Laura poked the fire and shivered. The wood she had found in the stable was damp, and smouldered rather than burned, and the kitchen was large and open, full of stony, frozen surfaces and drafts. It was hard to keep warm down here. She'd found an old set of footman's livery in the attic and a pair of boots under the stairs, and put them on over her dress and slippers, but even then her fingers were blue and her toes numb. She didn't dare light a fire upstairs, where the rooms were smaller and easier to heat, for she feared someone would see the glow through the shutters and investigate the cause. She doubted her father would think to look for her here, in the shut-up house in Southwark that had once belonged to her mother, but she didn't want to risk being arrested for trespassing either.

The fire let out a jet of smoke with a hiss and died to a faint glow under the blackened wood. Laura curled her feet, in their clumsy servant's boots, up beneath her skirts, and reached in the pocket of the footman's coat for the over-greasy pie she'd bought from a street hawker an hour ago. She was beginning to get used to greasy street food. It was a far cry from the delicate meats and puddings of her father's French chef, but her appetite, sharpened by hunger, made the greasy pies or glutinous pea soup or pungent fried eels somehow tastier than the richest turtle soup.

She nibbled at the crust, which was burned, and wondered what to do next. Her money was running out. She'd sold her father's hunter to a carter before the London toll-gate, but he'd only given her five crowns for it, and she was spending sixpence a day on food. And even then, she had to find a more permanent situation than skulking in the basement of an abandoned house. She had friends in London who might help her, with money or with finding a position somewhere, but somehow she shuddered at the thought of asking them. She didn't want to be in anyone's debt. And she dreaded meeting their eyes — Lady Hunstall's, Mr Percival's, Miss Dalrymple's, and scores of others from over the years. They would know her now for what she was: a liar, a slut, and the nearest thing to a murderer she could be, without having struck Richard herself.

The pie had gone cold and soggy in her hands. She forced her thoughts away from Richard and Fordham. It was the only way she could keep breathing, to pretend neither of them had ever existed and it had not happened. Tomorrow, she thought firmly, I'll knock on doors and ask for a job, anything, anything at all. She forced herself to bite into her soggy pie, tasting nothing.

Mid-chew, she heard a pane of glass shatter from somewhere at the back of the house. She froze. Had it been next door, or in the street? But no, a voice said something, too distant to decipher. They were in the hallway of the ground floor above her. The floorboards creaked as they moved.

Laura got silently, swiftly to her feet, throwing the rest of the pie on the ashes of the dead fire. She could not leave without being seen. She'd been going in and out by the French doors in the dining room, which had a catch that could be toggled from the outside with a thin stick. The heavy footsteps above began to descend the hallway stairs. Panic rising, Laura darted into the pantry, shutting the door behind her. Even as she did so, she heard the kitchen door open.

"Room's empty, Sir."

"Wait." Footsteps, sharp on stone, came into the room. "The ashes are smoking. She's been here. Not long ago either."

Laura's heart pounded. She recognized the voice but could not place it. She looked desperately around the pantry for a hiding place. There was nothing but empty shelves, all the way up to the ceiling. And a rusty bread knife, lying abandoned on the lowest of them.

In the other room, the scullery door opened and shut. Laura grabbed the knife and held it shakingly out in front of her. If it was her father's servants—

Light streamed into the room as the door was yanked open. Laura brandished the knife at the man. He jumped back and raised his hands defensively.

"George, help me!"

But now she recognized his voice, and then his face and figure, taller, slenderer, and more elegant than it had been eleven years ago. A strange sensation of unreality washed over her; the knife slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Of course. Neil would have to come to London, for Richard's funer—

"Don't you dare faint," Neil ordered, as behind him another man, a stranger in servant garb, appeared.

Laura drew herself up straighter. "I have never fainted in my life! What the hell are you doing here?"

He ignored her question, darting forward to kick the knife out of reach behind her. She stared at where it now lay, glinting in the shadows.

"I wouldn't have hurt you," she said flatly. "Not once I knew you."

"Maybe." He laid a heavy hand on her arm and pulled her back out into the kitchen. "Are you ill? Hurt?" He stared at her, eyes narrow and hawkish. "...Pregnant?"

"No!" She shook him off. "Why are you here?"

"I was sent to find you." He pressed his lips tightly together. "Now I have. What the hell are you wearing?"

She looked down at the coral and silver footman's frock coat and vest she wore over her dress, the clumsy black boots beneath her delicate linen petticoat. For the first time, it occurred to her that she looked absurd. She raised her eyes to meet Neil's again.

"Why, it's the latest mode from Paris."

Neil had never appreciated her sense of humour, but the servant behind him sniggered. Neil turned to him, frowning.

"Thank you, George," he said. "We've found her now. You did well. Go and see to the carriage, will you?"

"Yessir." The man touched his hat to Laura and left.

As his footsteps faded away above, Neil looked at Laura and Laura looked at Neil. There was a beaten, wearied look to him that she had never seen before. She felt suddenly bad for having made a joke, under the circumstances they were in. The words began to leave her lips before she even knew what she was saying:

"I — I cannot apologise — it's useless to say any such words. But I must — I must say them. It is my fault and—"

"Yes," Neil said coldly. "It is."

Her guilt became immediately anger. "I couldn't have known he would do such a thing!"

"And could you not have known it was utter madness to say anything at all?" Neil snapped. "Is there no conception of right and wrong in that pretty, foul head of yours? Are men's secrets not worth keeping? Men's lives not worth protecting?"

"There is, and they are, they are!" She covered her face with her hands. "Neil, I'm so..."

The word she hated to say hung in the silence between them.

"...Don't say it," Neil warned. "I don't want to hear it. Not now. I only want to speak to you alone for a moment, before I take you back."

Back. Dismally, Laura realized that her father must have asked Neil to find her and bring her back. Neil would have been at Albroke, of course. It was within riding distance from her home — her father's house. They would have had things to talk about — Richard.

"I want to say this now," Neil said slowly, "so that we're absolutely clear. And then this matter need never be spoken of again. It doesn't matter what you do or what you say. I cannot forgive you for what you have done to Richard. I will not. And after this, I never want to see you again."

She couldn't disagree with him. She only nodded mutely.

"Now let's get out of this hovel. Come."

He directed her towards the door. She hesitated.

"Wait. Is there anything I can say to... to get you not to take me back? I do not wish to go."

"You want to stay here, among the ashes?" He raised a familiar sardonic eyebrow, in a gesture that reminded Laura achingly of Richard.

"I'll go to France. Or Manchester. Or Dublin. Become a forgotten woman, like so many others."

"Perhaps. But not before he sees you. He asked me for that, and I will not fail him."

"Why? Why does he deserve anything from you, let alone me?"

Neil stared incredulously at her. "How can you say that after what you did?"

"And what he has done! Neil, please, I cannot bear to see him! Leave me here, and I will do as you wish, and you will never see me again. You lose nothing by it. Why you would even do his bidding to begin with, I cannot think. He is nothing to you!"

"Nothing to me!?" shouted Neil. "My brother! Nothing!?"

His voice echoed around the vaults of the empty kitchen. He had her elbows grasped tightly, painfully, in his hands, but Laura did not notice.

"...Brother," she repeated, smally. "Is it not my father who sent you? Is Richard..."

The room spun wildly around her. She could hear Neil speaking but understood nothing of what he was saying to her. And then she was somehow on her knees, and the chill of the stone floor roused her.

"I told you not to faint." Neil was leaning over her, still gripping her elbows. It was all that kept her halfway upright. But his eyes were still cold and hard.

"Is Rich— is Richard alive?" Her voice was cobweb thin and weak.

"Yes." He jostled her as she started to sway. "He's very ill, but he won't die."

She shut her eyes. "Thank God."

She was weightless and unanchored with relief. Even with her eyes shut, she had the sensation of spinning. Neil jostled her again.

"Can you stand? Can you walk?"

"Yes." She stumbled to her feet, wiping her eyes on her muddy sleeve. He kept a hand at her elbow. "It wasn't Richard I was talking of. I thought it was my father who sent you. He said Richard was dead. I didn't know. I wouldn't have said that of Richard. What happened to him? How is he?"

"Poorly," Neil said brusquely. "You will see how poorly soon."

He refused to answer her other question until they were in the carriage, rolling at a slow-pace down the packed London streets. With his gaze out the window he asked, "What did you think happened?"

"My father said Fordham murdered him."

"Not quite." His mouth went tight and grim. "It was a close thing."

It was not calculated to make her feel at ease, and by the time they arrived in Grosvenor Square, she was shaking with fear and hope. As soon as the footman opened the door, she slipped under his arm and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She had been to the house before, years ago, and knew the layout. Richard's bedroom was on the second floor, at the front.

He was lying in bed, seemingly asleep, with only the back of his head showing to her. She came closer without speaking. He stirred at her footstep, rolling clumsily to his back, and, seeing her, sat up suddenly. The movement made him wince and blanch.

"What's wrong?"

"My ribs," he said, through gritted teeth. "I forgot about them."

She stopped where she was and stared at him. There was something crushed and faded about him. He had lost weight. The hand that clutched at his ribs seemed weaker than the hand that had pinioned her waist against his.

There were more footsteps, and she turned to see Neil standing breathless in the door.

"She ran up before I could stop her."

"It doesn't matter. I was awake. You can leave us, Neil. I wish to speak to her alone."

A mutinous doubt rose to Neil's face, but he shut the door behind him and left. Laura turned back to Richard, who was frowning uneasily at her.

"Sit down."

It felt more like an order than a request. Laura sank down into the chair next to the bed. Her head was spinning again.

"I'm glad to see you looking well," Richard said. His voice was thin somehow, as though compressed.

She opened her mouth to speak but found she could do nothing but breathe in.

"I was worried that your disappearance had put you in danger."

"No." She swallowed. "No danger. Are you—"

He waited expectantly but she didn't know how to finish it. Are you — well? He was not. Are you — angry? He was. She could tell by the faint tightening of his bottom lip. He was angry, and trying not to show it.

They fell into a prickling, uncomfortable silence. Laura fiddled with a hole in her dress. Richard opened his mouth several times to speak and then did not.

At last he said, very softly: "I think— I want you to listen, this time —I think we should get married. It seems to be the... only thing for us."

If there had been the slightest hint of warmth or affection in his voice, she might have accepted this time. Might even have been grateful to do so. But his reluctance, his anger, no matter how he tried to disguise them, vibrated beneath the surface of his words.

She shook her head.

He sighed, with relief not sorrow, and made no further attempt to persuade her.

"Then should I send you back to your father's?"

"No!"

He frowned. "Then to a friend or cousin, perhaps?

She looked away. "I think I have no friends or relatives who will care to know me now, Richard."

"Then what will you do?"

Her earlier dreams of taking any work and disappearing into anonymity seemed laughable now. She shrugged.

For some moments, he played with his quilt and she looked out the window. It started to rain, a gentle spray upon the glass.

"Do you have anywhere you can go?" he asked at last

"I thought of going to Paris, or Dublin," she said lightly. "I hear there's lots of work for women of my reputation there."

"Don't be cavalier, Laura. You'd end up a twopenny prostitute."

The contempt and anger rose openly to his voice now, and she flinched as though she'd been burned.

"It's not your problem if I do," she said sullenly. "It's not your problem where I go or what I do."

"Yes it damn well is and you know it!"

He raised his voice, making her jump. She stared at him. As she watched, he put his hand back to his ribs and breathed out slowly. His face was rather white again.

"I don't know it, Richard," she said, in almost a whisper. "I don't see how it is at all to do with you. It is my fault and my problem alone. You are not responsible for my fate."

Slowly, the colour came back to his face. He shifted gingerly back against the pillows.

"You'll stay here," he said at last. His voice was compressed again. Speaking above almost a whisper seemed to hurt him.

"I won't marry you."

"I didn't ask you to." He darted a scornful look at her. "I simply said that you'll stay. There's nowhere else for you to go, so you must. At least until we figure something out."

"But..." She stared helplessly at him. "I don't want to be..."

He looked coldly, questioningly at her. It occurred to her for the first time that she hadn't said sorry. Before she came in, she had planned to. But she didn't dare do it now, not when he was looking at her in that cold way.

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him. But she knew quite well he was right. She could not go back to her father. She dared not believe she could turn to her friends. Richard's home was the only safe harbour open to her now.

"I suppose I'll stay then."

"Wonderful." His voice was dry and weary. "You have the run of the house. I'll ask the servants to prepare a room for you." He paused, and seemed to be waiting for something. When she didn't supply it, he said, pointedly, "Do shut the door on your way out."