After their encounter at the opera, Richard expected a visit from his sister immediately. The thought of it made him nervous. Like his father, she had the gift of making him feel small and stupid with no more than a single arch look. During the off-season, she was too busy in Brighton or at her husband's home in Kent to bother him much, but always during the London season, when other entertainment grew tired, she would come by for a few hours to bully him about his singleness and demand presents for her ever multiplying children. He dreaded to think what she would have to say about Laura.

However, for over a week, she did not come. Instead, Richard was constantly plagued by cards and calls from acquaintances who just the week earlier would not have seen him had they passed him in the street. Even a few of his female acquaintances deigned to visit, under the secure chaperonage of husbands or brothers. At first, Richard had hoped that Laura might manage to make or renew a friendship with one or more of his female callers, but she remained discreetly out of sight whenever he had a guest. He could not tell if she was trying to be mindful of his reputation or if she was only trying to avoid people.

One afternoon, when he'd just managed to release himself from a tedious visitor, he went up to the drawing room to talk to her about it. She was copying piano sheets as he entered but put them down to look up with an inviting smile.

"Looking for more pleasant company than... was it Lady Hunstall?"

"Yes."

"I thought I recognized her voice."

"You would have seen her face if you'd come down."

"I didn't wish to." She turned back to her music sheets. "I can play if you want."

"No. I've got work to do. In between callers." He leaned on the table and watched the back of her head, caught up in a plain knob that threatened to come loose with just one touch. His fingers twitched. "It would help me if you'd receive people."

She looked up, doubtful. "But surely no woman would dare call. And I would not trust a man to respect me as I am now."

"I know. But..." For a moment, Richard wished Verity was there to chaperone Laura. But that was impossible, and Verity hated London anyway. "At the very least, Major Calloway is a cousin of yours."

Laura raised her lip in an unattractive sneer. "I wish he weren't."

"The Duchess of Roynor is beyond the age where her reputation might be harmed by calling upon you."

"I can't imagine she would be anything close to a friend to me. Vulturous."

"But I don't want you to be isolated because of me. If you lived elsewhere then at least your friends could pretend to believe we were decent — but it's too late for that."

"Much too late."

He saw the troubled look flit across Laura's face and dissolve when he said too late. Yet, for himself, he could not see the appeal of the arrangement to her. He was growing fond of her and suspected she was growing fond of him, but beneath his feelings, his principles and experiences were in quiet revolt against their situation. He could not understand a woman who seemed to delight in the violation of order and decency.

There was a knock at the door and the butler entered, carrying a silver tray.

"A visitor for my lord."

"Thank you."

Richard took up the card and glanced at it. The name sent a quiver of surprise and anxiety down his spine. He dropped it back on the plate and looked at Laura, who was copying the piano sheets again.

"Laura."

She looked up.

"It's your father."

He saw her pupils dilate to an inky blackness.

"Why?"

"I'm going to go down and ask him." Richard turned to the butler. "Tell him to wait."

He waited, watching Laura, until the butler had left. "I think you should see him."

"I don't want to," she said immediately.

Richard pulled out a chair and sat down. He took Laura's hand, resting on the table, and played with her fingers. Her pulse was racing.

"I'll be with you," he said. "And I won't let him hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of him." She pulled her hand from his. "Don't think I'm afraid."

Richard took in her wide eyes and pale face. "No, of course not," he said pleasantly. "My mistake."

She shot him a dirty look. He sighed and tried again.

"Laura, I suspect it's you he has really come to see. And if he has, he will take a final dismissal only from you. I can see him alone and send him away if you please, but if he wants to see you, he will be back."

Her chest rose and fell through a deep breath.

"You might be wrong," she said.

"I might be wrong."

He waited. He knew her well enough now to know that further persuasion would be more likely to make her refuse than quiet patience.

"Go down first," she said at last, in a flat tone. "Go down first and if he wants me — then I'll come. I'm not seeing him if I don't have to."

"I can do that." He stood, then leaned down to kiss her. "Thank you."

Downstairs, Lord Brocket was waiting in the study with his hands in his pockets, staring with narrowed eyes at the family portrait over the fireplace. He turned when Richard entered.

"Good afternoon, Lord Albroke," he said, in a pleasant, sociable tone.

"Lord Brocket."

Richard ran his eyes down the neat, expensively dressed figure, the calm, superior expression, and was surprised by the flame of anger within him. It was not right that Brocket could be so calm and self-satisfied when his daughter was so splintered and wounded — mostly, Richard thought, by his own doing.

"Why are you here?" Richard asked, leaning against his desk and folding his hands over the handle of his stick in front of him.

Brocket looked surprised. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

"I've come to arrange a reconciliation."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "With Laura."

"She is my daughter. Not that we can ever be friends, I think." Lord Brocket flicked a speck of dust off his coat sleeve. "But if she's going to be your wife, I can't be seen to be at odds with both of you."

Richard was speechless for a moment. "If she's going to be my wife."

"That is your plan, isn't it? I don't believe this mistress game. It's not in your character." Brocket's cold, colourless eyes bored into Richard. "You've probably been planning to marry her for months, despite my disapproval. Well, you've cornered me now. I can no longer disapprove."

Richard played with his stick, twisting it and digging it into the carpet between his feet. "I've certainly considered marrying her. More than once."

"The sooner the better. This charade has gone on long enough. It's time for both of you to clothe yourselves in the semblance of decency again."

Again, Richard eyed Brocket's sharply tailed waistcoat and suit. His stockings were creaseless. His collars sharp as knives. Clothed, Richard thought, in the semblance of decency — and barren of the actuality of it.

He pushed himself away from the desk and went to the door. "Perhaps you ought to see her," he said, ringing the bell for the butler, who appeared almost instantaneously. "Fetch Lady Laura, please."

There was silence in the study. Brocket looked up again at the family portrait.

"It's a pity that there won't be children," he said flatly. "If you could have children, you'd not have been my last choice."

Richard said nothing.

There were footsteps outside, and then Laura appeared, hovering in the doorway. Her father held out his hand to her, but she only looked at it.

"What do you want?" she asked.

The corners of Brocket's mouth turned up and his teeth flashed visible between his thin lips. "That's a hurtful manner from a daughter."

"What do you want," she repeated, darting a glance at Richard who shook his head sympathetically.

Brocket sighed. "I suppose first I should admit Fordham was a mistake. That's partially my fault."

Laura's eyes were wide and baleful. Slowly, cautiously, she came into the room, shutting the door behind her, and stood, away from her father, close to Richard. He thought about reaching out and holding her hand, but it didn't seem right with Brocket in the room.

"What do you want?" Laura repeated quietly. "Get to the point."

Anger flickered in Brocket's eyes, but his voice continued smooth and calm. "Reconciliation with my only child."

"No."

"I'm not saying we have to be friends, Laura. But at the very least, Lord Albroke is an old acquaintance, the son of a dear old friend, and a neighbour. And you are my daughter. The best end to a bad business is that you marry him quickly in a good church and let me give you away."

Laura's mouth opened slightly then shut. She turned to Richard and then back to Brocket. To Richard's surprise, a faint smile curved across her face.

"But when has any of us ever done the best thing for anybody?" She glanced at Richard. "Well, you have, I'm sure, but Father and I are not of the same material."

"You won't let me give you away?" Brocket demanded.

"I won't marry him. I enjoy this bad business."

There was a light in Laura's eyes now — a not entirely pleasant light, but something better than the fear it had replaced. Richard breathed a little easier. It was going better than he had expected.

Brocket came over from the fireplace and stood in front of them. As he did so, Laura stiffened slightly but did not step away.

"You said you'd considered it."

"I have," said Richard. "As has she. She has decided she will not. I thought you'd best hear it from her. She has quite made up her mind."

Brocket went over to the window and looked out pensively. The square was in the bustle of early afternoon, and Richard suspected he was looking out for the purpose of being seen in Lord Albroke's study window rather than for collecting his thoughts. It wasn't going to be as easy as telling him no.

"I have a matter of business to discuss with Lord Albroke," Brocket said. "Go away now, Laura."

"In my house," Richard interrupted, "she moves freely where she will."

Laura met his eyes with a grateful smile. "In fact, I have a yearning to read now," she said, going over to the bookshelves and running her hand along the spines. "You'll have to discuss your business another time, Father. Or stand me overhearing it."

For a moment, Brocket seemed likely to argue. Then he turned on his heel and went to the door, stopping only to bow at them. After a moment, the front door shut. Laura turned back to Richard. Her face, now that her father was gone, was troubled and pleading. He stepped forward and put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. He meant to comfort her, but after a moment, she struggled free and pushed him away.

"He's going to be back," she said. "And I'm not going to speak to him next time."

"I won't ask you to."

He watched her and wondered if he dared try to pull her closer again. Her pulse was visibly racing at her neck. She was trying not to show she was frightened.

"You handled it well," he said flatly, keeping his hands to himself.

"I don't need your praise."

"Laura." She flushed at his tone and he softened it. "I'm on your side, remember."

She lowered her gaze and went to the door. "I know."

Then the door shut behind her and Richard was alone in his study. He rubbed his face. On her side, but with reluctance, he thought. Lord Brocket was right: it was not in his character.