There was nothing that could stop Lady Harriet's tongue once she got her eyes and ears on a juicy bit of gossip, and scarcely had she seen Lady Laura in the embrace of Lord Albroke than the entire country knew about it.

It had been a slow, dull winter for the country, damp weather and damp scandal. A divorce had fizzled out into an informal separation. A baronet's son had threatened to elope with his mistress, but his parents raised his allowance and he dropped the matter. An actress had reappeared on stage after a nine-month sabbatical, but as her lovers hadn't a title between them, no one could find it in themselves to care very much about it. Upon this barren ground, the gossip about Lady Laura and Lord Albroke fell like a thunderstorm. Lady Laura already had a reputation for being a spitfire and a flirt, and the fact that Richard had never done anything worth gossipping about before did not make him a less interesting target now. Quite the opposite, in fact: it gave people free rein to imagine whatever dire untruth they wished about him. And the most dire, appealing untruth they could come up with was that he was madly in love with Lady Laura who, like Anne Neville, would not have him — yet.

It was enough to put Lord Brocket in a sour mood for the rest of winter. Even if the gossip were not true, the mere fact that other people believed it threatened to ruin all his plans. There were few men amongst Lord Brocket's list of prospective husbands who could afford to cross a man of Richard's connections and influence. Two weeks after the party at Lady Harriet's, all of Laura's lovers had faded quietly away from her side.

Then, to Lord Brocket's pleasant surprise, two things happened: Lord Albroke returned to London early for the year, and Giles Fordham, who had previously never been interested in her, became one of Laura's strongest admirers.

Lord Brocket questioned neither event, only smiled, and let fate do its work. Smiled though his daughter never did.

It was cold, snowing February morning when things came to a sudden head. Lord Brocket was sitting at his desk in his study, dealing with his correspondence. There was a soft knock at the door, and as he looked up a maid entered, holding her hands behind her back.

"What is it?" he asked sharply, not liking to be disturbed by the staff at his work.

"If you please, my lord, there's..." the maid blushed. "There's been a letter, my lord."

"The post arrived an hour ago."

"It didn't come by post." She came nearer, brought her hands out from behind her, and slipped a letter onto a desk. "A man gave it me by the gate."

"Which gate?" Lord Brocket eyed the letter, which was unaddressed, but sealed with wax.

The maid blushed red. "The — kitchen gate, my lord."

She was lying. Lord Brocket eyed her steadily and pieced it together. She had been outside the grounds, no doubt slacking off, perhaps meeting a lover. He would tell the housekeeper to keep an eye on her, likely fire her within the month, but no need to get her guard up now.

"What kind of man?"

"Why, a gentleman's groom, I should think. He had a sort of manner about him."

"And what did he say to you?"

"Not much, my lord. Said he'd give me a crown if I gave this here letter to my lady. But I didn't know as you'd like it, my lord, so I took it straight to you."

"And did you get your crown?"

"No, my lord." The maid looked virtuous.

Lord Brocket gave a thin smile. She was lying about that too. A month? She wouldn't last two more weeks.

He took a crown out of his pocket and passed it gravely to her. "You've done very well. Do not tell my lady a word about this. It was right not to take it to her."

The maid curtsied and left, clutching her coin. Lord Brocket waited until the door was shut before he opened the letter.

Dear Laura,

There was something I meant to tell you on the night of Lady Harriet's dinner, but we were interrupted before I had the chance. The matter concerned one of the gentlemen your father thinks suitable for you to marry, of whom I have a personal and particular knowledge. Later that night, your behaviour convinced me that I had no cause to worry, that you would not become interested in this man, and that he had not become interested in you. I decided, therefore, to tell you nothing of the matter.

It was not until recently that I heard that since that night, things have been different. The man in question is Giles Fordham. Gossip, reliable gossip, now informs me that he is to be considered the chief amongst your admirers, that your father is doing all he can to commit Fordham to the act, and that you show no reluctance. I cannot know how true are the rumours. Perhaps they are all lies and this warning is unneeded, but on the chance you are seriously considering him in the light of a—

There was a rather large ink-blot here, almost obscuring the next word:

—lover, I believe I must inform you of a secret of which I have long been the uncomfortable, lone possessor.

Fordham and I were at university together, were in the same college, our rooms next to each other. We were not friends.

There was another student at the college, a dependent servitor. I forget his name. Smith, or Jones, or something. Sometimes I even forget his face. He lived in the same college as Fordham and I, and Fordham often availed himself of the privilege to send him on errands or chores. It was to humiliate him, more than anything, for Fordham had his own valet. Fordham was like that.

There was also a woman (I shall not say her name, though I remember it), a family relation to the Dean. She was very pretty and known to all of us. Fordham fell in love with her and she encouraged him. If you will burn this letter, please: she encouraged every handsome student in the college. She was not just Fordham's lover, but also the Servitor's lover — I remember his name now, Evans, a Welshman.

Well. Eventually Fordham found out that Evans had been sleeping with her too. He ordered Evans to his room on an excuse, to the light the fire or something, and there thrashed him with a horsewhip. My room was next door. I heard the first lash, and counted the first ten. I thought he would stop then. I told myself that when he did stop, I would go in, and help Evans.

But Fordham did not stop.

I blame myself for waiting so long to interfere. Our rooms were far away from the others, and I don't think anybody else could hear the man scream. By the time I dared enter Fordham's room, the floor was covered in Evan's blood, and he was half-unconscious on the floor. Fordham folded away the whip as I entered. His face was calm, not even a little pink in the cheeks. He asked if Evans's screams had disturbed me and said if I cared to wait downstairs, he would finish it up. He was politeness itself, and on the floor Evans was dying.

I don't think Fordham intended to murder him. But I know he didn't care that it ended that way. His anger was cold and self-righteous. He saw himself as a justified punisher of wrongs, I think. He could not conceive that he himself had been in the wrong.

Fordham used his connection, his privilege, to escape the consequences. Evans's family was one little old mother with no money and no connections. She had no chance of justice for her son. The woman in the question, if she loved either, could say and do nothing without ruining herself. The Dean was only too happy to keep the incident quiet. It was passed off as a schoolboy duel gone wrong. The sheriff and the magistrates perhaps even believed it. It never reached the assizes.

I could not forget that if I had acted earlier, I might have changed how it ended. Unable to forgive myself, I exerted myself, begged my father to exert himself, and between us we persuaded Lord Farncote to send his son abroad. The Dean did not precisely send Fordham down, but he made it clear that Fordham would not be allowed to return, if ever he did come back to England.

It was fifteen years ago now. I do not dare now publicize the incident, when Fordham and I are the only witnesses now living. However, if his character is yet disguised to you, I hope this may persuade you that he is no man worthy of your hand. Indeed, I would beg you avoid even his friendship, his acquaintance.

Yours, Richard

Lord Brocket pursed his lips and tapped the letter on his desk. He had known a little of the incident, but nothing more than that a scandal had required Farncote to send his youngest son abroad. He had assumed the scandal was a sexual one, for scandals generally were. A hot-blooded murder was different; he had no desire for Laura to be in physical danger. But the element of the account that stood out to him was that it was the male rival Fordham had thrashed, a man of much lower status, practically of the servant class. The woman in the equation seemed to have been left unscathed.

While he was pondering that matter, there was another knock at the door, and Fordham was announced. Brocket folded the letter as his guest sat down.

"Cold weather for a journey," Brocket remarked.

"I don't mind the cold. Better than the heat. I've had enough of heat to last my lifetime."

"Ah. India. Did you like it there?"

"Hated it."

"Then why stay?"

Fordham rubbed his knee. "Oh, you know, the old man and I had a disagreement. Wish we could've patched it up before he died but he was stubborn."

Brocket watched him carefully. He was cold, calm, unperturbed. There was no hint in his eyes of a guilty secret. Brocket got up, went to the fire, and burned the letter, watching the letters shrivel. A fragment floated away from the fire, landed near Fordham's feet. He picked it up and raised his eyebrows.

"I hope this may persuade you... no man worthy of your hand... A love letter?"

"Indeed." Lord Brocket took the scrap back and threw it in the grate. An idea came to him. "That fool Albroke sent a secret letter to my daughter this morning. The maid intercepted it, thank god."

Fordham stiffened. "Then the rumours are true?"

"I suppose it depends which you've been listening too. All I know is that Albroke wants Laura more than anything else in the world. He swore as much in his letter, at least."

Fordham looked closely at Brocket. Then he looked down at his trousers, played with an imaginary speck of dust on his knee.

"I don't suppose," Brocket said delicately, "you would regard him in the light of a competitor...?"

"What do you mean?" Fordham looked up sharply. "Him? Compete with me?"

"It seems very odd to me indeed," Brocket said carelessly, going back to his desk and sinking into his chair. "I don't think a man would say he could possibly compete with you in anything. But women can have such odd opinions about men, such senseless affections."

He paused a moment, watching the series of mute, doubting expressions shift across Fordham's face.

"You see," Brocket added, "if I can't find someone better to marry her, I might just let Albroke have his chance to persuade her. And you're all I've got that is better, now that he's come onto the field and those cowards Denbury and Yardly and Chatfield won't dare risk stealing a woman he's halfway fond of. So I'd like to know: are you his competitor, or should I give her up to him?"

Brocket thought he might have laid it on too thick. But it wasn't his intelligence Fordham was known for. He sat, frowning at his knees for several minutes.

Eventually he said, rather petulantly, "He was going to kiss her at Lady Harriet's, wasn't he?"

"I hope she wouldn't have let him," Brocket said, genuinely indignant.

"It looked that way," Fordham said.

There was another silence. Fordham went to the window, where he looked out upon a gently falling snow.

"It really did look like he loved her. And now everybody is saying he does."

"I can assure you that the letter he wrote her made it quite certain he does," Brocket said silkily. "The only question is do I give her up to him, or will you save me from having to give her to a sour-faced little cripple?"

Fordham let out an unexpected grunt of laughter. "Sour-faced little cripple! That's about right!" He became silent again, tracing his finger back and forth on the window sill. "I'd wanted someone younger... but she wears it well. And if he..."

Lord Brocket waited patiently, knowing, by then, that he had won. And after all, the Farncotes were an old family, with good connections, and very respectable, at least as the public thought of them. It was not a bad match, and the grandchildren would surely be very handsome.

"I suppose you ought to write Albroke your own letter," Fordham said at last. "Tell him he's poaching on my ground, if he dares write another letter like that again. She's mine. He wants her, but she'll be mine."

There was a very unloverlike satisfaction in Fordham's voice, but Brocket, who knew exactly where it came from, did not remark on it.