Laura slipped her hand out from Richard's and took two or three slow steps away from him. Her first reaction was to doubt herself: it could not be true. She was imagining it, jealously imagining it.

"Just tell me what you'd like to do," Richard said behind her. "If you're not happy here, I'm not happy here."

"I'm not unhappy," Laura said quietly.

"Really?" Richard squeezed her shoulders gently. "Darling, you don't have to pretend. I can tell you're not enjoying yourself."

"I told you, I'm not unhappy."

"Then what on earth is wrong? Please. Tell me."

Laura stared blindly out across the garden and ran over it again. There were other signs, now she thought about it. Verity had known Richard would never marry any of her pretty, flirtatious cousins, had even been amused by their flirtations. Richard had refused to tell Laura anything about the woman he loved, which meant she must, in some way, still be in his life. He had no reason not to trust Laura to keep a secret of his; if he kept it back from her, it was because the knowledge would hurt her, not the woman he loved.

"Laura?" He nuzzled at her neck. "What's wrong?"

She had to know. "Are you in love with Verity?"

His hands, still at her shoulders, went stiff. That answered her as much as anything else. She took a deep breath.

"It's her, isn't it? She's the one you fell in love with."

Richard's hands dropped from her shoulders. She turned to face him. He looked at the windows of the house, as though to make sure no one was in earshot, then back to her and gave a small, brisk nod.

"It's no longer relevant. But it was her."

Laura found tears welling in her eyes and blinked them back. Richard touched her face.

"Don't cry."

"Don't tell me not to cry!" Laura slapped his hand away and turned away from him, taking deep, shaking breaths. Her heart, her throat, her whole body ached. Her fingers, when she wiped her eyes, were shaking. "You warned me, after all, before we married. You said you'd never fall in love with me—"

"—Laura, please—"

"—No, it's fine. I was forewarned. You've done nothing wrong except—" she had to gasp for air "—make me fall— but I had warning. I ought to have been guarded—"

Richard pulled her close against him, pressing her face against his shoulder. "It's no longer relevant, Laura. You're the one I love."

For a moment, with his arms hard around her and his body solid against hers, she believed it. "Then why didn't you tell me?"

His silence answered her.

She pressed her face against his collar, flooding it with tears, then her pain became pride and she pushed him away. She was almost angry with him, but she remembered what he had told her, the night he proposed for the last time. He had warned her then that he was in love with someone else. And then, before she had truly loved him, it hadn't seemed such a terrible thing. And perhaps it wouldn't have been, if she never knew who the woman was. If the woman were not still in his life. But she did know, and Verity would always be in his life. And so Laura would always be second best.

"Laura, let me tell you about it," he said. "It's not what you think."

"I don't want to know, Richard. I know too much already!" She covered her face with her hands and spoke through them. "I just want to be alone for a while. Let me be alone."

She was in control of herself now, despite the tears still flooding her cheeks. The pain in her heart had settled to a dull ache. Richard looked at her carefully, then nodded and turned and went back indoors.

Laura left the other way, descending into the garden and meandering aimlessly through the shrubbery. For a time she would control herself, then another painful thought or memory would come to her, and fresh hot tears would fall from her eyes. She gave up wiping them away and walked blindly. Then there was a hand on her arm and a voice in her ear.

"Laura? What happened? Are you alright?"

It was Neil. Laura dashed at her eyes. "Nothing. I'm perfectly well."

"Clearly that's not true." He pressed a handkerchief into her hands, and when she wiped away her tears she saw he looked concerned. "Is there something I can do?"

She took a deep breath and shook her head. Of all things, Neil could not know this.

"I was going for a walk," Neil said. "Why don't you come with me?"

His painful attempts at kindness, after all that had happened, were too much for Laura's temper. She snapped at him, "Just go away, Neil!" and hurried off before he could reply.

Tears flooded her eyes again, and she made for the outer edge of the garden, through the gate to the woods, where no one would disturb her. This time, when a man spoke, she took no heed, hardly heard him, certainly did not see him, or she would have run, or tried to. Instead, she only realized he was there when he grabbed her, and only realized who it was when he spoke low in her ear:

"I hoped I'd find you."

Laura screamed. Fordham put his hand over her mouth. She tried to bite and struggle, and then felt something pricking at her side.

"Make a sound, and I'll kill you," Fordham said.

Laura looked down, her sight still blurred with tears, and saw he held a knife against her waist. His other hand dropped from her mouth to grab the collar at the back of her dress. The knife came higher, up against the bottom of her rib cage.

"You come with me, and you don't struggle, and you don't scream, or I cut into you right here," he said. "Understand?"

"I understand," Laura said faintly.

* * *

Richard went into the drawing-room, his heart heavy. He ought to have known that Laura would realize sooner or later. She wasn't stupid, and she knew him well. He ought to have been prepared for the pain it would cause her to find out. No, he ought to have told her long ago, before they'd even come here. And now she was hurt, and so hurt that he thought talking to her would only make it worse. But nor could he bear the thought of leaving her alone when she was crying.

Verity came into the drawing room with Podge in her arms and Annie clinging to her skirts.

"Oh, Richard, can you—"

"No, sorry," he interrupted. "I can't — I can't right now."

She blinked. "But—"

"I'm sorry. I've got to do something."

Richard left before she could protest further, and almost ran down the hall to the study, where Neil was sitting at his desk with the steward.

"I need a favour," Richard said.

Neil looked up. "Now?"

"Five minutes ago."

Neil raised his brows. "Very well then." He nodded to the steward. "We'll get back to this tomorrow."

Richard waited for the steward to leave before speaking. "I just had an argument with Laura, and she's crying and—"

"—Surely you don't think I can do anything?" Neil said in surprise. "What about Verity?"

"No. She's—" Richard thought for an excuse. "Look, will you just go and find Laura — she's in the garden — and make sure she's alright? She won't speak to me right now, doesn't even want to see me, but I don't think she should be alone."

"You know perfectly well she'll only bite my head off," Neil said, getting up with a sigh. "But if that'll make her feel better..."

"Thank you."

"If she slaps me again, I'll take it out on you," Neil grumbled. "What kind of man argues with his pregnant wife anyway?"

He left before Richard could reply. Richard, also feeling the need to be alone, sunk down into an armchair and tried to understand himself. He loved Laura. Was in love with her, as he had thought he never would be. And yet, still something lit up inside him when Verity spoke to him. He didn't want it to happen, but it did.

And even apart from that, there were things he liked about Verity. She was genuine and reliable and fiercely proud. She had a quiet, dry sense of humour that could be very funny indeed. Over the years, a steady, comfortable affection had built up between them. He suspected that he loved her better than he loved even his own sister, Elizabeth.

But Laura made him happy, which Verity never had done and never would do. There was a sort of quiet contentment just in waking up next to Laura, a contentment that went soul deep. Everything about her felt right.

Richard sat there in the study for some time thinking about it. When an hour had passed, he thought Laura might be calm enough now to want to speak with him about it. He went into the drawing-room, to find it empty, then upstairs to the bedroom, in case Laura had gone to lie down, but that was empty too. In the hallway, he ran into Verity.

"Have you seen Laura?" he asked.

"No. Have you seen Neil? I can't find him anywhere."

"He went out into the garden shortly after breakfast." Richard frowned. "They might be together, I suppose."

"Perhaps they went down to the village," Verity said doubtfully. "Do you particularly need her now?"

"I want her," Richard said.

"Is something wrong?"

"We had a bit of a fight."

"Oh dear. A real fight, or a grumpy, tired, pregnant squabble?" Verity poked Richard in the arm. "You have to treat her with kid gloves, Rich."

For a moment Richard almost told her about it, then he shrugged. "It's private."

The smile on Verity's face faltered. "Oh. A real fight then. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, though in a way it was. "I think I'll go to the village and see if I can find her."

"Well tell Neil I'd like him back soon if you see him."

Richard did not see him, nor did he see Laura, and when he came back to the house as Verity was pouring tea for herself in the drawing room, he was very worried. Verity was also concerned.

"She wouldn't have gone off somewhere in anger, would she?" she asked. "I mean, it's a very hot day, and she might overtire herself. She ought to eat something too."

"She's not stupid," Richard said, a growl of anger in his voice. Verity looked startled. "I don't mean it that way. No. No, she would not go off without saying."

"Right." Verity looked down at Richard's untouched cup of tea. "Finish your tea, Rich. I'll go and send some footmen out to look for her. She might have — sprained her ankle somewhere, or had a faint."

By late afternoon, it was clear that something had happened. Not only had no one seen Laura since Richard had left her on the terrace at eleven, but Neil was also missing. Verity had sent out to the neighbours to ask if Laura or Neil had called, and no one had seen them. Menservants had wandered the house and grounds looking for them, and no sign of them had been found.

At around six, when Richard was pacing the hall with his stick and cursing himself for not having insisted on staying with Laura, the doorbell rung and Richard opened it to see a stranger, male, middle-aged, and plump, standing on the stoop. Richard stared at him. The stranger bowed. Verity came running downstairs and stopped when she saw who it was.

"Mr French," she said, rather helplessly. "Can I help you?"

"Er, I think perhaps, I can help you." The man wiped beads of sweat from his brow. "There came into my possession today some papers, that I believe may be of interest to, uh—" he glanced at Richard "—my Lord Albroke?"

"That's me." Richard narrowed his eyes. "What papers?"

The man made a delicate gesture with his plump, rather short fingers. "Perhaps we should talk in private?"

They went into the study. Verity, who was ordinarily an excellent host, made no mention of tea and only looked coldly at the stranger.

"Mr French runs the local newspaper," she explained. "He does not like that we are hiring a governess for Annie."

"If the village school is adequate for a blacksmith's daughter—" Mr French began, before silencing himself. "That is a matter for another day. I came here to tell Lord Albroke that I was approached by a man this morning who gave me some letters. Upon perusing these letters, upon seeking counsel with my wife, I determined the only just course was to bring them to their writer." He looked at Richard. "Who I believe would be your wife."

"My wife?" Richard narrowed his eyes. "What letters are these, Mr French?"

"I'll show them to Lady Albroke," Mr French said peevishly. "They are hers."

"She's not here. Show them to me."

"Now my wife said that letters of this nature should go right back to who wrote them—"

"—Show me the goddamn letters!"

Verity jumped. "Richard, there's no need to shout."

But Mr French was, with a coward's haste, taking the letters from his pocket. Richard opened them and scanned them, his heart pounding. There was nothing new in it for him, but he felt sick with confusion and fear to see it all the same. Laura hadn't mentioned any letters between her and Percival — but it was her handwriting clear enough. And what she had written was damning enough. Richard tossed them on the desk.

"You're not going to print them."

"As I said, my wife believes—"

"Good. Who gave them to you?"

"He did not give me his name," Mr French said.

"Did he have red hair? Tall, pale?" It had to be Percival — come back to harass Laura out of— what? Misguided love? Or a desire for revenge?

But Mr French was shaking his head. "I am not good with faces, you know, but I think I would remember him having red hair. And he was not pale. Rather, I would say, sunburnt."

Richard could not understand it.

"What did he say?" Verity asked.

"He said that he knew Lady Albroke, that he could provide me with a story about her. He said she was with child and—" Mr French hesitated. "Well he gave me these letters and bade me read them. Urged me to print them. Made me promise I would, in fact. But I am not like the gutter-presses of London. I do not deal in sordid gossip. My paper serves to advance justice through rational discourse, not spiteful whispering."

"Not spiteful to suggest a young girl learns only self-centredness for having a governess," Verity muttered under her breath.

Richard felt his cheek twitch. "That aside. What did the man look like? Sunburned, you said?"

"Oh yes. And uh, rather youthful. Not more than forty. Very tall, burly fellow."

"That's useless." Richard rammed his hair back from his head. "That could be anyone. Isn't there anything you can remember about him?"

Mr French blinked baldly. "Why, yes, actually. I asked of his education, thought him quite a well-spoken chap, and I was disappointed to find him another product of privilege — mentioned that he was at Cambridge with you, my lord, as it happens."

Again, Richard was bewildered. Then his mind cleared. "Was this man... blond, Mr French? Was he a big blond man with blue eyes?"

"Ah, now that you mention it, I believe he was." Mr French looked pleased to have remembered so much. "Yes, blond, and big, and blue-eyed, with a terrible sunburn."

Richard sat down suddenly in a chair, faint with dread.

"What is it?" asked Verity. "Who is it?"

"It's Giles Fordham. He's taken my wife."