Richard leaned back in his chair and sipped his brandy. His club was quiet, almost unfashionably so, though it boasted amongst it members dukes and marquesses. Tonight, it was quieter than usual, for most of popular society would not return to London for another month or more. There were only a handful of half-asleep old men in the coffee room with Richard, while downstairs the card and smoking rooms were empty. The only activity in the entire building came from the liveried waiters, who were taking advantage of the quiet to dust bookshelves, sweep floors, and order receipts.

Richard had never been one for crowds and bustle but even he found the club uncomfortably solitary tonight. Earlier in the evening, he had left his townhouse in Grosvenor Square because the dead stillness had become somehow oppressive. Every room had been darkened but his study on the ground floor, and he had felt the weight of the ten black, quiet rooms above pressing down upon him like a gravestone. None of his friends were in London yet or he might have made one of his rare social calls. Instead, he had called for his coach and come through the empty, snow-glazed streets to his club in the hope of company.

But even here, he found himself alone and surrounded by oppressive silence. None of the old men around were his friends; besides, half of them were asleep and gently snoring, and the other half required no company other than their newspapers.

Richard finished his brandy, but didn't signal the waiter over for another. Instead he sat there, slowly spinning the brandy glass round and round on the table. He did not want another drink, nor did he want to go home. And he felt vaguely self-conscious about sitting alone and doing nothing. At least the waiter had his books to dust, the old men their newspapers or their snores and dreams. Richard had nothing but his glass. And it was empty.

Richard had just convinced himself to get up and go when downstairs in the hall the entry-door slammed. One of the sleeping old men near Richard jerked awake mid-snore.

"Wassat?" he shouted, waking the other sleeping man. "Who's there!?"

"Good evening, Lord Wiltshire," Richard said drily. "Just the wind, I think."

But it wasn't just the wind. A moment later, there were heavy, rapid footsteps on the stairs outside and, with another door-slam, Giles Fordham burst into the coffee room.

By now, no one was sleeping, and all the men with newspapers had dropped them to their laps to glare myopically at the intruder. The waiter too had stopped dusting the bookshelves and stepped forward to the door. Fordham ignored him and strode into the room, his eyes pinned upon Richard.

"Albroke!"

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Fordham." He turned to the waiter. "Another brandy please."

The waiter set down his duster and went to obey. Fordham was not to be so easily disconcerted. He came close and stood over Richard. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, but his manner was now controlled. That was what he was like, Richard remembered uneasily. Even as he had whipped the life from Evans, Fordham had never been anything other than cold and controlled.

"I didn't know we were members of the same club," Richard said lightly, trying to hide his unease.

"We're not." Fordham wrested his glove off and flung it on the floor by Richard's feet. "I've come here to call you out."

"Call me out?" Richard laughed. "What on earth for?"

"For seducing the woman I was to marry."

Richard stared speechlessly at Fordham. Around them, every man was now peering forward curiously. Lord Wiltshire had even cupped his hand behind his ear to hear better. Richard knew the scene would be all over town by noon tomorrow. His throat went dry.

The waiter returned with the brandy, and Richard sipped and swallowed to ease the contraction in his throat. Fordham breathed over him, like an angry bull.

"I confess you've got me at a disadvantage," Richard said, "for I don't know what on earth you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you seducing L—"

"—Me? Seduce?" He forced a laugh and turned to Wiltshire, who was still eagerly listening. "Can you believe it, Wiltshire, with my looks?"

The old man chuckled. "Not likely to be him, Fordham. You got cuckolded by another."

"No. It was him. She told me so herself." Fordham raised his voice so that even the deafest old men in the furthest corners of the room could hear. "Laura Maidstone says Lord Albroke is her lover. And I would have married the strumpet."

After that, the room was deathly silent. Richard opened his mouth to deny it, to call Laura a liar, and then shut it again. She wasn't a liar. She might be every other awful thing, but not a liar.

Slowly, Richard took another sip of brandy. "Even if that's true— and I'm not saying it is —I don't see why it's any business of yours to call me out," he said mildly. "If you are not to marry her, then her affairs are nothing to do with you."

Richard set down his brandy and looked up at the waiter, who was hovering by. "Now, this man is not a member of this club and is annoying me. Do see him out, won't you?"

"It's alright." Fordham's eyes glittered as he stared down at Richard. "I'm leaving."

And he did leave, turning on his heel and moving sharply for the door. There was no slam this time, only his footsteps fading away. Richard breathed out slowly, his heart pounding. For a moment, he was almost angry with Laura, but it passed as quickly into dread. If it got around town — and it would — her reputation would be ruined. There had been rumours enough when she was married to Maidstone. They would add fuel to the fire. And her father would never stand by a ruined daughter — Richard knew mercantile Lord Brocket too well to hope for that.

He left his brandy unfinished and got up to leave. Wiltshire raised a finger to halt him.

"Go on," he said, "tell me: is it true?"

Richard scoffed. "I wish it were. But you and I, old fellow, we're not exactly Casanova now, are we?"

Wiltshire's grin stretched across his fat face. "Eh. Some women go for something deeper than looks. Like pockets."

"And Lord Brocket has pockets deep enough of his own without his daughter trying to get her paws in mine." Richard noticed Fordham's glove still lying on the floor, frowned, and stooped to pick it up. "He left it behind. Stupid fool."

"Going to give it back to him? At noon in a deserted field, perhaps?"

"No. I'm going to have my bootboy leave it on his doorstep." Richard pocketed it. "Without even a note. I'm not a fool."

"Ah well," Wiltshire said regretfully. "It's not like the old days."

Richard took up his stick and limped downstairs. The entry-man gave him a rather stiff bow as he opened the door.

"My lord."

"Thank you, Carruthers." Richard dropped a gold coin in his hand. "Sorry about the bother tonight. I didn't imagine I was going to be chased down by a mad fool."

"We never do, my lord," Carruthers said obligingly. "Goodnight, my lord."

Richard had sent his groom and coach home earlier that night, for he had not known how long he would stay. He could have gone for a cab now but his house was not more than a fifteen minute walk, even at Richard's pace. He set off into the dark street, burying his chin beneath the collar of his great-coat. Before he had gone more than a few dozen yards, a figure moved out of the shadows to join him. He jumped.

"Fordham. Again." He sighed. "I've told you, I've nothing to do with Lady Laura."

"She was quite clear you did." Fordham sneered. "Are you in love with her?"

"My goodness, what business is it of yours?" Richard demanded irritably.

"It's of interest." Fordham loped easily by Richard's side, though Richard was hurrying. "If you love her, I'll marry her. Wouldn't that be nice? Me, having the woman you wanted."

"A sensible man would have what he himself wanted," Richard said coldly. "Here. You left your glove behind."

He took it out from his pocket and threw it at Fordham. It hit him in the chest and then fell limply to the ground. Fordham ignored it and continued to follow Richard.

"I suppose you're not in love," Fordham said. "She said you weren't, but I thought she was lying. And yet you sleep with her."

Richard said nothing.

"I was in love with Diana," Fordham said abruptly. "I'd like it if you were in love with Laura, so you'd know how it feels. To be in love. To have someone steal your lover from you."

Still, Richard said nothing.

"And I would have forgiven her. I would have married Diana. But instead, you and my father, but it was mainly you, sent me off to that godforsaken hellhole."

At last Richard spoke. "You're lucky it was India and not the noose."

"The noose?" Fordham spat at Richard. "I would have preferred it. Do you know Diana's dead?"

Richard went cold inside. "I did not."

"Well she is."

A gas lamp cast a greenish ring of light on the snow just ahead. Before they could step into it, Fordham put a heavy hand on Richard's shoulder, pressing so tight it hurt.

Richard tightened his grip on his stick. "Let go of me."

"She died not a week before I came back to England. Fifteen years I waited for her. The first thing I did when I got here was go to see her. And I was just in time to see them lay her grave. Fifteen years." His voice was low and cold and controlled. But his hand on Richard's shoulder squeezed like a vice. "I wanted to take Laura from you, to make you feel what it's like, but you don't love her."

"No," Richard said, to save her more than himself. "She's nothing to me."

"And who is something?" Fordham asked, his voice deadly.

"No one," Richard lied. "I have nobody to love."

Not his brother. Not his sister-in-law. Not his niece and nephew. He could not risk Fordham turning his irrational desire for hurt upon them.

"I see." Finger by finger, Fordham's grip on his shoulder loosened. "I should have known. Who would love you? I bet you had to pay her for it."

Richard staggered off, into the circle of light. There was another dozen yards or so of darkness ahead of him before he reached the light and safety of Oxford street. He set out doggedly for it. He had to get home. Send another letter to Laura. Send one to Lord Brocket. Warn them about Fordham. And a letter to his brother, and—

He stepped into the shadow again, and from behind him, heard the sound of running through the snow. He knew the blow was coming and had only enough time to tense and half-turn towards it as he was knocked to the ground. He kept his hold on his stick and tried to push Fordham away, but Fordham wrenched it from his hand, pulled it against his knee, and snapped it in two.

After that, Richard could do nothing but curl in a ball and try to shout for help while Fordham kicked and beat him with the jagged shards of his own stick. But the streets were deserted, and the falling snow muffled his cries.

And just as he teetered on the brink of merciful unconsciousness, he heard the sound of a carriage coming down the road and someone shouting.

And then he fell.