That night was the beginning of their affair, though not, Laura realized, the end of the reserve between them.

It was in him — in his watchful eyes, in his preoccupied frowns, in his distant, shielding smiles. She knew there were things he was not telling her. He might not have secrets, she thought, but he certainly had shadows within himself.

It was in her too — she could not bring herself to stay the night in his bed. She would count his breaths until she was sure he was sleeping, slip out from under the covers, and tiptoe back to her room. Sometimes he half-woke and tried to pull her back, murmuring some persuasion— he liked just to hold her —but she could not be persuaded, she would not be held.

And Laura couldn't tell, really, if she wanted the reserve between them to fall or not.

One morning in late April when Richard was out, Laura had her first caller at his house. She hadn't expected anybody to call at all— indeed, if she happened to pass an acquaintance in the street, they were sure to pretend that they did not recognize her —and the first dreadful conclusion she came to was that it was her father. As she reached out to take the card from the maid, her hands trembled.

It was not her father. It was Jonathan Percival.

Laura breathed out. Richard had mentioned to her a few days ago that he'd rejected Mr Percival's offer of business. It had no legs, he had told Laura, and she'd been unsurprised but worried to hear it. Mr Percival had no head for business. He was too timid, too soft-hearted, too disposed to thinking the best of others and the worst of himself. He had inherited his father's factories at twenty-five, and by thirty had nearly run them to the ground. Capital and competence might yet have saved them but Mr Percival had neither.

And now Mr Percival had come to call on her, probably to beg her to change Richard's mind about investing. Laura's heart sunk. Mr Percival was a damn fool.

But she could not refuse to see him. He was perhaps the only person she could not refuse to see.

She got dressed and went downstairs to find him sitting patiently on the most uncomfortable chair in the drawing room, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his heels touched together. He launched himself to his feet as she entered and swept a low bow.

"Lady Laura. It's an honour to see you looking so well."

She curtsied but did not hold out her hand for him to shake in case he was fool enough to kiss it. He was not looking well. He was paler and thinner than usual, with shadows under his cheeks, and new, sharp creases between his eyebrows.

"Thank you for calling," she said. "Unless it's my husb—" She shut her mouth with a snap. Husband. Yes, Mr Percival used to call to see Mr Maidstone. Used to ask to see Maidstone as a pretext for seeing Laura, because Maidstone did not like Laura to have friends of her own. And Laura had very, very much needed a friend.

"He's dead," she said, letting out a short, sad laugh. "For a moment I almost thought... You brought it back."

Mr Percival went from white to grey. "I'm sorry."

That was Mr Percival all over. Apologizing for things that were not his fault. It made Laura feel better. She held out her hand to him and he shook it limply.

"You haven't come to see Lord Albroke, have you?" she asked, sitting down and pointing at a chair opposite.

"Not really." Percival sat and chewed his bottom lip. "I don't think I can interest him in investing in the factory."

"He said there's no point. It's going to lose you and all your investors a lot of money." She met his eyes. "Chiefly you. He thinks you ought to sell out."

"I don't have the money to sell out," Percival said with a wince. "This is my last factory. My last chance."

"Well it's not going to work so you'll have to find another one." She found herself talking to him the way she talked to dim-witted servants but it was impossible not to. He demanded direction. "I can't persuade Lord Albroke to provide capital, if that's what you're thinking, but perhaps I can help in other ways."

Percival shook his head. "I didn't come here for your help, Laura. I.... I came to see..." He started chewing his top lip now. "What I mean is — are you well?"

"Very."

"But — do you — do you need anything?"

"That you can provide?" She almost smiled. "It's very kind of you to ask. No. I do not."

"But—" He bit down hard, his lips white. "—Are you happy?"

"Of course I'm..."

She hadn't thought about happiness in a long time. She'd almost forgotten there was such a thing. It was an alien notion, happiness, and she found she could not answer.

"If you're not happy here — with this — with, um, Lord Albroke — I'll help you leave. I know I'm not much, but I can help — surely I can do something. You must let me do something."

He leaned forward and touched her hand, made a motion to hold it. She drew back.

"If I were in need of help, Jonathan, and if you were capable of offering any, I would be grateful it. But I don't need any. And you can't give any." A hurt look flashed across his face and softened her tone. "You did once, you know. And I'm very grateful to you for that. But I'm — I'm in much better circumstances now. And yours are worse. It's I who ought to be offering to help you."

"It's not a gentleman's place to ask for help from a lady," he said stiffly.

"Don't be proud," she begged. "Don't be foolish. I owe you something. And Richard will help if I ask him."

But she had offended Mr Percival. He got to his feet and bowed deeply.

"I came here only to ask if I could help you," he said. "And I cannot."

"No."

There was disappointment in his eyes. She knew if she could get him to stay a little longer, he would apologize once more, would perhaps, with a little persuasion, accept her offer of help. But there was a danger, she thought, in encouraging him too much; he had always been fonder of her than was wise. She said nothing, and after a pregnant moment he bowed again.

"I am pleased to hear that you are well. I am very pleased to hear that indeed."

He left, and Laura stayed in the drawing room, thinking. Not about Mr Percival; once out of sight, he was always out of mind. About happiness. She was perplexed by the very notion of it, had to remind herself of its name, reacquaint herself with its shape. She had once been happy, she thought. As a child, she must have been happy. Even in the very early days of her marriage with Maidstone, she had been happy. It had been a naive happiness, true, but it had been happiness. And now?

No, she decided, with sudden clarity. Now was not happiness. Now was better than what came before. Now was better than the ignorant ecstasy of her honey moon. Now was safe. Now was good. But it was not happy.

And perhaps, she thought, that meant that happiness was not so important after all.

Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the open door. It was the maid again.

"A Miss Dalrymple enquires if my lady is at home."

Laura was surprised again but this time pleasantly. "I am," she said. "Please bring tea and cake."

A moment later, Miss Dalrymple came trotting up the stairs and into the room. Laura stood for her and said hello. Miss Dalrymple, however, remained standing, ramrod straight, and looked Laura up and down with narrow, scrutinizing eyes. Finally she said, in a tone of absolute satisfaction,

"If my mother could see me now, she'd turn over in her grave."

"Really? And why is that?"

"Oh, she was a Wesleyan," Miss Dalrymple said excitedly, plumping herself down on a couch. Laura sat down next to her. "I think it's wonderful what you're doing. Lady Godfont is so jealous. She peaked when she eloped with her cook, you know, and no one ever so much as blinked at her since, no matter how low she wears her gowns. And here, the whole of London is straining for a glimpse of you!"

"I'd rather they weren't," said Laura. "I hate people gossipping about me."

"By the time you're eighty-five, you'll wish they did," Miss Dalrymple said. "It's been fifty years or more since I was talked about." She sighed. "But never mind, I do recall, they talked plenty then."

Laura could believe it. She had no doubt that Miss Dalrymple had been as self-interested and self-ruled at thirty as she was at eighty.

"Are you in London for the season?" she asked, to be polite.

"I'm staying with my god-daughter," Miss Dalrymple answered. "Her house is in terrible disorder. I'm helping her fix it."

"How generous of you."

"I try to help where I can," Miss Dalrymple said. "But I must confess, sometimes I do think Helen is a little ungrateful about what I do for her. But no matter. My work will be done." She looked abstractly around the drawing room. "You look very good in black."

Laura looked down in some confusion at her skirts. "This is jonquil."

"I know." Miss Dalrymple squinted at her. "Makes you look a little sunburned."

"So I should wear black instead?"

"Why, yes. It would make for a most striking effect, I think. Lady Laura, in black, against the backdrop of, say, a glitteringly-lit opera box. Lady Godfont would be frightfully jealous. She looks peaky in black."

Laura blinked. "Has Lady Godfont offended you somehow?"

Miss Dalrymple pressed her lips together. "All I say is that running away with a cook, does not give one license to count the sugar spoons. But that is neither here nor there." She fixed Laura with a glare. "The problem is you."

"Oh. Is it?" Laura eyed Miss Dalrymple's ever-present reticule. "I don't count sugar spoons, but I have counted the miniatures on the wall of the stairs."

"Hmph. So have I. There are eighteen of them."

"Then how am I the problem? By not being in the opera box, wearing black?"

"Exactly," Miss Dalrymple said. "It's flouting tradition, you know, to become a man's mistress and not flaunt his money and your looks. You need to make a spectacle of yourself a little. Give London a chance to gawp and blush."

Laura shuddered. "No thank you."

"It'll help that boy of yours."

"Help Richard?"

"Oh yes." Miss Dalrymple nodded. "When's this tea coming? I hope it's not seed cake. Seed cake always reminds me of my Aunt Mildred."

"But what does Richard need help with? Is he in trouble? Have I caused him trouble?"

There were footsteps in the hall outside and Miss Dalrymple twisted her head to the door.

"Have I caused him trouble?" Laura repeated, more sharply.

Miss Dalrymple turned back, her expression momentarily surprised and then softening. "It's not exactly a perfect arrangement for an unmarried young man of political ambitions, is it, my dear?"

Laura looked away. "Not exactly."

The maid entered with a tray of cakes and tea, and Miss Dalrymple was distracted. Laura tried to collect herself. Richard had agreed to the arrangement. Richard was a man. Men did not have reputations to lose. Not exactly.

"How would it help him?" she asked eventually. "How would it help him if I went out?"

Miss Dalrymple looked up from a lemon tart. "Eh? Oh. Well. It's mostly that you're rather — quite definitely I ought say — beautiful." The lemon tart disappeared and she balanced two more in each of her knobbly, wrinkled hands. "And a man with a beautiful mistress commands admiration amongst other men." One of the lemon tarts slipped by magic into her reticule. She took a bite out of the other. "At least, if she ever lets herself be seen with him."

"But I'm his mistress whether they see me or not."

"But it doesn't matter if you're beautiful if you're not seen." Miss Dalrymple prodded the seedcake with a fork. "Take my word for it, my lady. If he takes you somewhere, looking beautiful, somewhere public, and gives them a little to talk about, there's more who'll raise their hats to your lord than who'll raise their noses."

Laura bit her lip.

"If it helps," Miss Dalrymple added kindly, "think of them as crocodiles. You have to throw them a bit of fish every now and then so they don't eat you whole."

It did not help. Not when Laura was the fish. But she understood a little the kind of man who might admire Richard more for showing off his mistress than for hiding her away. Perhaps, amongst his colleagues, there might be some grudging respect for him openly flaunting his beautiful mistress. It made her feel a little sick.

Downstairs, the front door opened and shut and Richard's footstep sounded in the hall. But he did not come up, and a moment later the study door sounded shut. Miss Dalrymple cocked her head to the side.

"He's a lot better now, isn't he?"

"Mostly better. Still healing." That wouldn't have garnered him any respect either, being beaten by another man. The sick feeling in Laura's stomach turned to anger. She took a slice of the seedcake Miss Dalrymple hadn't touched and savagely bit into it. "He can work again at least."

Miss Dalrymple left not long after — despite her Aunt Mildred, with half a seedcake squashed into her umbrella; the reticule was already full of lemon tart. Laura could not stop thinking over what she had said. There was reason in it. And Laura had been hiding from public, keeping to the house except for when she desired to shop or needed a walk. She hadn't even tried to call upon any of the acquaintances who might, despite her position, be willing to admit her. Opera and playhouse and assembly hall aside, she hadn't even attempted to go to a gallery or a museum.

She went downstairs silently, still unsure. The study door was open now, and Richard was at his desk, bent over a sheaf of papers. She stood at the door, watching him write, pause, tap his pen, and scratch out whatever he had written. A speech for the Lords, she supposed.

He looked up, frowning, and then his frown rose into surprise as he saw her.

"Laura."

"I didn't want to interrupt."

"Mmm." A thought came to him, and he bent his head and scribbled something rapidly. "What is it?"

He was too distracted for her to want to linger, but she knew if she didn't ask now she'd never dare.

"I want to go to the opera. Will you take me?"

He glanced up. "Tonight?"

"If it's suitable. If you're not busy." She was almost hoping he was, but he shook his head and looked back at his paper.

"I'll call the carriage for nine."