver thought. “I think it was in the City. Yes, because he said Pope would be able to walk there from his place of work.”

“Then we’ll start in Bishopsgate. Get your coat, while I speak to your mother.” James walked toward the door.

“Father.”

James stopped at the sound of his son’s voice. He turned to look at him.

“I’m sorry.” It was true. Oliver’s face was white with regret.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be if anything’s happened to him.”

John Bellasis shivered, though whether from the cold or the prospect ahead of him it was hard to tell. He had dismissed his hansom some streets away from Allhallows Lane, as he did not want the cabby to have a clue as to his destination, so he was walking through the East End of London at night, unaccompanied, alone.

When Oliver Trenchard had left him that night at the Horse and Groom, he’d put the note away, telling himself that he’d never use it. Thinking that he could somehow absolve himself of the guilt for having it written in the first place. Of course, he knew why he had made Oliver write it. He knew what he had intended from the moment he saw Oliver in the bar, and he was suddenly clear, in that second of seeing him, that it was within his reach to dispose of the obstacle to his own personal happiness. Yet still he hesitated.

He’d waited every day for the summons from his uncle. Would he and his father please come to Brockenhurst House, as there was some news that would have a bearing on their future? But it never came. There was no announcement in the newspapers, no letter from Aunt Caroline, nothing. The Trenchards must know the truth by now, since he himself had given them the proof, as it pained him to remember. Then it occurred to him that they must be waiting until everything could be vouchsafed as true and legal. That no one would be told, perhaps not even the Brockenhursts, until Charles Pope’s claims could be validated and upheld in court. And from that followed the thought that if he could bring himself to do this deed, if he could find the courage—for it was a kind of courage that was required—then he must do it before the announcements had been made. The death of a viscount, the heir of an earl, would be splashed across every newspaper and journal in the land. But the death of a young cotton merchant, just starting to build his business… that would barely warrant a tiny column in the bottom corner of the page.

Still he delayed. He would sit alone in his rooms, staring at the note Oliver had written, until at last he began to suspect that he lacked the nerve to do what he must do if he was to correct the hideous injustice that fate had planned for him. Did he, after all, lack courage? Was he afraid of detection and the hangman’s noose? But if he did not act, and every hope and dream were dashed to the ground and lay in pieces at his feet, was the life that awaited him any better than the noose?

Through these days, he stayed inside, locked in his rooms. He dined alone, waited on by his silent servant whose wages, he thought with a twinge of humor, were anything but safe. He drank alone and in some quantity, sure in the knowledge that even his simple life—and it was comparatively simple next to the lives of so many of his more fortunate contemporaries—would be at risk the moment the news broke that he was no longer an heir with a future but a man drowning in debt with no promise of an income. His debtors would close in like sharks, hoping to seize what little money remained, and his father could not save him. Indeed, Stephen’s troubles were, if anything, worse than his son’s. They would both be declared bankrupt, and what came next? A life of destitution in Paris or Calais, eking out the tiny pension that Charles Pope (he could not bring himself to think of his cousin as Charles Bellasis) might be persuaded to grant? Was that really preferable to seizing a chance, a challenge, that must end in triumph or the gallows?

And so, such thinking had brought him to the morning of that very day, after a sleepless night. He took out an envelope and, with the note open before him, imitated the writing well enough for one word, Pope, before he put the note inside and sealed it with wax. He carried it outside, waited until he was some distance from Albany, and hailed a hansom cab, giving the driver the address of Pope’s office and a tip to deliver the letter.

As he walked away, he told himself the man might have been a rogue who would pocket the money, destroy the envelope, and take up another passenger as soon as he was hailed. Let it be, he thought. If that was what happened, then that was what was meant to happen. But still he knew he must prepare. He must go early to the Black Raven, he must scout the distance from the public house to the river, he must finalize a plan. Once more he spent all day in his rooms, lying on his bed or pacing the floor. From time to time he would toy with the idea of simply not going, of letting Charles arrive to find no one there to greet him. He would ask for Oliver Trenchard, of course, not John Bellasis, and the innkeeper would shrug, having no knowledge of the name, and Charles would go home and get up on the morrow, ready and able to steal everything that should have been John’s. But as he considered this final thought, he knew he must act. Even if he failed, he would have tried. He would not have submitted to the cruelty of the gods without a struggle.

“I will be late tonight, Roger,” he said to his servant as the man held his topcoat open for him. “Do not expect me before the small hours. But if I am not in my bed by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, then you may start to make inquiries as to my whereabouts.”

“Where should I look, sir?” said the man, but John just shook his head and did not answer.

“Murder?” Oliver’s shock at his father’s suggestion was quite genuine. Even though James was in the grip of a rage so powerful it threatened to unhinge his mind, he could still see that.

Oliver had thought Charles Pope was threatened with violence but no more than that. He could see John Bellasis hated the man, if anything more than Oliver himself hated him, but that had seemed to indicate a beating was in order. And Bellasis would get away with it. He would no doubt hire men to do the dirty work. They would run off, leaving no clue for the Peelers to work with, and the matter would be soon forgotten. But murder? James’s suspicions seemed outlandish to his son. John Bellasis, try to murder Charles Pope?

“But why?” he said.

They had a way to go to reach Bishopsgate, and James could see no reason to leave Oliver in the dark any longer. As they journeyed through the gaslit streets, he told the story: the marriage in Brussels, Sophia’s mistake in thinking she had been betrayed, Charles’s true identity. Most of all he spoke of the threat to John Bellasis’s inheritance, which would only recede should Charles Pope disappear forever.

Oliver was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “You should have told me, sir. Not now. Long ago, before you knew who Charles Pope really was. Whether well born or a bastard, he is still my nephew, and you should have told me.”

“We worried about Sophia’s reputation.”

“Do you think I could not have kept silent to protect my sister’s name?”

For once James did not snap back at Oliver’s argument because it was a reasonable charge, which James was forced to concede. He had made the same mistake with Anne, and come to repent that. Why didn’t he trust the members of his own family? It was his weakness, not theirs, that had kept him silent. He sat back in his seat as the carriage rolled on through the night.

Maria walked back to Belgrave Square from Chesham Street in the company of her mother’s footman. There really was no need to get a coach out for a ten-minute journey, and she enjoyed the cool night air. She was lighthearted, with a spring in her step, and she would probably have dismissed the man if she wasn’t aware that it would have annoyed her mother, which was the very last thing she wanted to do that evening. She’d always known that Reggie would make things better, and so it had proved. Now, of course, Charles had to pass her brother’s test, but she was confident he would. He was a gentleman, after all. Not a great catch, but a gentleman, certainly. And hardworking and intelligent and everything else that Reggie valued. And the truth was, she was touched, very touched, by the way her mother had yielded to her son’s decision.

Maria had been strong and determined in her struggle. She had moved out of her mother’s house and, in a sense, made Corinne quarrel with her old friend Lady Brockenhurst. She had been cold and unyielding when her mother had tried to argue the case for John Bellasis, pointing out that if the man cared for her, why was he not there to argue the case for himself? But Maria did not like quarreling with her sole living parent. Her father had been a harsh man, with his children as much as his wife, and when he’d died, though they would not admit it, the three of them had a slight sense of having survived him, of relief that they were still going and he was out of the picture. She knew that Reggie felt, as she did, that their mother had earned her years of peace, and it pained Maria for them to be at odds. Now that was done. She had no doubt that once her mother got to know Charles she would like him, reluctantly at first, perhaps, but she would. And whether or not he came to like her, still he would protect Lady Templemore and see to her comfort, so that in the end the benefits of the marriage would be much the same as they would have been with John. They were, and would be from now on, a united family, and that was the way Maria liked it.

She had reached Brockenhurst House and the door was opened by the night watchman, who always sat in an arched, padded leather chair in a corner of the hall, wide awake, or so he said, until he was relieved by the butler at eight o’clock. She dismissed her mother’s footman and started toward the stairs after bidding the watchman good night. But he had a message for her. “Her ladyship’s waiting for you, m’lady. In the boudoir.”

Maria was surprised. “She hasn’t gone to bed?”

“No, m’lady.” The man was quite sure. “She was most particular that I was to tell you she was waiting up to see you.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Maria had reached the stairs by this time, and she started to climb.

Charles came out of the front door of his new lodgings and took a deep breath. The chill of the air was refreshing after the slightly overheated sitting room he had passed the evening in with his mother. But he’d been glad to spend the time with her. She was excited at the idea of her new life, and there was something heartening in the confidence she always displayed as far as his future prospects were concerned. She knew his business would soon be expanding throughout the world, and that he would make a fortune. She was equally certain he would buy a house in the most fashionable part of London and she would be able to run it for him, until his wife arrived, of course. And apparently none of this was going to take any time at all.

Naturally, Charles had to tell her that he thought his wife had already arrived, but he wanted to play it carefully, as he did not want his mother to think she was surplus to requirements. He was determined to make her welcome and comfortable whatever direction his life took, and he was confident that Maria would feel the same. So he gave the gentlest of hints, that there was someone he wanted her to meet, and Mrs. Pope had taken it in good part. “Will you tell me her name?”

“Maria Grey. You’ll like her very much.”

“I’m sure I will, if you have chosen her.”

“Things are not quite settled yet.”

“Why not, if she’s the one?”

The little sitting room allotted to their use was pretty, especially for rented rooms in Holborn, with patterned chintz curtains and a buttoned sofa where his mother sat, next to the worktable she had brought with her. She was half attending to a piece of embroidery, but his silence at her question made her stop and rest her needle. She waited.

He gave a slight grimace. “It’s complicated. Her mother is a widow and naturally protective of her only daughter. She is not entirely convinced that I am all that she is seeking in a son-in-law.”

Mrs. Pope laughed. “Then she is a very stupid widow. If she had any sense she would have bowed down and kissed the ground the moment you walked through her door.”

Charles was reluctant to make his mother an enemy of his future bride’s family. “Lady Templemore has her reasons. Another marriage had been arranged for Maria, and she can hardly be criticized for wanting her daughter to keep her word.”

“I can criticize her, this Lady Templemore”—her disdainful emphasis of the name was another sign of trouble to come. Charles rather regretted letting his mother in on his difficulties—“if the girl can see that you have more worth in your little finger than her feeble suitor, she is displaying good sense. Her mama should listen.” Now she continued her work, but with a touch of anger, stabbing at the cloth as if it had been playing up in some way. “Why is her name Templemore if the girl is called Grey?”

“Her late husband’s title was Templemore. Grey is the family’s surname.”

“Lord Templemore?”

“The Earl of Templemore, to be precise.”

The sewing began to assume an easier rhythm as his words sank in. So Charles was on the brink of a brilliant match. That was no surprise. He had always been brilliant in everything he did, as far as she was concerned. But the news was a source of particular pleasure to Mrs. Pope, although she would have felt guilty in admitting it. “I wouldn’t care if he was the King of Templemore,” she said firmly, pausing in her work for a moment. “They’d still be lucky to have you.” Charles decided to leave it at that.

Now Charles was on his way to the appointment with Oliver Trenchard. He had decided to walk. There was no hurry. He meant to walk to his offices every morning unless there was a reason not to, and his destination was not so far from there.

It seemed to him that Oliver’s note held out the hand of friendship and, if this were so, Charles was determined to take it. Ever since that luncheon at the Athenaeum, where Oliver’s jealousy—for it was certainly jealousy—had been so overwhelming, Charles had felt his every meeting with James had somehow been poisoned. Then Oliver’s attempts to ruin him in Mr. Trenchard’s eyes, with the bogus accusations from those scoundrels Brent and Astley, had been proof that none of Oliver’s fury had abated. James’s faith in Charles and his refusal to believe in his wrongdoing could only have inflamed the situation. As to whether or not Oliver had reason for his anger, if James had indeed been guilty of neglecting his own son in favor of a young stranger, Charles would not pass judgment. At any rate, they would all be happier if they could learn to live in peace. Charles valued James Trenchard’s support and help. He could see the ridiculous side of the man—his eager self-promotion, his needy scrambling up the greasy pole of social advancement, none of which interested Charles—but he could see the intelligence, too. James understood business, its eddies and currents and tides, as no man had ever understood it in Charles’s experience. That he had come from nothing and scaled the ladder of nineteenth-century England was no surprise to his protégé. His teaching would shave years off Charles’s own journey, and he meant to take full advantage of it. He was also genuinely grateful.

Charles was passing near his office now, on his way down to the river. During the day, Bishopsgate was a hive of activity, jammed with traffic, its pavements crowded with men and women all hurrying this way and that. But at night, it was a quiet place. There were some pedestrians, the occasional drunk, the occasional beggar, even the odd prostitute, although he would not have thought it busy enough to promise much trade, but for the most part it was an empty thoroughfare, its vast, dark buildings looming above him. For a moment he had a strange impulse to turn back, to miss the meeting and go home. It was like a sudden message, quite distinct but unexplained. With a shrug, he dismissed the thought, turned up his collar against the chill, and continued on his way.

Maria’s heart was beating like a hammer. Not because of Charles’s position and prospects—she’d had all that on offer from John Bellasis and turned her back on it—but because her mother had been reconciled to Charles before she even knew. If Reggie had not come over, if they had continued in enmity until tonight, then she would always have thought her mother had changed her mind because of Charles’s altered circumstances. Now she knew Corinne had accepted Charles as he was, not because she’d wanted to, but because of her love for her children. Lady Brockenhurst was of the same opinion. “I knew she would come around to him. I told you so.”

They were sitting together in the boudoir, in front of a warm fire. Caroline had sent for two glasses of sweet wine, a sauternes she was fond of, to toast the news. Neither of them wanted to go to bed.

“You told me, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Well, I’m glad she proved herself a true mother, and now she will have her reward. She must come to dinner tomorrow night. But don’t tell her first. It’ll spoil the surprise.”

Maria sipped at the delicate gilded glass. “And Charles still knows nothing?”

“Mr. Trenchard would not allow him to be told until everything had been checked by lawyers. I daresay that was sensible.” It was still hard for Caroline to say anything very charitable about James Trenchard, but the fact was, he and she were legally related now; at least, they shared a grandson, and so she had better get used to the idea.

Maria could read her hostess’s disdain. “Charles assures me that Mr. Trenchard has many fine qualities. He admires him very much.”

Caroline thought about this. “Then I will try to do the same.”

“I like his wife,” said Maria.

The Countess nodded. “Yes, I agree. I do quite like the wife.” It was hardly the most gushing of testimonials, but it was a start. In truth, Caroline did approve of Anne, who, unlike her husband, seemed indifferent to social advancement and indeed to others’ opinions of herself and her family. There was something instinctively well bred in her lack of interest in being well bred. If only her husband could learn from her. Caroline felt she would have to take a hand, or at least get Charles to take a hand, in bringing his grandfather forward.

“Were you surprised that your son would have married without first telling you?” The moment she had spoken, Maria regretted her words. Why open old wounds now? Of course her hostess must have felt surprise and, worse, shock, even betrayal, and while all this could be veiled by a happy ending, it could not be completely expunged.

But Caroline was thinking. “I don’t know how to answer you,” she said. “Obviously, we would not have thought the girl suitable, which he knew. He wanted to present us with a fait accompli rather than invite our opinion, which would have been negative. But maybe I should admire him for that. Edmund was our son, but we had not crushed his spirit. Then again, was the girl an adventuress, prodded and poked by her snobbish father to reach above her station and use her beauty to hook an innocent boy she was not worthy of?” She paused, staring into the flames.

There was a moment of silence, and her words seemed to hang in the air between them. Then Maria spoke. “What does it matter, really?” she said, and her voice seemed to wake Caroline out of the short trance into which she had fallen. And, as Lady Brockenhurst was forced to acknowledge, there was truth in the question. What did it matter? John’s mother, Grace, had been well enough born, but did that make him a more suitable heir than Charles? No. A thousand times no. And whatever Sophia Trenchard may have lacked, she clearly had spirit and drive, and many other qualities beside her beauty. Edmund would not have been caught—if she had been out to catch him—were she only a pretty face. Caroline was very fond of her husband, but Peregrine was not a driven man. He had been born to a place in life to which he had no objection, but he’d never had a goal that she was aware of. Charles had goals, and he would have goals for the estate and the family, of that she was certain, and when she looked at his two grandfathers, she knew which one had given him that determination to succeed. She turned to the girl beside her and smiled.

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the future you and Charles will have together.”

“And you mean to tell him tomorrow?”

“That reminds me. I never sent the message. I’ll write it tonight and have it taken to Bishopsgate first thing.”

“And my mother?”

“I’ll send a message around there, too. Then we shall have an evening of revelations.”

The moment the carriage stopped outside the offices, James was out, banging on the door to be admitted until an upper window opened and a tousled head looked out. James knew him for Charles’s clerk. A condition of his employment must have been that he should live above the shop. The young man recognized James’s voice, and a few minutes later they were in the office as he struggled to light lamps and make them welcome in his nightshirt.

But he could not help them. “I know Mr. Pope had an engagement this evening. A message arrived earlier in the day. But I could not tell you where it was to be.”

“This message,” James’s eagerness was making him sound angry and the clerk shrank back. “Did he say who it was from?”

“No, Mr. Trenchard. But he seemed glad of it. Something about mending what was broken. That’s all.”

“And he gave no clue as to where this engagement might take place?” Oliver was just as anxious, but his tone was more moderated. He knew there was no point in frightening the fellow. Although he wanted answers. If his father was right and there were plans for murder, then was he not complicit? Had he not been the lure to catch the victim? He did not know what he felt about Charles Pope now that the truth was out, but he was quite certain he did not want him hurt or dead. “Have you nothing at all that might help us find him? I think it was somewhere near here. So that Mr. Pope would be able to walk there from this office.”

The clerk scratched his head. “But he went home to have dinner with his mother. She’s just come up to London. Mind you, that’s not so far.” He thought for a minute. “I think you’re right, sir. He said something about its being near the river—”

“My God!” gasped James.

“Wait a minute.” Oliver was speaking now. “Is there a street… let me think. All Saints? All Fellows?”

“Allhallows Lane?” said the clerk, and Oliver let out a shout. “That’s it! Allhallows Lane. And there’s a tavern there. The Black… Swan?”

“The Black Raven. There’s a public house called The Black Raven.” The clerk was praying that these men had found what they were looking for and he could go back to sleep.

James nodded. “Come down and instruct our coachman.”

“It’s easy enough to explain—”

“Come down!” And he hurried out, with the others following in his wake.

A damp fog was rolling up the Thames by the time Charles arrived at the narrow, cobbled street that led to the tavern. It was thick and heavy and permeated his coat, making him shiver and pull the dense material around him. He knew Allhallows Lane but not well, and not at night, when the smells of the dirt and waste and refuse in the gutter seemed to be compounded by the odor of fish from nearby Billingsgate Market. He looked about. There was the sign, dimly lit by a hanging lamp but clear enough. The Black Raven. The longer he stood there, the stranger it seemed that this dingy place should have been chosen by Oliver for their rendezvous. Perhaps he had meant to be courteous and give himself the journey from Eaton Square, rather than make Charles travel halfway across London. But even so…

He opened the tavern door. It was a long, low-ceilinged, Elizabethan black-framed building, left over from earlier times and now encircled by the growing city. Time had not been kind, and it looked like the sort of haunt frequented by thieves and cutpurses rather than the socially ambitious son of a wealthy builder. Nor was it the sort of establishment anyone would travel across London to visit. Oliver must have heard the name and mistaken the standard. But after a moment, Charles released the door and walked farther in.

As he stared through the dense cloud of pipe smoke, he was hit by the acrid odor of spilled beer and stale sweat. His eyes watered a little as he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. The lighting was low, despite the numerous candles stuck to the top of old beer barrels and wedged in the necks of wine bottles, and the room was almost full. Most of the wooden seats were already taken by men wearing rough coats and workman’s boots, their conversation muffled by the sawdust on the floor. But he didn’t have long to wait. He had not been there for much more than a minute when a shape rose out of an alcove seat and came toward him. The man was wearing a cloak that covered him almost entirely and a hat pulled down low on his brow. “Pope?” he said as he passed. “Come with me.”

For want of a better idea, Charles followed the stranger out into the street, but the man did not pause, walking on toward the river. Finally, Charles stopped. “I will go no farther, sir, unless you tell me who you are and what you want with me.”

The other man turned. “My dear fellow,” he said. “I am so sorry. I had to get out of that pit of iniquity. I couldn’t breathe. I thought you would not care to linger there yourself.”

Charles peered at him. “Mr. Bellasis?” He was astounded. Bellasis was the last man he was expecting. “What are you doing here? And where is Oliver Trenchard? It was him I came to meet.”

“Me too.” John was very smooth. He had made up his mind to do this thing and he found, to his surprise, that his determination was not diminished by Charles’s presence. He had worried that the sight of his intended victim might drain away his purpose, but it had not. He was ready. He wanted to do it. He just had to get the man to the river’s edge. He spoke again. “Oliver Trenchard sent me a message to meet him here. But why the devil did he choose such a hellhole?”

“Possibly he thought it was convenient for me,” said Charles. “You remember that my offices are nearby.”

“Of course. That must be it.”

None of which answered any of the questions that were crowding Charles’s brain. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” he said. “Trenchard and I have a private matter to resolve. What is your part in it?”

John nodded, as if absorbing the information. “I can only assume that he wants us to reconcile, too.”

Charles looked at him. Once his eyes had grown used to the light, or the lack of it, he could make out John’s face. For all his friendly talk, the man’s expression was as haughty and arrogant as ever, with his cold eyes and his curling lip. “I was not aware we had a quarrel, sir,” he said.

What he did not notice was that Bellasis had been ambling slowly down the lane toward the river as he spoke, and without thinking, Charles had kept up with him, gradually falling into step as they made their way toward the water. They had only to cross the road to reach the edge. There was a long, low guardian wall along this stretch of the river, reaching down into the water, as they were standing on what must naturally have been a hill before it was built upon, and so the Thames was flowing at least ten feet below them. It was deep. John knew that from the fast-flowing current. He had chosen the tavern at this point on the river for exactly these reasons.

“I’m afraid we do have a quarrel, Mr. Pope. I only wish we did not,” said John with a sigh.

Charles looked at him. There was something strange about his voice, an almost strangled quality that distorted his words. Charles began to wish that there was some traffic passing, but there was nothing. “Then I hope we may resolve it, sir.” He smiled as he spoke, trying to make it seem as if this were a normal conversation.

“Alas, we cannot,” muttered John, “since the only resolution possible for me depends on your—”

“On my what?”

“On your death.” And with that, in a sudden movement, John seized him and forced him back against the low wall. Taken by surprise, Charles fought like a tiger, kicking and pushing with all his might, but the other man had already confused his sense of balance, and the parapet of the wall was pressing into his knees. John Bellasis was only rendered stronger by the fight. He had made his decision now. If he failed to kill Charles, he would still hang for attempted murder, so he had nothing to lose by finishing the job. With a final massive effort, he hooked his foot around Charles’s ankle, forcing his leg against the other man’s thigh, while giving a sudden mighty push to his chest, then releasing his hold. Charles felt himself falling backward, over the wall and down and down, until he was in the icy water, choking on the filth, dragged under by his thick coat, which was already soaked through and as heavy as lead, trying and failing to kick off his shoes, reaching for something, anything, to grasp onto, anything to hold him above the surface. But there was nothing on the plain brick wall above him, and John knew there was nothing.

Bellasis peered down into the darkness. Was Charles gone already? Was that his head still above the water, or was it simply a ripple, a piece of flotsam? In his concentration, he did not hear the running feet, nor feel anything until two hands seized his shoulders and swung him around. He found himself staring into the faces of James Trenchard and his son.

“Where is he? What have you done?”

“Where is who? What are you talking about? What might I have done?” John never flinched. As long as Charles was dead, they had nothing on him. Even now, John could be saved. Every detail could be blamed on Oliver, and James’s testimony would be worthless, or so John thought. Then they heard the cry.

“Help me!” The disembodied voice came out of the darkness like the call of a dead spirit speaking from beyond the grave.

Without a word, James wrenched off his coat and shoes and plunged into the river. As they heard the splashing and shouting below them, Oliver and John stared at each other. “Leave them,” said John, his voice like warm oil. “Let them go. Your father’s had a good life, but let him go now. Then you will have a great inheritance, and so will I. Let us be free of the pair of them.” And Oliver hesitated. John saw it. He saw Oliver weaken for a moment, for Oliver Trenchard was a weak man. “Don’t worry. He’s an old man. It won’t take long. You know it’s for the best. For all of us.”

For the rest of his life Oliver would struggle to understand how he could have entertained the notion even for a second, but he did. He never spoke of it again, but he knew that he did. The death of Charles Pope seemed no great loss to him in that moment, and to be spared his father’s judgments and disapproval, to have the money but be free of the chastisement… “No!” he shouted, pulling off his own coat and jumping in after his father. He could hear that he’d been weakened by the cold of the water. James had gone in without thinking and John Bellasis was right. He couldn’t hope to last long. But Oliver reached him before he went under. He took hold of him under his armpits and began to swim back to the river’s edge, commanding Charles to follow them and hold on to his waist. How he got the three of them back to the wall he never knew; maybe it was guilt that spurred him on, remembering the notion he had entertained, if only for a fraction of a beat. The steep wall might have defeated them, as Oliver grappled vainly at the smooth and slippery surface of the bricks to find something, anything to hold onto, but the hubbub had brought a group of the drinkers from the pub to the scene, and one man came with a rope.

James was lifted out first, then Charles, then Oliver, until the three of them were sitting side by side, coughing up river water, almost dead to the world but not quite. When he saw that they were saved, John Bellasis slipped away. He’d moved farther back through the crowd as it gathered, and now he left it entirely. His victims might be in a daze, but if one of the men or women helping them had seen any part of what had happened, they would have no qualms in handing John over to the Peelers, who were no doubt on their way. He threw off the cloak and hat, kicking them into an open drain, and found his way back into Bishopsgate, where he hailed a cab and disappeared.

Anne could not remember her dream. Only that it had been happy until suddenly there was a disturbance and she opened her eyes to find she was being shaken awake by Mrs. Frant. “You must come at once, ma’am. There’s been an accident.”

After that, it was a relief to run into the library and find James, Oliver, and Charles, all soaked through but still alive. Charles seemed to have suffered the most. The servants were all awake by now, and she rang at once for Billy and her husband’s valet, Miles, to help them all upstairs. While the other servants prepared baths, she ran down to the kitchens to supervise some hot soup. No one dared disturb Mrs. Babbage, so Anne and Mrs. Frant contrived to do their best, and Mrs. Frant carried up the tray.

Charles was in bed, washed and dried and wearing one of Oliver’s shirts when Anne saw him next. He was groggy and tired, she could see that, but he was alive. James had given her enough of the story for her to understand what had happened.

“I still don’t see why John Bellasis wanted to kill me. What am I to him, or he to me?” For Charles, the nightmare they had lived through seemed completely illogical.

For a moment, Anne thought of telling him the truth, there and then, but it seemed late, and he was confused. Surely it would be better to wait until he could absorb what they were saying. “We’ll discuss all that tomorrow. The first decision we have to make is whether we report this to the Peelers. It has to be your choice.”

“If I could understand why, then I think I would know better what to do,” said Charles, so there they left it for the time being.

Later that night, Anne discussed it with James. “I don’t believe we can turn Bellasis over to the law without telling the Brockenhursts,” she said. “They would bear the brunt of the story when it became public knowledge.”

But James was still enraged by what they had lived through. “You weren’t there when he threw Charles to his death, for his death it would have been if we had not appeared at that moment.”

“I know.” She reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “You saved our grandson, and I shall follow your lead, whatever you and Charles decide.”

“Oliver saved us both. I was going under for the third time.”

Anne smiled. “Then God bless Oliver for a loyal son.” Which was all she would ever know about the matter.

Oliver himself was in a very different state of mind at that moment. Susan had woken in time to see him being brought in by Billy, bathed, and put to bed, but he had been silent throughout, refusing to answer her questions. Indeed, it was the servant who told her what had happened. Then Billy left and they were alone. “I shall cancel the coach for tomorrow. We can wait another day until you are quite well.” Still he said nothing. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Susan asked as gently as she knew how.

To her amazement, Oliver burst into tears, seizing her and holding her to him as fiercely as she had ever known, sobbing as if his heart must break. So she stroked his hair and spoke soft words of comfort and knew that her plan was coming together and that before too long she would have him back, completely under her control.

Lady Brockenhurst had chosen to receive them all in the main drawing room. She wanted to make a show of it, and the footmen were instructed to wear dress livery. The Trenchards had arrived first, predictably enough, with James almost dancing with excitement at the thought of the evening to come. Caroline was prepared for his elation, and Maria had been deputed to keep him happy until the gathering had properly begun.

Lord Brockenhurst had arrived, as promised, but he was quite bewildered by all the preparations. “What on earth are we celebrating?” he asked, time and again, but his wife wouldn’t tell him. Since he had not been part of any of the process, he might as well hear the news at the same time as Charles and the others. She had written to Stephen and Grace, rather than invite them to witness their own humiliation and the dashing of their hopes. She did not admire anyone in that family, but she did feel sorry for them now. Their manner of living was finished, since, when the truth got out, their credit would be gone, and while Peregrine might bail them out from time to time, he would not give money to fund their bad habits indefinitely. In short, now that John would not inherit, it was time for them to learn to cut their cloth accordingly.

Lady Templemore was the next to present herself, along with her son, whom Caroline had hardly seen since he was a boy home from school. “Is Mr. Pope here yet?’ he asked, curious.

“No,” said James. “He stayed with us last night, and he had to go home to fetch his mother. She will join us for dinner.”

Reggie received this information with more joy than his own mama, although she did concede that it was probably “better to know the worst now.” When Charles himself came into the drawing room, with Mrs. Pope on his arm, the party was finally complete, and Caroline asked them all to come down into the dining room.

“You’re stretching it out rather, aren’t you?” said Peregrine, but he didn’t object. The truth was his wife intended to stretch it out, for this would be one evening none of them would ever forget.

When Stephen Bellasis read Caroline’s letter he felt physically sick. For a moment, he actually thought he was going to be sick, but the sensation passed and he simply sat there, staring into space, the sheet of paper in his trembling hands.

“What is it?” said Grace. As an answer, he handed the letter to her, watching as the blood drained from her face. At last she broke the silence. “So this is why he’s gone. He must have known.”

“Maybe they told him,” said Stephen.

Grace nodded. “Peregrine might have written to him. It would be only fair.”

“Fair!” Stephen snorted. “When did Peregrine ever do anything that was fair?” But although he tried to sound disdainful, inside he was terrified. Would he have anything like the hold on Peregrine he had enjoyed as father of the heir? Of course not. They were doomed to be a sideshow now, nearly-people, of no account. No wonder John had left.

They’d found the note pushed through the door, though whether John had brought it himself or sent a servant they would never know. He was leaving London, he said. He was leaving England. They could dispose of his rooms, keep what they wanted of his possessions, and sell the rest. He would not be coming back. When he was settled, he would let them know where he might be found. For Stephen, the news was as if someone had pulled the string out of a pearl necklace and sent the beads of their life flying in all directions. And now Caroline’s letter had destroyed what little hope remained. Who was this Charles Pope? A sneaky little tradesman who had trespassed into their lives and stolen all their dreams.

“At least we now know why Caroline has always made such a fuss of him,” he said.

“No, we don’t,” snapped Grace. “If he is the legitimate heir, why has he been hidden away since birth? We know nothing. Nothing. Except that John is gone and he won’t be back.” She was crying as she spoke, crying for the loss of her son, for the loss of her son’s future, for the loss of everything they had been counting on, everything they held dear. As soon as the news reached the streets, the last of their credit would be gone and the moneylenders would engulf them. She supposed the Harley Street house must go, although she doubted the sale price would cover their debts. They would retreat to the rectory at Lymington, and she would try her best to keep Stephen away from temptation, but it would not be easy. The truth was they were beggars, and beggars are never choosers. It was a matter of survival, of getting by, of gathering what crumbs they could catch from Peregrine’s table. That was all that lay ahead.

Grace stood. “I’m going up,” she said. “Don’t be too late. Try to sleep, and maybe things will look better in the morning.” She didn’t believe her own words, and nor did he. On her way to bed, she wanted to check on the silver wine cooler she had stored in John’s old room years before. After all, she’d hidden it away in case of a rainy day, and now it was all set to pour. She would need to get it out of the house in the morning as the bailiffs could arrive at any moment. But when she entered the room, she could see the boxes on the wardrobe had been disturbed, and so, with a sinking heart, she knew it was gone, even before she had climbed onto the chair. She was not surprised. It was all of a piece with the rest of her luck. “Well,” she thought, “I hope he spends it sensibly.”

But Grace knew he would not as she made her weary way across the landing to the dark and ugly bedroom that awaited her.

Charles Pope’s astonishment was the greatest, naturally. Although, as he listened, so many details seemed to fall into place. He wondered now why he had never asked himself if there was a blood link that would explain James’s determination to help him succeed, or Caroline’s idée fixe that she must invest a fortune in the activities of a young and obscure adventurer she barely knew. He could never have guessed the final discovery, that he was legitimate after all, but he did think he should have divined the blood connection long ago.

His wonder at his own transformation was matched by that of Lady Templemore, who could hardly believe that, just as she had brought herself to swallow the bitter pill, it had suddenly been converted into nectar. Naturally, she’d suspected—when Maria spoke of the Earl whose son was dead—that Charles must have Bellasis blood, but she’d given no sign of it in order to be able to punish Caroline, so angry was she to see her daughter foisted off with a bastard offshoot. Now all was changed. The very same position she had longed for, striven for, fought for on behalf of her cherished daughter had been given back, enhanced this time by love. She wanted to sing, she wanted to dance and throw her arms above her head and laugh, but instead she had to control her enthusiasm, lest she be mistaken for some greedy outsider, hungering for things that had no moral worth. So she smiled pleasantly and nodded and found herself chuckling at Charles’s witticisms, because she had begun to see that Maria was right and the young man was attractive, even very attractive, which, strangely, she had not noticed before.

Reggie Templemore was delighted, too, but his happiness was less complicated and more tempered than his parent’s. He had been called over to London by his mother and his sister to arbitrate in a family dispute, which of all things he detested the most, and lo and behold, the fight had evaporated in a sea of universal joy. Added to which he thought that Charles seemed a nice enough fellow, and he was happy that his sister had found so creditable a way forward. He had nothing much invested in the fight, which had only recently been made clear to him, so his gladness was of a calmer order than some of the reactions on display around the table, but he was glad all the same. Now he might return home with more confidence in the future. He had been particularly pleased when Charles had explained to his grandfathers (to the delight of one and the bewilderment of the other) that he would not be giving up his mill or his cotton business. He would appoint a competent manager, of course, but he felt he had an instinct for trade and he did not intend to neglect it. Naturally, Peregrine shook his head at this contrary ambition, as he saw it, but Caroline did not. After she had thought it through, she tended to side with James Trenchard on the matter, the first and probably the last time she would do such a thing. Reggie was only too happy to welcome someone with a head for business into the family. It was a gift that none of the Greys had possessed for centuries.

Mrs. Pope had not spoken much during the discussion, but she was perhaps the person most affected in the room. The daughter and wife of Church of England vicars, it was odd enough to find herself dining amid the splendors of Brockenhurst House, let alone to learn that her son would one day be the master of this very house and many others besides. But gradually, through the evening, it became clear that her status in Charles’s life would remain quite unaffected. He wanted her to enjoy his elevation, not to feel undermined by it, and so she determined she would follow his lead and celebrate. Only once did she weigh into the talk in a forceful way, when Lord Brockenhurst attempted to suggest that now Charles should abandon his dealings with the cotton market. At this she shook her head. “Oh no,” she said, and her voice was quite stern. “You’ll never get Charles to stop working. You might as well tell a fish not to swim or a bird not to fly.” Caroline had clapped her hands at this, and Charles raised a toast to Mrs. Pope’s health.

It would be hard to say which of the two grandfathers was most delighted with the way things had turned out. James had a viscount for a grandson, with a head for business, too, who could share all that he’d never been able to share with Oliver. James’s descendants would be in the forefront of British life, and he, in his imaginings, would walk with the great ones of the earth henceforth. Anne did not suffer from these delusions, but she saw no harm in indulging James for the time being. He could feel like a successful man at this moment. Why shouldn’t he? He’d achieved everything he had set out to achieve. And she wanted him to enjoy that feeling for as long as he could. For herself, she was happy that Sophia’s child was destined for a life of distinction. She liked Maria. She even quite liked Caroline, more than she ever thought she would, and she was content. She saw herself spending time at Glanville with Oliver and Susan, or at Lymington with Charles and Maria, and otherwise leading a quiet and pleasing life. She thought she might take a hand in shaping up some of the gardens in the squares of Belgravia. James could make that happen for her, and it would be a fulfilling use of her time. Her son and her grandson were settled happily, or, in Oliver’s case, happily enough, and no one could ask for more than that.

Only Oliver, in all that high-spirited company, was rather muted. The truth was that when he reviewed his own actions, he felt ashamed and humiliated and even bewildered that he could have chosen to behave as he had done. Even his jealousy of Sophia’s son seemed petty and unmanly when he looked back on it. The fact that he had not known Pope was his nephew was no excuse. It was hard, perhaps, to accept that James’s grandson would give James more pleasure than his son, but now things had worked out for the best. And a few years of running Glanville might help Oliver to feel less of a failure. Still, he was haunted by his decision to help John Bellasis by writing the note and, worse, his moment of hesitation by the river’s edge. That, at least, he could never share with anyone, and so he must carry the scar of guilt to his grave.

Oliver had gone around to John’s lodgings earlier that day, but he was told that Mr. Bellasis had left. His trunks had been loaded in the small hours onto a cart that would accompany his cab to the station, although which station the doorman could not say. Oliver wasn’t surprised, and when he told the facts to Charles later, back in Eaton Square, they’d agreed, against James’s wishes, to let the matter drop. The scandal would be immense, John would be hanged, and none of them would ever be free of the shadow cast by that one terrible night. In fact, Charles, showing more forgiveness than either James or Oliver were capable of, suggested that he might have to find some sort of pension for John, as he’d lived his whole life in expectation of inheriting and had no skills with which to keep body and soul together. Clearly, the loss of his prospects had driven John mad, truly insane, and would they be right to hang a man for that? To this, when he had finally accepted the proposition, James added one condition. Any pension must be paid only as long as John remained out of Britain. “England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland must all be free of him. Let him roam the Continent in search of a resting place, but he will not find one here.” And so it was agreed between them: John Bellasis must spend the rest of his life as a wanderer, in exile, or come home to live as a pauper.

Susan had a complicated role to play during the festivities. She had known the truth about Charles before any of the rest of them, but she could not show that she knew, since she had learned it in bed with John Bellasis. And so she had to gasp and cheer and clap her hands in amazed delight, all the while knowing that Anne, seated across the table from her, was fully aware that Susan was pretending. But things would be easier from now on. They would not discuss the revelations of Susan’s past, nor the true origins of the child she carried, nor anything else that endangered the happiness of the younger Trenchard couple. If Susan strayed again, if she made Oliver unhappy, then things might be different, but Susan would not stray. She had gone to the cliff edge once, and she did not intend to do so again. Her mother-in-law would not betray her, and she would not betray Oliver. She could make it work, and she would.

As for Peregrine Brockenhurst, the news had entirely remade him. He did not fully understand why Caroline had kept him in the dark when she’d first discovered this young man was Edmund’s son, but he didn’t care. He saw his wife through the eyes of reverence. He was in awe at her grasp of how the world worked, at her capacity to control and command. Now his life had a point again, managing the estates had a point again, and his family had a future once more. He could almost feel the energy come surging back through his body. He was eager—a sensation so strange that he had difficulty identifying it when it first began to manifest itself once more. He did feel a slight twinge of pity for John, who had banked everything on the card of his inheritance only to turn it over and find it was a joker. He would consult Charles and see what could be done. In fact, Charles would know what to do about everything. Of that he was quite confident. Yes. He would leave it up to Charles.

The evening was over and the party made its way down into the hall. There was some idea that James’s carriage might take Charles and Mrs. Pope back to Holborn, but Charles wouldn’t hear of it. He’d find a hansom cab easily enough, he said, and that would be more than sufficient. As they reached the bottom of the great staircase, Maria lingered near him, and when they were exchanging good-byes Caroline Brockenhurst spoke. “If he really means to travel home in a cab, then why not go outside with him, my dear, to look for one?”

The others were rather startled that this suggestion should come from one to whom appearances were all, but Maria stepped forward and took Charles’s arm before his grandmother could change her mind. As they left the building, Lady Templemore aimed a slightly questioning look at her hostess, but Caroline was unrepentant. “Oh, I don’t think anything too terrible will come of it,” she said.

To which Anne replied, “Nothing terrible will come of it at all.”

And that was more than enough to suggest to the assembled company the alliances and differences that were to determine the way the family would manage itself over the coming decades.

Out on the pavement, the lovers scanned the square, waiting for an empty vehicle. Maria broke the silence. “Can I put my hand in your pocket? I’m so cold. I shouldn’t have come out without a wrap.” And of course he stripped off his coat and wrapped her in it, and soon her hand, entwined with his, was warm inside the pocket.

“Does this mean I can come to India with you?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “If you want. We can make it our wedding journey, if your mother won’t object.”

“If she tries to object, she’ll have to deal with me.”

He laughed. “You must think me very stupid. That I suspected nothing.”

But Maria wouldn’t have that. “Certainly not. To the pure in mind all things are pure. You have no taste for intrigue, so you wouldn’t have suspected it in others.”

He shook his head. “Mr. Trenchard’s interest was perhaps explicable. He was a friend to my father, or so I thought; maybe I can be forgiven for accepting his help without questioning it. But Lady Brockenhurst? A countess suddenly feels the urge to invest in the business of a young man she hardly knows? Wasn’t that a clue for someone less blind than I?” He sighed at his own inadequacy.

“Nonsense,” said Maria. “All the world knows it is better to be gullible than suspicious.” And with that she tilted her face up toward his, and he had the great pleasure of planting a kiss on her lips. They did not know it then, but he would love her with the same passion until he died. Which is quite enough to make a happy ending.

Later that night, Anne was seated at her dressing table while Mrs. Frant was brushing out her hair. James and Oliver were still downstairs in the library, enjoying a glass of brandy, and Charles had returned to Holborn with Mrs. Pope. Before they parted, the plan was made for them to move into Brockenhurst House as soon as they chose, and so this part of their story was almost settled. Anne did not entirely envy Mrs. Pope’s probable future as a sort of unpaid companion to the Countess, but at least her life would not be lonely.

“I think we should start looking for a new lady’s maid,” Anne said. Mrs. Frant had been a lady’s maid in the past and she knew what she was doing, but it was too much work for one person to combine the two roles, as they both knew.

“I’ll make inquiries in the morning, ma’am. Leave it to me.” Mrs. Frant had no intention of leaving it to Mrs. Trenchard, who had selected that nasty, dishonest Miss Ellis when she was left to her own devices. Nobody like that would get past Mrs. Frant. “And may I make a suggestion, ma’am?”

“Please.”

“Might we confirm Billy in his post as butler? He’s a little young, I suppose, but he knows the house and Mr. Trenchard’s ways, and he’s certainly eager to be allowed to try.”

“If you think he could manage…” Anne was rather surprised that Mrs. Frant would want a man in his thirties in the position. “But wouldn’t it place more responsibility on your shoulders?”

“Don’t worry about that, ma’am.” Mrs. Frant was fully aware that by obtaining the position for Billy, he would be forever in her debt. If she controlled the butler and chose the lady’s maid, her life would be a good deal simpler. And that was what Mrs. Frant wanted. A simple life, with her own good self in control of it. “But of course, it’s entirely up to you, ma’am,” she added. And with that she placed the brush down on the dressing table. “Will that be all?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “Thank you. Good night.”

So the housekeeper closed the door behind her, leaving Anne to her thoughts. She would accept Mrs. Frant’s suggestions, in the hope that things would settle down. Then they could just get on with their lives.

It was late, and a slight drizzle had started to fall as John Bellasis made his way from the dirty backstreet restaurant to his dreary, cheap hotel. He had left his man, Roger, to unpack and arrange his rooms as well as he was able, but they were a sad substitute for his set at Albany, modest as it had been. He doubted Roger would stay for long. He was too far from his old friends and haunts, and for what? What would exile in Dieppe ever bring him? What was John doing there, for that matter? He couldn’t believe that he was safe. Just because they had not set anyone on him at once, as he had feared they might, did not mean they would let things rest forever. He must keep moving, that was the answer, and never stay too long in one place. But how was he to manage? What was he to live on? Idly, he found himself wondering what was the French for moneylender.

Then the drizzle turned to rain and he broke into a run.