CHAPTER 12

Although she got back late, Frances woke up early the next morning, full of purpose. She was feeling that as complicated as this problem seemed, everyone was giving her a piece of the puzzle. The confusing part was that even though the manuscript put some politicians in a bad light, she couldn’t see how murder entered into it. If there was a murder every time a politician faced a scandal, the London streets would be littered with corpses. But her professors would have told her to keep asking questions, and so she would.

However, academia went out of her head when she left the dining room after breakfast—Gareth was waiting for her. He was in the process of leaving a note for her with Mrs. Beasley, and when he noticed her, he greeted her with a smile that hinted of shared secrets. Desire and anger welled up together in an unpleasant mix.

“Franny! I was just leaving you a note. It’s been too long, but this time I’m giving you fair notice. The day after tomorrow, I thought—”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in the lounge,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Gareth seemed to sense something in her tone and frowned as he followed her into the room, where she closed the door behind him.

“Dinner? Are you planning to take me out to dinner?”

“A late supper . . . Franny—”

“Because we’ll need a table for three—you, me, and your fiancée, Miss Chillingford.”

Frances expected, almost hoped, that Gareth would glibly deny the whole thing. But he said nothing, just sat down and put his head in his hands. Frances sat opposite him and waited.

“It’s not exactly . . . you see, Miss Chillingford and I have known each other since we were children. Her father’s estate borders our lands, and we saw quite a bit of each other when we were young. It was hoped, even assumed, that someday . . . and without even realizing it . . .” He realized how weak that sounded and let his voice trail off. “But I swear to you I never made a formal offer of marriage to her or asked her father for her hand.”

Disappointment replaced anger for a moment. “A man of your education and experience, with Claire Chillingford, who can barely tie her own bootlaces . . .”

“No, she is not intellectually inclined, I admit, but she has other qualities.”

Frances gave him a cold look that spoke volumes.

“I don’t mean her physical beauty. She is gentle and sweet and patient, and I thought that would complement my own personality, and I’d have other outlets for intellectual pursuits. But then I met you. I never thought that a woman like you existed; you have everything: charm, wit, intelligence—and, yes, beauty.” He peered at her to see if this was making an impression. It wasn’t.

“How fortunate for you to find the one person who could keep you entertained in your drawing room, dining room, and bedroom.”

“Franny—”

How nice, she thought, to be able to actually embarrass him.

“I never expected, when I sought you out at the Moore party . . .”

“Before you lie to me again, know that I had a very fruitful meeting with your uncle, Lord Crossley. He told me you had seen him about the Sapphire River days before. Why didn’t you tell me? I also got the impression from him that you were deeply involved with the Heathcotes, not a casual messenger as you implied. You went to a lot of trouble to sound me out about the Colcombe manuscript. I might forgive you if I found out you were courting two women at once. But to lie to me about the manuscript is appalling. Tell me the truth.”

Gareth smiled sadly and shook his head. “Uncle Ashton sees almost no one anymore. I had to push to get him to see me. God knows what you did to get into his study, but if there was one woman—no, one person—in all of London who could do it, it would be you.”

Frances felt a small stab of excitement at the compliment. But then she squashed it. She wasn’t going to let him flatter his way back into her good graces.

“Understand, Franny, I am a second son. I was expected to make my own way in the world. I know the Heathcotes have a certain dark reputation, but they merely make deals and alliances the same way government ministers do. It’s not a criminal gang. It’s a chance for ambitious men—and women—to create a place in the world. The Seaforths have long been in government. The Heathcotes and those in their circle do nothing worse than anyone in government.”

“Even if I believed that, they seem to have gone to an awful lot of trouble to make my acquaintance, sending you into the fray to pursue me. I’m just a fellow searcher.”

Gareth sighed deeply and paused, as if to gather his courage to say something important. “No, Franny. The Heathcotes didn’t think you were looking. They thought you had the manuscript and that everything you were doing was jockeying to make the most use of it. Maybe blackmail a politician or two to support women’s suffrage and get justice for the men of the Empire Light Horse. It’s known Colcombe was a Seaforth friend, that you were a guest in their house, and that . . . when you were younger, there was talk he might even have made an offer of marriage to you. I’ll tell the truth now—they wanted to be your partner, to give you the resources you don’t have in order to fully exploit it.”

Frances thought about that while Gareth searched her face for signs of a reaction. “You are all wrong. I don’t have the manuscript. I really am just looking. And someone made a foolish mistake if they thought my childhood infatuation with a handsome cavalry officer was anything close to an engagement.”

Gareth closed his eyes for a moment. “We were wrong. I don’t think any of us are any closer to knowing where it is. My part in this, as far as the Heathcotes are concerned, is done. But know two things are real: I have not made an offer of marriage to Miss Chillingford or anyone else. And however we met, the point is now I really do love you. Surely you saw that. How can you really think me such a good actor?”

“There are those who say you’ve courted every available lady you’ve come across. I thought I was special, but apparently I’m just the latest in a series.”

“I thought you of all people would refrain from basing judgment on Society gossip.”

She sat there feeling her heart pound and looking into the saddest eyes she had ever seen. It was a rare occasion for her—struggling to find something to say.

“I have a lot to think about,” she eventually said. “We will talk later. Much later. For now, I think you should go. When this is all over, we will talk again.”

Then a sound distracted her. She turned to see the door open—and Henry Wheaton walked in. He was in his black lawyer suit, and she could see his gold spectacles peeking out from the pocket. His eyes took in the scene.

Gareth stood. “Good day to you, Mr. Wheaton.”

“You as well, Lord Gareth.”

Suddenly, Gareth seemed his usual self, with his slightly amused look. “Mr. Wheaton has long been employed by my father to handle our family’s affairs. I assume he does the same for the Seaforths?”

“Yes, since my own father’s day,” said Frances.

“I didn’t know you made house calls, Mr. Wheaton. My father has always called upon you at your offices.”

“When circumstances dictate. Indeed, I am coming from a client now whose great age has made it unwise for him to leave his house.”

“An affliction that fortunately does not affect my father,” said Gareth. “Or Lady Frances.”

It was an awkward moment, and Frances wished Gareth didn’t seem to enjoy it so much.

Hal turned from Gareth to address Lady Frances directly. “I was passing by and thought, as you are dining at my house tonight, I can send my carriage for you.” From the corner of her eye, Frances could see Gareth’s surprise.

“That is very kind. But there’s always a cab available at the corner.”

“Very good, Lady Frances. I’ll leave then, and my apologies for interrupting.”

“You weren’t interrupting. Lord Gareth was just leaving.”

Hal brightened at that news, and Gareth accepted defeat gracefully. “Yes. But I am sure we can continue this conversation at another time.”

Both men said gracious good-byes and then proceeded to try to outdo each other in politeness in letting the other one exit first, and Frances almost laughed.

“It just occurred to me, Lord Gareth. My coach is outside. It would be a pleasure to take you to your next destination.”

“That is most kind of you, Mr. Wheaton, but it’s a fine day, so I think I’ll walk.”

Finally, Frances had the lounge to herself. She felt limp and didn’t think she could make it up the stairs. Competing emotions chased themselves around her mind. What was needed was a strong cup of tea, she decided, and with renewed vigor at the thought of it, she headed to her rooms.

After tea and some rest, Frances had to face Mallow, who sought yet another lengthy discussion about dress for the evening.

“Mr. Wheaton is not of the aristocracy, Mallow. They may not dress as elaborately as lords and ladies, but he may feel insulted if I’m not dressed to the highest standards. The same dress I wore to Lady Moore’s should do fine.”

“And we’ll have to do your hair up proper, my lady.”

Frances sighed. “Of course, Mallow.”

It was odd really, Frances reflected as Mallow got her ready—Hal Wheaton was technically middle class, but with the size and success of his firm, he probably had more money than many noble London families whose farmlands could no longer support their lifestyles. When Hal married, he would doubtless be able to afford to send his wife to the finest dressmakers in London, even as many noble ladies wondered if they could make their current outfits serve another season.

As it turned out, when Hal met her at the door that evening, she was glad she had made the decision she had. Hal wore a perfect evening suit, classic and well-tailored. He seemed a little self-conscious.

“You look lovely, Franny. Thank you so much for coming.” He led her into the drawing room, decorated at the height of style of some forty years ago but in good condition. Frances had been in that room once before, after the funeral for Hal’s father. She had thought the room was used only for very special occasions—funerals, visits of great men, and apparently, dinners with Lady Frances Ffolkes.

“Dinner will be ready shortly. I’m afraid our cook is rather limited—plain English cooking. But she’s been with us more than twenty years, and it pleased my parents well enough.”

“I have great respect for plain English cooking,” she said. “Indeed, I had a delightful meal of simple fish at Mrs. Tregallis’s house.”

“I am glad you got on. She sent me a brief note thanking me for effecting the introduction but gave me no details. But no—” He stopped Franny from speaking. “—you have no legal or, if I may say, moral responsibility to tell me.”

“Oh, but I’d like to tell you. I’d like your legal insights,” she said and thought it very sweet the way Hal cocked his head and steepled his fingers in that way of his. She summarized their talk and what Daniel Colcombe had hinted at. She also told him about her meeting with Lord Crossley and discussed the death of Private Barnstable. He listened closely and then he frowned.

“I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but it sounds like you’re involving yourself with some powerful and connected people.” He smiled wryly.

“And yet there is something so . . . sordid about these murders. Daniel Colcombe was killed because his manuscript threatened someone. Perhaps many people. But a simple Australian private? Was he truly a threat to the great men in Whitehall?”

“And what do you deduce, my lady?”

“That perhaps . . . there are multiple motives here,” she said slowly. “One manuscript, but different people searching it for different reasons?”

“You’re thinking like a lawyer now,” he said. And Frances laughed.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll have to mull that over. Meanwhile, Dorothy—Mrs. Tregallis—and I have agreed to start a correspondence. So at the very least, I have made a new friend.”

“A new friend is always a cause for rejoicing,” said Hal. “And speaking of friends . . . I am sorry for interrupting your conversation with Gareth Blaine.” He was looking closely at her. He wanted to know how deep their friendship went.

“Not at all. We were just finishing. But tell me, do you know him well?”

“Not very well. As he said, we’ve acted for his family for years, as we’ve done for the Seaforths. And he does something in the Home Office.”

Frances suspected Hal knew more—a lot more. She had noted how stiffly the two men had greeted each other. Had Hal extricated him from a romantic entanglement in the past?

“I don’t know him well myself. We only met briefly at a reception full of government people. There were hints he rather has something of a reputation.” She made it almost a question.

“Lady Frances,” said Hal with mock severity, “do you really expect me to gossip about my clients?”

And she was saved from having to answer by the announcement that dinner was served. They rose, and Hal gave her his arm.

“We’re not going to our dining room. It’s a bit large for just two. We have a small library, and as someone who likes books so much, Franny, I thought you’d like to dine there.” Hal made it sound more informal than it was. The table was elegantly set. The butler poured the wine, and a footman placed the roast in front of Hal and then served the potatoes and vegetables. Then they both bowed out.

With a flourish, Hal began to carve.

“My maternal grandfather felt carving was an art,” said Frances. “He’d be pleased at how well you do it.”

Hal gave a mock bow. “No less a personage than Sir Hubert Salisbury, chief of surgery at Guy’s Hospital, admired my carving.” You keep surprising, Mr. Wheaton, thought Frances.

Hal began by asking Frances what cities besides New York she had visited in America. The only other big cities she had been to were Boston and Philadelphia, both of them wonderful in their way, but she wanted to know more about Hal—what had he done? What were his schooldays like?

Gradually, he shared with her, a little shyly. Perhaps he thought with her travels and aristocratic upbringing, she wouldn’t be interested. But Franny, who had been educated by tutors until she went to college, loved hearing about life in a boy’s boarding school—Charles hadn’t ever discussed it with her, as if it were a secret club.

“I was quiet and studious, I suppose,” he said. “My scholastic highlight was a series of unauthorized drawings I made one evening in the dorm, caricatures of some of the masters. My schoolmates roared with laughter, and I attained great popularity as a result. But I got careless and was found out. I was brought before the headmaster—I’ll just say I couldn’t sit for a week.”

Frances laughed at his story but turned serious at the conclusion. “Outrageous. I know most people would disagree with me, but I can’t see how corporal punishment helps the learning process.”

Hal laughed in return. “I wish you had been there to defend me. I’ve heard you have to suffer for your art, and I certainly did. But it sounds like you have strong opinions on education. So tell me what theories you subscribe to.”

“I do have strong opinions.” Then, feeling a little priggish at what she had said, she smiled. “One of my governesses said, ‘Frances, you have strong opinions on everything.’ She did not mean it as a compliment.”

“I’ll bet she didn’t,” said Hal. “There is nothing wrong with knowing your own mind—indeed, it’s quite admirable. As long as you can be flexible in the face of new facts.” And Frances agreed.

Cook had made a tart for dessert, and after, Hal said there was a pleasant little garden in the back, and as the night was mild, perhaps they could sit outside for a while. Frances thought that a fine idea, and soon they were outside on wrought iron chairs with pillows for comfort. The only light came from the windows in the house, and Frances could just barely see Hal.

Sitting in the dark and quiet, Frances thought again about Hal. He was correct: strong opinions were all right, but, yes, one needed to be flexible. She had always thought of Hal as limited in his point of view, but that wasn’t true, she was realizing. He liked music and art. He painted. He wanted to travel. But there was more.

“I want to thank you,” she said.

“For dinner? My pleasure.”

“No—although dinner was lovely. I meant for all those times we met in your office and you explained things so clearly and fully. You never condescended to me because I was a woman. You never suggested I just let my brother handle it. And Dorothy told me how well you treated her. It was her good fortune to be in the care of you and my brother, probably the only two men in England who wouldn’t look at her with contempt because of what she had done. These sound like small things, but they’re not. And for them I owe you great thanks. You think I am unusual because of my education and travels. But you’re the unusual one.”

He was so quiet, she wondered if he had heard. No—he was thinking carefully before he spoke.

“You may be the only one who thinks me unusual.”

“That’s not true. My brother, your distinguished clientele, they think you’re a wizard at the law.”

“At the law, Franny. But you think I’m an unusual person—not merely a man of law.” The next words flowed out quickly, as if he were afraid that by thinking on them, he’d lose courage. “It’s true that my life has been usual—and until recently, that was satisfactory. But since our first meeting, that changed, and now my life is defined by the memory of our most recent meeting and anticipation of our next one.”

So Mary had been right—men didn’t paint portraits of women who were just friends of the mind.

“I know this is very forward of me, but I had no illusions I could hide my feelings from someone as sensitive as you. So I bring this up now to assure you that despite my feelings, I shall never behave improperly.”

Frances peered into the darkness. Was Hal trying to make a joke? But no, his face was serious.

“Hal, do you think I’d be afraid that you’d lose control and ravish me here in your mother’s garden?”

“No, of course not. I don’t mean improper in that sense. I meant that I wouldn’t presume.”

Now Frances was lost. Was this more confusing lawyer talk? “Presume what?”

Hal stammered again, and she was reminded of when he was trying to tell her about Danny Colcombe and his illegitimate son.

“Well, naturally, that as deep as our friendship could be, that it could be nothing beyond, that it couldn’t progress—that it would only be a friendship.”

What was he getting at? Oh—was it just like with Gareth? He was promised to another? It had never occurred to her, but why shouldn’t a well-set-up solicitor have a young woman eager to become his wife?

“You’re engaged?” she asked softly.

“Engaged? What—of course not.” He laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea? My mother throws me in the way of eligible women, whether I like it or not, but there has never been anything close to an offer of marriage. Franny, you’re the daughter of a marquess. I’m the family solicitor. I’m not such a fool as to forget that.”

Ah, now everything was clear, and Frances felt in control again. “Hal, maybe our friendship will continue to grow. My feelings for you continue to deepen. And if they do reach a certain point, I assure you, your status as the family solicitor will be irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant to you, Franny. Not to your brother—Lord Seaforth—or the rest of your family, I’m sure.”

“You do me an injustice. And my brother. When I choose to marry, I am independent of my family, both socially and, as you well know, financially. And as for Charles, he’s more open-minded than you give him credit for. Anyway, Charles and the rest of the family have already glumly concluded that my progressive opinions and radical politics had ruined any chances of an aristocratic marriage. A solicitor would come as a relief.” Even in the dim light, she could see him smile when she said Charles would probably expect a discount on fees from a brother-in-law.

“But understand me, Hal. I want to continue our friendship. I want to continue to spend time with you. But there are still things I want to do before I move on to the next stage of my life.”

“Franny, I have never been so pleased to be wrong and that our different positions will not be a barrier. I respect your feelings without reservation. And if I can keep spending time with you, I will be a happy man.”

And Frances felt happy too and pleased at the way she handled it. Hal . . . could she possibly? Perhaps someday. And meanwhile, time spent with him was pleasant indeed.

Nevertheless, when Hal said he would accompany her in a cab home, she became prickly and said she was perfectly capable of riding in a hansom by herself.

“It’s not to protect you, Franny. It’s to extend the evening with you.” And Frances had to apologize. There were assumptions you just couldn’t make when conducting a love affair, she concluded.

The ride home went quickly, and she let Hal give her a gentle kiss on her cheek when they arrived at the hotel. Imagine that, she thought, wanting to kiss me but holding back because of my family. He really was an old-fashioned man, but she had already changed his mind on universal suffrage, women’s education, and class differences. Yes, she reflected, Lord Gareth was more progressive already, but there was something delicious about influencing the wonderfully kind Hal to her way of thinking.

“We are allowed to invite guests to dine with us at Miss Plimsoll’s. Even men. May I play hostess to you one night?” Hal said he’d be delighted, and they fixed a day.

Mallow was waiting for her upstairs and helped her get ready for bed. Again, Mallow found her mistress a little distracted. Could it be . . . ? Well, Mr. Wheaton is not titled, but he is better behaved, Mallow imagined, than Lord Gareth.

“A pleasant evening, my lady?”

“Yes, very, thank you, Mallow.” Mallow helped her out of her elaborate evening dress. “Mallow, men can be rather funny, don’t you think?”

For questions like that, the all-purpose answer was best: “Yes, my lady.”

Frances had various committee meetings the next day and tried to put the manuscript out of her mind for a while. Why did anyone think she had it? What gave anyone that idea? She tried to organize her thoughts over dinner, filling pages in her notebook. She was vaguely aware of the other ladies, most of whom tended to older widows and spinsters, looking at her and shaking their heads.

Frances and Mallow sat in companionable silence in the sitting room. It had started to rain, and as the drops beat against the dark windows, there was no other sound but the turning of the pages and the click of Mallow’s knitting needles. When they had moved into Miss Plimsoll’s, Mallow would typically retire to her room after dinner until it was time to get Lady Frances ready for bed. But one night, after several weeks, Frances had knocked on Mallow’s door.

“How can I help you, my lady? Are you ready for bed?” It seemed early for Lady Frances.

“No, I was just thinking that your room—well, it’s a little dark and small to properly knit. The choice is yours, but you may join me in the sitting room, if you’d like. I just read and write letters.”

“If you don’t mind, my lady, it would be rather nice,” she said. And so it became their custom. Mallow decided it was very thoughtful of her ladyship. Frances never admitted, even to herself, that after growing up with her family, then living in a busy college dormitory, she rather missed company in the evening.

Frances noted how nimble Mallow’s fingers were; whether it was sewing, knitting, or even lace making, Mallow excelled. Would she leave Frances’s service when she got older and work for one of the fine London dressmakers? She was a pretty girl—would some man claim her one day? Perhaps not the neighboring valet she had been walking with on her day off, but someone else.

Or maybe they’d grow old together in this flat? No—Henry Wheaton would press his suit. Did she want him? Keep him waiting long enough and she’d likely lose him. Men won’t wait forever.

A firm knock on the door roused her, startling both women. It was rare to be disturbed this late.

“Let me see, my lady,” said Mallow. She opened the door to admit one of the household maids.

“Ever so sorry to disturb you, my lady. But a gentleman downstairs says he’s most eager to see you this evening.” She handed Frances a card—Mr. Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament.

“Come to apologize, I hope,” said Frances. “Very well. Thank you, Mabel. Mallow, I will see what this gentleman has to say.”

Bramwell was pacing in the lobby.

“Lady Frances, I am glad I found you in. We have much to discuss.”

“First, you have much to apologize for,” she said.

“Yes. I can waste time begging your forgiveness for my language. And you can beg my forgiveness for eavesdropping and invading my office unannounced. Or we can get down to business. My coach is outside.”

“You want to meet in your coach? Where are we going?”

“We’ll just ride around. It’s private.”

Frances felt a momentary fear—but this was a member of Parliament. He may be selfish and untrustworthy, but he’d have to be a madman to lay hands on the daughter of a marquess.

Frances excused herself to go upstairs to get a cloak. She told Mallow not to worry and gave her Mr. Bramwell’s card. “He’s a member of Parliament,” she said, trying to calm her dubious maid.

It was still raining, but Bramwell had an umbrella and showed her into his coach. He told his driver to just keep going—a stopped coach could catch someone’s attention, and he clearly didn’t want that.

“I ask you again, Lady Frances. Why do you seek me out?”

“I told you. I am looking for Daniel Colcombe’s manuscript.” She thought to challenge him. “As are you—I believe you were at the Colcombe funeral?”

“As a member of Parliament, it behooves me to attend funerals of many leading citizens. Your brother no doubt attends many as well. But back to our subject: it may interest you to know that I’ve heard about this manuscript for weeks. And since we last met, I made some inquiries and have given the matter more thought. You’re an intimate of the Heathcote set. Have they made you an offer? I’ll give you a better price.”

Frances was astounded. How had Bramwell gotten the story so wrong?

“Sir, what possibly makes you think I have the manuscript? If I did have it, why would I have shown up at your house? I assure you it is not in my possession, and I have only the barest acquaintanceship with the so-called Heathcote set. Indeed, I wasn’t even introduced to the Heathcotes.”

But he was already shaking his head. “Don’t waste your time or mine. Rumors about that book have been flying around London since Colcombe died, and I wanted to distance myself from it as much as possible. But old Crossley knew. He must’ve known you had the manuscript. I know you visited him. And I know your suitor, Lord Gareth Blaine, is his nephew. You were just using them to see who’d be interested in it and how much you could get.”

Frances just stared for a moment at Bramwell and his grim smile. She was so surprised at how utterly wrong Bramwell was. It was both frightening and fascinating to see how much of her actions had become public. Who was uncovering her secrets like that—and grafting on falsehoods like her possession of the manuscript? She doubted Bramwell had the skills to orchestrate this himself. Who else could be doing this?

“I went to Lord Crossley looking for the manuscript. I’m looking for it. I don’t have it. I’m not trying to sell it. I want it so I can publish it.” Did Bramwell really believe her showing up at his office and talking about the manuscript was just some genteel blackmail? “Seriously, Mr. Bramwell, tell me who told you I have the manuscript.”

He stared at her, incomprehension all over his face. “People who know, Lady Frances. I am going to pay you an honest compliment. I know you are both bright and shrewd—yes, I’ve asked about you, and even those who dislike you respect you. Indeed, you are too sharp to be unaware of men in London who make it their business to know things. And as a member of Parliament, even in a party not in power, I know these men. And they know me.”

“Again, all I can say is that I don’t have it. I thought you had it.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “Don’t bother. I now know I was wrong. You don’t have it. I saw you weren’t just angry when I brought it up; you were afraid.”

He sighed. “I have to make a lot of decisions in my official life. I have to decide who is lying to me. I’ll pay you another compliment, my lady. I think your brother may be using you as his agent. He’s one of the most promising men in the Liberal Party, and I’m willing to wager the two of you are in this together to make the Conservatives look bad.”

He pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Keep pretending. Inside is a very substantial bank draft. I know that despite your many faults, your charitable work is genuine.” He flashed her what he obviously thought was an ingratiating smile. “How does this sound: as a member of a political family, you will do me a favor and not publish anything that would embarrass me. You will edit the manuscript accordingly—when you find it, of course.” He winked at her. “And as a favor to you, one of the leading philanthropic women in society, I will give you this bank draft. Turn it over to the soup kitchen. You give them dinner? Start giving them lunch as well. Do we understand each other?”

The only word for this was bizarre. That Bramwell was so convinced she had it and that she would be receptive to a bribe was beyond all reasoning. When she refused the offered envelope, he grabbed her wrist with one hand and thrust the envelope into her hand with another.

“How dare you?” she said. Frances pulled away. This stupid man was not a genuine threat, but his insults were not to be borne.

“You suffragists want to be treated like men. This, Lady Frances, is how unreasonable men are treated. Now take the damn money. It’s all you’ll get.”

“Tell your coachman to stop. I’m getting out.” She started to open the door, but Bramwell reached across her and shut it again.

“Don’t be a fool. Know when to stop. Now for the last time . . .”

On a warm Sunday afternoon at Vassar, one of Frances’s lady friends had proposed a small picnic in a remote part of campus. Just her, Frances, her young man, who had traveled from New York City, and a friend of his. It started well, but the men had brought a flask, which Frances found somewhat objectionable, and then the “gentlemen” started getting amorous with the ladies, which Frances found very objectionable, and finally she had cooled the man’s ardor with a sharp smack across the cheek.

It also cooled Mr. Bramwell.

“Now tell your coachman to stop and let me out. Or by God, I will make you sorry you ever met me.”

“I’m already sorry,” he snapped, rubbing his cheek. But he didn’t have to give any orders because the coachman brought the carriage to such a sharp halt, they were both almost thrown out of their seats. The horses reared and whinnied in protest.

“What the devil—”

“I am very sorry, sir,” called down the coachman, “but a hansom pulled out in front suddenly. He must be mad to drive like that.”

Curious, Frances leaned out of the window and into the drizzly weather. The coach had stopped on a quiet corner, and the hansom was blocking the intersection. Its door opened and a figure got out. Frances couldn’t make out the features at all; the street was poorly lit and the man was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He walked purposefully toward the carriage.

“See here—” cried the coachman, but before anything could happen, the man yanked open the door on Bramwell’s side. Frances could see now—the man wore a wool scarf that left only his eyes visible. A highwayman, thought Frances, the romanticized robbers that used to inhabit the countryside. But they had been stamped out more than a century ago—was this some sort of joke? It was true that cutthroats roamed dangerous neighborhoods, but such criminals did not wander on respectable quiet streets, and the criminal classes did not travel by hansom cab.

Bramwell had gone pale. He tried to talk, but nothing came out. The stranger grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him out of the coach. Frances heard his body hit the pavement with a thump. She and the assailant then met each other’s eyes for one moment. Neither spoke, but then Frances remembered that two men had been shot over the Colcombe manuscript. She opened the door on her side and jumped out. She heard the coachman yell something, but she just ran, and in a moment was lost in a dark street in the London rain.

Frances didn’t even look where she was going, running past dark buildings and trying to stay away from streetlights. This was even worse than the mews, because all the nearby windows were closed tight against the weather; no one would hear her scream. And now there was more than just a vague fear of some stranger following her—a large, violent man had actually attacked the coach she was in. The search for the manuscript had become desperate. She thought she could hear the large man’s heavy footfall and expected his huge hand to land on her shoulder.

Her breathing came so ragged that her throat hurt, and then she tripped and fell, scraping her hands. Righting herself, she turned to see what had caused her fall—it was a short, stout piece of lumber, probably left by a workman. Frances grabbed it and stood up, staring into the night. She would go down fighting.

But nothing. No one was following her; no one was on the street. Frances looked around. With relief, she recognized a storefront and knew where she was—not so very far from home. The coachman had been driving around local streets. A brisk fifteen-minute walk and she was at the door of Miss Plimsoll’s.

Mallow was horrified at Frances’s condition, and Frances smiled ruefully.

“My lady, what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I am unhurt, just some minors scrapes, but it has not been the best of evenings. Put on a kettle and get me into something dry.”

She told her story while Mallow fussed over her, getting her undressed and tending to her minor wounds. Thoughts chased themselves around her mind. Who could’ve attacked them? The Heathcote set or someone whose life could be ruined by what was in the manuscript?

It took her a while to get over the terror of being attacked and think about what was actually the most unusual aspect of the evening: Bramwell’s absolute conviction that she had the manuscript. He was too stupid to have worked out any conclusion himself. Someone whispered the idea in his ear. Was it whoever told Lord Gareth and the Heathcotes? Someone was trying to put the focus on her—and away from himself.

Was Bramwell the real object of the attack—was she just someone who got in the way? And what happened to Mr. Bramwell after she fled? Well, there was no helping that now. She’d find out in the morning. And, she thought with a little satisfaction, she didn’t much care what happened to him.

“Shall I go downstairs and call the police, my lady?” asked Mallow.

“We probably should—but no,” said Frances. “I’m not badly hurt . . . and frankly, I think we need to be a little more circumspect about whom we trust. Someone knows too much about what’s happening to me, and if we call the police, there will be an official report, which will be shared all over the Home Office—I want to keep a lower profile. And besides that, can you imagine what my brother would say?”

“He would be extremely displeased, my lady.”

Despite the warmth of the evening, Mallow got her into a flannel gown and robe and served her a cup of strong tea with sugar. She undid Frances’s hair and began brushing it out. Frances would rather have just left it like that for now, but there was no point in complaining. It had to be done now or it would be even worse in the morning.

“I’m sorry you had such a horrifying evening, my lady.”

“Thank you, Mallow. It wasn’t that awful, really. It was like getting stuck in a play. A poorly written play.” She turned to her maid. “We’re going to write the next act ourselves.”