Chapter Eight

After Magnus departed following their rather draining, future-deciding conversation, Alexandra had gone back to sleep. It

had been a proper, deep sleep until she awoke with a start from a dream of being trapped in a thicket. She had heard Magnus's

voice calling to her from far away. She had called out to him, too, until her voice was hoarse. But he'd been too far away

to hear her, and his voice had grown ever fainter until it stopped.

She rubbed her palms against her eyes and slid from bed to part the curtains.

It had gone full dark; no doubt she had already missed dinner. She could not have guessed what time it was.

She smoothed her hair in the little face-sized mirror hanging over the writing desk, then opened the door a crack and peered

out.

Magnus was sitting on the settee in front of the fire, a book in his hands. He'd shed his coat and cravat and rolled his sleeves

up to his elbows. This was a bit startling, but certainly fair: they were married, and he was allowed to be comfortable.

It wasn't as though she'd never seen a man's forearms. She had a brother and a father, after all.

She'd never seen forearms quite like the ones currently on display.

Bronzed by both sun and burnished firelight, hard, sinewy, corded with muscle, and coated with golden-brown hair, like the

hair on his head.

She stared, feeling a bit like a spy now.

He furrowed his brow when he read. As though he was responsible for the welfare of all the characters in the book, and was

contemplating whether to order them about or to have them shot for desertion.

This, for some reason, made her smile, albeit somewhat ruefully. That man did absolutely nothing by halves, she had come to

understand. When it came to reading, when it came to shooting, when it came to winning battles, when it came to getting the

wife he wanted, when it came to disposing of said wife for faithlessness.

She supposed one couldn't equivocate in battle, and he'd never lost the habit.

She distinctly remembered a moment on that day when he'd worked to free her ribbon: he had not so much looked at her as into her, and she'd simultaneously felt imperiled in a way she hadn't fully understood, and protected in such a way that made

her realize it had been years since she had felt safe, such had been the caprices of her life. But she supposed a castle on

a hill might inspire similar feelings. Castles were meant to be a refuge. And they were meant to inspire fear.

She supposed his absolute certainty about things contributed to that feeling. One got the sense there was nothing he couldn't manage.

She gave a start when he looked up and caught her still wearing that rueful smile.

He offered her a polite, tentative smile in return.

He held up his book. "It's Robinson Crusoe. Captain Hardy loaned it to me. He says it's very good, but he can never find the time to finish it. I read it some years

ago."

She ventured out of the room and gingerly sat down on the long settee at a polite distance from his bronzed, hairy arms.

There was a somewhat weighty but almost elegiac peace between them now. They knew where they stood with each other. Paradoxically,

deciding to be apart had made it easier to be together.

An undercurrent of tension remained, but it was less seething and fraught. Tension always took a little while to dissipate

in the aftermath of a new truce.

She knew they would both do their best to get through the next few days of events, before she left for New York.

"My brother loves Robinson Crusoe ," she told him. "Boys always seem to love it. All the fighting and adventure, I suppose. Perhaps I should read it as a sort

of guide for surviving exile."

It was quite a dry, black little jest, as jests went. A little risky.

But she wasn't surprised when he quirked the corner of his mouth and nodded, ceding her a point.

"I think we all vicariously enjoy a story of survival. There's nothing more satisfying than thriving despite the odds. Than exercising our resourcefulness. And besides, Robinson Crusoe is not alone in exile. There are cannibals."

This surprised her into a short laugh.

He smiled, too. Then it faded. "Ah. I should have considered... well, forgive me. I hope you don't mind." He gestured to

his casual torso.

"Of course not," she said, politely. "You're paying for the suite, after all."

This statement was light, too, but edged in challenge.

He eyed her steadily, and chose to ignore the edge.

And besides, "mind" wasn't precisely the word she would have used. She had just discovered that his shirt was open at the

throat, too, revealing more firelight-burnished skin and a peek of curling dark hair. This suddenly seemed an unutterably

fascinating, acutely intimate thing.

Her eyes may have lingered a little too long there.

When they returned to his, she discovered he'd been watching her. But his face was entirely unreadable.

She hoped the light was dim enough to disguise her blush.

"Well, I've been reading the novels of Miss Jane Austen lately," she told him. "The story called Pride and Prejudice is about the Bennett family, who are a bit poor and chaotic. But the hero, Mr. Darcy, is a clever, imperious, wealthy, bossy

sort of man."

He shook his head and clucked. "Those are the worst kind of men."

They smiled at each other.

His smile vanished and he turned his head abruptly toward the fire, as though punishing himself or her. His expression had

gone inscrutable.

"Thank you for having some of my clothes sent over."

He cleared his throat. "I instructed the maids at the town house to send over shades of yellow, green, and pink gowns, if

you had any, along with day dresses. Enough for about a week. I recalled you wearing those colors, and I thought perhaps you

liked them best. I hope they'll suit for now." He still hadn't turned back to her.

A lump moved into her throat. She was moved that he'd remembered.

"Yes, I found them. Those will do, thank you," she said, quietly.

"We've a ball to attend tomorrow night, hosted by the Earl and Countess of Chisholm."

"I'll wear my rose-colored silk."

She'd never danced with him. She had never, in fact, voluntarily touched him. And it had been some time since she'd attended

a ball.

Proving that she wasn't entirely dead inside, part of her actually looked forward to it. Even if it was a duty arising from

a rather tensely sad bargain.

"I'm having the needed repairs to the town house roof and windows done so it will be fully ready for sale. Interested buyers will likely be viewing it this week. I have a variety of meetings and errands of the business or mandatory sort this week. I imagine you'll have letters and messages you'd like to write. You'll have time to arrange for the packing or storage of the rest of your possessions if you like before your ship sails."

"All right," she said quietly.

She was sorely tempted to say, You mean your possessions, since your money bought them , but a truce was a truce, and he'd apologized. Nevertheless, she was still going to be thinking about that.

She was glad he'd already informed the staff. It wasn't a task she'd have relished. Still, they'd been in residence when she'd

arrived; they were his employees, and always had been. While they were competent and respectful, she had formed no special attachments to any of

them.

He didn't return to his book. He held it open in his lap.

They studied each other solemnly. She'd never seen him this close, in low firelight. There were a thousand versions of this

man, her husband, that she'd never had a chance to know and now never would. She was reminded of how he'd looked by leaf-dappled

sunlight, the day he'd attempted to untie her ribbons. Craggy, nearly pagan. But if he was a "beast" at all, he was the grand

sort out of mythology, calm, dignified, and when crossed, thoroughly, unapologetically dangerous.

Suddenly something like reluctant wonder flickered in his eyes. It was there and gone, but it made her breath catch.

She suspected he would prefer it if she had no power to move him at all. But it seemed she still did. It changed nothing.

In the silence, a strange, soft warmth settled over her skin, a sort of unnerving awareness of everything that was so very

unequivocally male about him. Magnus was nothing like the sleek aristocratic youngbloods among whom she'd been raised. She

remembered how it had felt to be briefly pressed against Paul's slim young body; she remembered imagining that Magnus would

engulf her, by comparison.

If they, in truth, had been a typical husband and wife, she would know by now what every inch of Magnus's skin looked like.

And felt like. Not just these intriguing little portions of him from which imagination unfurled.

And grief surprised her with a short, sharp jolt.

"What time is it?" she asked at once. "Are we in danger of breaking rules by not going downstairs? Did you have your dinner?

I'm not hungry yet. The scones and soup were delicious and very filling."

He fished his watch from his trouser pocket. "If you like, we've still time to fulfill our duty to obey the house rules by mingling with the other guests in the sitting room. Everyone should still be gathered. I met some of them at dinner, and I'm already acquainted with Hardy and Bolt. Mr. Delacorte is one of their business partners, and I've never met anyone quite like him, and that's saying something. It's a decidedly unusual but quite pleasant crew. Their cook, by the way, is indeed gifted. Dinner was marvelous."

"I think I would like to go down."

She was at heart a social creature. And it would be better not to be alone with him, she thought. And not entirely for the

reasons she would have cited yesterday.

Alexandra and Magnus hovered a moment in the doorway of the sitting room.

Their proprietresses, the golden-blonde Mrs. Durand and the dark-haired Mrs. Hardy, were knitting. Next to Mrs. Durand a lean

and darkly gorgeous man sprawled with indolent grace in a chair. She suspected this was Lord Bolt. He was holding his wife's

knitting, and wearing a teasing smile, as if she'd just said something amusing.

Near them, the maid named Dot was stabbing a needle into and out of an embroidery hoop, her brow furrowed with concentration.

The two men sitting at a game table with a chessboard between them must be Captain Hardy and Mr. Delacorte, Alexandra thought.

A dewily young couple, a man and a woman, sat across from each other at another table, and two handsome women who appeared

to be in their middle years were the balance of the guests.

Alexandra discovered again how interesting it was to enter a room alongside Brightwall and experience the hush that fell as

a group of people adjusted to an influx of awe.

And then everyone shot to their feet.

Their proprietresses were smiling with genuine pleasure. "We're so delighted both of you could join us tonight," Mrs. Durand

said. "Come, let us introduce you, Mrs. Brightwall. And I don't believe you've yet met all of our guests, Colonel Brightwall."

Alexandra had guessed correctly: both Mr. Delacorte, who was shaped a bit like the letter "D" on legs and had rather dreamy

blue eyes and a merry expression, and Captain Hardy—chiseled, handsome, with close-cropped hair and silvery eyes—bowed when

she was introduced to them.

The two older women were Mrs. Cuthbert and Mrs. Pariseau. Mrs. Cuthbert's lustrously gray hair was piled intricately up on

her head. Around her throat a string of small, fine pearls glowed. She was a woman who took great pains with nearly everything,

if Alexandra had to guess, and the grooves around her mouth suggested she was seldom satisfied with everyone else's efforts.

They were told that Mrs. Cuthbert was visiting London specifically to visit with her old friend Mrs. Pariseau, who was a permanent

resident of The Grand Palace on the Thames.

"It's a pleasure to meet such distinguished guests," she said to the Brightwalls with the slightest emphasis on "distinguished."

As though she'd been at her wit's end tolerating the rest of the riffraff in the room.

Corporal and Mrs. Dawson were the young couple. Both had blanched at the very sight of the colonel, and were now staring at Magnus as if Moses had strolled into the sitting room.

"S-such an honor, sir." Corporal Dawson managed a bow, but his knees appeared to be about to give way.

"Thank you. Likewise. At ease, Corporal," Magnus said.

This was almost funny. Alexandra was fairly certain poor Corporal Dawson would never experience a moment's ease in Brightwall's

presence.

Alexandra was just twenty-seven, but the Dawsons briefly made her feel both ancient and a trifle wistfully envious of their

obvious devotion. They would have a lifetime to grow up together. It was so like the marriage Alexandra had imagined for herself.

Mrs. Pariseau was a handsome, compact, curvy widow who had crackling dark eyes and a dashing white stripe in her dark, upswept

hair. "I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it is to meet you, Colonel Brightwall," she said on a fervent hush, after

performing a graceful curtsy. "And you as well, Mrs. Brightwall. I hope you will soon discover that we do have a lovely time

in this room! We sometimes read aloud—we've been enjoying The Arabian Nights' Entertainments lately—or play spillikins or chess. And sometimes—not lately—we just have an invigorating discussion."

The "not lately" amused Alexandra. It sounded ever so slightly admonishing. As though Mrs. Pariseau expected better from everyone

in the room.

Magnus was right: the characters assembled had the makings of a promising evening.

"I adore spirited conversation," Alexandra confirmed. "Magnus and I had one earlier this afternoon."

Her husband shot her a wary sideways glance.

Everyone resumed their seats and Magnus and Alexandra were settled into comfortable chairs near each other. The room was bathed

in a flattering light courtesy of a huge leaping fire and a little collection of lamps. None of the furniture quite matched,

but this somehow seemed the very secret to the room's cozy appeal. The pianoforte pushed against one wall strewn with what

looked like well-thumbed sheet music suggested occasional musical interludes were enjoyed. On the mantel a large jar occupied

pride of place.

"Well! I understand you've just spent some time in jail, Mrs. Brightwall," Mrs. Pariseau began brightly.

Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand froze.

Mrs. Cuthbert visibly recoiled. Her head swiveled toward Alexandra. Her eyes had widened to cue ball size.

Her wobbly smile indicated that she was hoping against hope it wasn't true.

Alexandra, a trifle taken aback, recovered quickly, and smiled sweetly at Mrs. Pariseau.

"Oh, it was nothing. It was a silly misunderstanding." Alexandra waved her hand airily. "Born of a lark gone amok."

Magnus stiffened, but Mrs. Pariseau's question didn't strike Alexandra as malicious or censorious. Mrs. Pariseau clearly just thought jail might be interesting .

And, well, she wasn't wrong.

"My dear, no one considers jail a lark." Mrs. Cuthbert was aghast. She looked around hopefully for approbation.

"Oh, Prudence. How would you know?" Mrs. Pariseau sounded as though she was losing patience with Mrs. Cuthbert. "Jail could

happen to anyone."

This sweeping statement probably wasn't at all true, but Alexandra appreciated the passionate defense.

And frankly, if spirited discourse was indeed permitted per the rules of The Grand Palace on the Thames, Alexandra decided

she was going to have a little fun with Mrs. Cuthbert.

Though she wasn't going to outright admit to being in jail.

"Did you know"—she leaned forward to address the gathering at large on a confiding hush—"that hairpins are actually considered a weapon? I'd never before thought of them that way! But in jail, they are. But then, Magnus says

anything can be a weapon. And he ought to know."

She directed a fond gaze at him.

Magnus was staring at her, astonished, but not, it seemed, unamused.

Thusly she wickedly roped her distinguished husband into the controversy.

"Surely not," Mrs. Cuthbert stammered. "Surely not anything ."

But Mrs. Pariseau was positively luminous with the possibility of an invigorating exploration of weaponry and clasped her hands in delight.

" What an opportunity to discover how resourceful all of us would be in an emergency. Can anything indeed be a weapon? If, for instance,

a scoundrel who might be armed with a pistol, an intruder, was to sneak up on you now right where you're sitting... how

would you defend yourself with the objects closest to you? I think I would jab him with my hairpins."

Alexandra nodded approvingly. "Very good choice," she said, as though she was suddenly an expert.

"What about you, Mrs. Hardy? Mrs. Durand?" Mrs. Pariseau turned to them.

Delilah and Angelique regarded Mrs. Pariseau levelly. While undoubtedly enlivening, they were not at all certain that figurative

violence was the best way to inject spirit into the room's discussion. A milder topic might have been a safer choice for reviving

the conversational momentum after a week or so of inertia. A recovering invalid shouldn't spring out of bed and dance a jig

straightaway, after all.

But Mrs. Pariseau looked so pleased to finally have a topic she could sink her teeth into that Delilah cautiously capitulated.

She tentatively held up her knitting needle.

Angelique followed suit. Cautiously.

They were prepared to rein the conversation in, if it came to that.

"What about you, Dot?" Mrs. Pariseau asked. "Perhaps your embroidery needle?"

Dot looked up from her sampler and tipped her head in thought. "I would throw my fist right into his jaw," she finally said.

"And he would fall to the ground, unconscious. And then I would kneel next to him and brush his hair out of his eyes and say,

‘Oh, please, oh please don't die. I don't want to go to Newgate!'"

This was greeted by a moment of thoroughly nonplussed silence.

"Thank you, Dot," Mrs. Pariseau finally replied politely. "I'm certain the intruder would never return again if you did that."

Dot smiled, pleased.

Mrs. Cuthbert's wide-eyed gaze had been whipping from person to person as Mrs. Pariseau called on them, as if stunned to find

herself in a room full of potential brigands.

"What would you use as a weapon, Mrs. Cuthbert?" Alexandra asked.

"I—I would never use a weapon." Her chin had hiked defiantly.

Somebody snorted rudely. It was difficult to tell who.

"If a thief were to creep up behind you now in the sitting room, you would passively allow him to take your pretty necklace

even when you have a chance of fighting back?" Magnus sounded genuinely curious.

Mrs. Cuthbert absently touched her necklace, a flicker of uncertain, bashful pleasure in her eyes. But she was not going to allow flattery to divert her from the deliciousness of exasperation and alarm. "Why are we discussing this? Has an intruder ever done this? Do we need to prepare for this eventuality? Is this a test ?" The pitch of her voice escalated with every word.

No one in the history of The Grand Palace on the Thames had ever been more confused about the purpose of the sitting room

conversations.

"You could always hurl your slippers at him, Mrs. Cuthbert," Magnus suggested.

Alexandra turned swiftly toward him. Her jaw dropped.

He didn't meet her eyes, but she could tell by the little creases at the corners of his that they were glinting.

"But slippers are not for hurling!" Mrs. Cuthbert was aghast.

Alexandra covered her mouth with her hands to keep her little gasp-laugh from escaping.

"Huh. I've needed to get out of scrapes before but I never thought of throwing a boot!" Mr. Delacorte mused. "Mine would level

a bloke with the smell alone."

"I know what else Delacorte could use as a weapon," Lucien said.

"Ha ha!" Delacorte knew, too.

(As did everyone else who lived permanently at The Grand Palace on the Thames. They had all learned the hard way not to share

close quarters with Mr. Delacorte immediately after he'd eaten a rich meal.)

"Captain Hardy?" Mrs. Pariseau turned to him.

Captain Hardy drummed his fingers thoughtfully. "Oh, I'd whip out my knife, use my cravat as a sort of garrote, knee him in

the back, and slam his head on the table."

Everyone gave a start.

Except Delilah, who had once seen him do something very similar.

"How very specific, Captain Hardy," Mrs. Pariseau approved finally, sounding both a bit rattled and breathlessly impressed.

"How about you, Lord Bolt?"

"Hmmm... let's see. I'd get my knife out, too. First, I'd bash him a good one with the chessboard to stun him, then knee

him hard in the groin."

Every man in the room hissed in an involuntary breath.

Mrs. Cuthbert visibly flinched at the word "groin." "Is every man in the room carrying a knife right now?"

Every man in the room nodded.

"Oh," she peeped in dismay. She touched two fingers to her lips.

"What about you, Mr. Delacorte? What would you do?" Mrs. Pariseau asked.

"I think I'd step aside so Hardy could be my weapon."

Captain Hardy nodded, agreeably accepting that he was, in fact, a weapon.

"Or... I'd jam the rook into his eye socket," Delacorte added gleefully. "Or the bishop. It's pointier."

Everyone hissed in a breath this time.

Delilah cleared her throat noisily, preparing to hurl herself verbally in front of the runaway carriage that was this conversation.

But it seemed to have acquired momentum.

"Corporal Dawson, what would you use for a weapon?" Magnus asked.

The boy paled so completely at being addressed by Colonel Brightwall himself that his freckles stood out like inkblots.

"Sh-shoot," he stammered.

"‘Shoot' is not a weapon, Corporal. And you don't have a gun to hand right now, do you?"

"S-s-sorry, sir."

He stared dumbly, his mind clearly erased by the strain of looking into the face of a legend.

"I'm just a soldier, same as you, Corporal Dawson," Magnus said quietly.

He looked appalled at this comparison. "Oh, no, sir," he said with some conviction. "You are not the same as anyone ."

"I was. I was, in fact, an ensign, who became a corporal, just like you," he reiterated gently but firmly.

Alexandra doubted profoundly the "just like you" part, but it was very kind of him to say.

But as if this had never occurred to Corporal Dawson, his frozen awe thawed a bit, and he eyed Brightwall with abject gratitude.

As if a veil had been ripped away and he could imagine different possibilities for his future.

Brightwall tried again. "If, say, a Viking ma rauder were to storm through the window here with the intent of snatching up Mrs. Dawson and carrying her off—"

"A Viking !" Mrs. Cuthbert yelped, and clapped a hand over her bosom. "Now it's Vikings ?"

"I've never known anyone to be so frightened of the hypothetical ," Mrs. Pariseau muttered.

"I would pick up this entire table and hurl it at the Viking, sir," Corporal Dawson said at once.

An impressed, total silence honored the unique and exceptional violence of this solution.

"There's a good lad," Brightwall said contentedly.

Mrs. Dawson beamed meltingly at her husband, who was scarlet with pleasure now.

"What about you, Colonel Brightwall?" Mrs. Pariseau asked.

"Oh..." He tipped his head back in thought. "I'd probably subdue him with a stony look of displeasure or an icy silence."

Alexandra stared at him. He was quoting her , from their earlier discussion.

It was fascinating, and just a little gratifying. Because it seemed clear that this had somehow gotten under his skin.

He didn't glance her way. But his eyes had a challenging gleam, and the corners of them were crinkled ever so slightly.

No one seemed to know how to respond to this. Tentative smiles were the default response.

Delilah leaped gratefully into the lull.

"Speaking of stone, I understand a statue is being erected in your honor in Holland Park, Colonel Brightwall, and there will be a ceremony in honor of it. We read about it in the newspaper."

Which is where, presumably, they'd read all about Alexandra's alleged jail stay.

"Indeed, I am to be so honored," Magnus told Delilah. "I'm given to understand it's me, on a horse. Entirely made of cold,

hard stone, of course."

Alexandra pressed her lips together.

"The king sent Captain Hardy and Mrs. Hardy a silver cup as a wedding present. It's about this big," Dot volunteered. She

held up her hands.

"A cup is nice, too," Brightwall said politely, somewhat mischievously, to Captain Hardy. Who nodded, amused.

"If a statue was going to be made commemorating you, what would it be?" Mrs. Pariseau asked the group at large.

Delilah and Angelique exchanged glances. They were a little winded from the unpredictable nature of the discourse tonight,

but this question seemed a trifle safer.

Although one never knew, of course.

"Mrs. Dawson?" Mrs. Pariseau aimed her bright, inquisitive gaze at the young woman.

Mrs. Dawson flushed furiously. "I don't know. I'm just a girl." Her volume was scarcely more than a squeak. "It would be a

statue of a girl."

Alexandra was fairly certain Mrs. Pariseau was suppressing a sigh.

"And I'm certain you would make a lovely statue, dear," Mrs. Pariseau replied patiently, finally. "What about you, Mrs. Brightwall?"

Alexandra liked these sorts of questions. "Oh, I think I'd like to be a statue in the middle of a fountain, the kind of fountain

with tiers. So every kind of creature could come and have a drink—birds and bees and butterflies and deer and squirrels, and

the like—and I could greet everyone, and see all the visitors."

"Oh, lovely ," Mrs. Pariseau approved, beaming at her.

Something—a shift in the feel of the room—made Alexandra glance at Magnus in time to see an expression of something like longing fleeing from his face.

Stunned, she stared at him.

He did not return his gaze to her.

"Oh, I'd want to be a fountain, too," Mr. Delacorte concluded. "One of those statues that everyone knows about and which gives

them a right laugh. Squirting water in a funny way, perhaps. Leaning back and shooting it out my mouth. Or I'd be standing

there, with my trousers down, you know, having a—"

"DON'T SAY HAVING A PISS," Mrs. Cuthbert implored.

A silence dropped like a dome.

Clearly Mr. Delacorte had slowly eroded Mrs. Cuthbert's being fibers over a period of days, and they had finally snapped.

The Epithet Jar seemed to pulse.

Everyone stared at Mrs. Cuthbert with varying degrees of sympathy, suppressed glee, and smug satisfaction.

Mrs. Cuthbert's eyes grew and grew in size when she realized what she'd done.

"You... you were going to say having a p-piss," she said weakly to Mr. Delacorte and the company at large. "I know you

were."

"I might have done," Mr. Delacorte agreed gently, "but you said it instead." He paused eloquently. "Twice."

No one spoke. The rules were clear. The Epithet Jar performed an important function in maintaining a civilized atmosphere,

and everyone took it seriously. It was also often how The Grand Palace on the Thames paid for the morning newspapers.

"Here," Mr. Delacorte said kindly. He fished a penny from his pocket and brought it over to Mrs. Cuthbert. "I'll walk with

you to the jar, if you like, so you won't feel alone. I know the way."

She stood, and, like an abbess escorting a novitiate nun to have her head shaved, Mr. Delacorte escorted Mrs. Cuthbert to

the Epithet Jar.

She dropped her penny in.

"We've all had to do it," Mrs. Pariseau said more gently to her old friend. Whose lower lip was wobbling.

"Really?" Mrs. Cuthbert said tremulously.

Everyone nodded supportively, even though this wasn't true.

"Perhaps we should have some music? Would you like that, Mrs. Cuthbert?" Delilah shot a warning glance at Mr. Delacorte. He had a fondness for one particular song which was somewhat naughty and featured clapping, and he tended to advocate vigorously for it when they decided upon a musical evening. "Would you like to sing?"

"Yes, I would like that," Mrs. Cuthbert managed with dignity. "Do you know ‘Black-Eyed Susan'?"

"We do!" Angelique and Delilah enthused in unison.

Angelique settled in at the pianoforte, and Delilah went to turn the pages of the score.

As it turned out Mrs. Cuthbert had a decent, and startlingly emotional, soprano singing voice.

People will always surprise you, Alexandra thought.

And as it soon became clear that the rest of the evening would be devoted to playing and singing sentimental ballads, Alexandra

decided to take her leave. She played and sang passably well, but that pitiful sailor poetically pining for his black-eyed

Susan made her feel jaded, and reminded her that she would be on the ocean soon and, unlike Susan, leaving behind a man who

didn't want her.

"I'll just bid everyone good-night, shall I?" she whispered to Dot, who was nearest.

And when she rose, Magnus rose, too, to escort her out.

In silence, they traveled back to their suite in the annex. He had offered her his arm on the way into the sitting room, for

appearance's sake.

He did not do that now.

"Surprisingly, I enjoyed every bit of that," she said finally, as they scaled the stairs. "I wouldn't mind having an evening

like that every night."

"I did, rather, as well," he admitted, after a hesitation. "Except for the ballads. I would rather gouge out my eye with a

rook or a bishop than listen to Mrs. Cuthbert sing about yearning."

She laughed, because she couldn't help it. And because she agreed.

But then she regretted laughing a little, as part of her remained resistant to feeling entertained by her husband.

He sighed with relief and shook himself out of his coat the moment the door closed behind the two of them, and then reached

for his cravat.

For such a big man, his movements were always so graceful and purposeful. She was oddly captivated, as if she was witnessing

some rare wild animal in the act of shedding its skin.

He paused in the process of practically clawing away his cravat. Suddenly aware that she was watching him with some blend

of amusement and bemusement.

She'd caught him in the middle of a reflex, she suspected. The immediate coat and cravat removal. This was something else

she would have known about him if their marriage was a more orthodox one.

"You're shedding all of that as though you feel like a cat stuffed into a coat," she said.

He laughed shortly. "My apologies. I suppose it's a bit of a habit. They get to feeling a little confining after a while, cravats and coats."

"You ought to try wearing stays," she told him.

His smile evolved into a laugh. "Maybe I will, one day."

He finished slowly unwinding the cravat. It dangled from his hand.

"You're not going to fling that at me, are you?" She tried a risky joke.

He pretended to ponder this. "Fair's fair, Alexandra."

They regarded each other from across the room. His eyes were glinting.

She wanted to laugh again, so, perversely, she didn't.

She cleared her throat. "Well, I'll just say good-night, shall I?"

"Good night. And remember..." he said, as she began to close her door, "slippers are not for hurling."

Damn him.

Because she laughed at that.

She sighed, and poked the fire to get it to blaze a little more, took off her projectile slippers and left them in the middle

of the rug again.

And then she just lay quietly on the bed in her clothes for a time, and reflected.

The odd relief she felt was akin to being fed a meal after surviving on soldiers' rations. She'd been starved for companionship, and diverse entertainments, and lonely for people she genuinely liked. For camaraderie . It had been lovely to be surrounded by the determined if somewhat cockeyed warmth, and yes, familial atmosphere of the sitting room. She saw the brilliance in Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand's mission for The Grand Palace on the Thames.

She considered how strange it was that both she and Magnus could laugh even after the emotional whipsaw of a fiery eruption

of thrown objects followed by a quietly devastating, marriage-ending conversation. What did this say about her? About him?

Well, she'd always known she was resilient.

And he, above all, was a survivor.

She supposed they both were.

How odd that it was something he'd seemed to sense about her long ago, too.

And she reflected on the gentle but firm authority with which Magnus had engaged that shy, green Corporal Dawson in the conversation.

What a good father he would be for a boy, she thought. He would teach him survival skills, like in Robinson Crusoe . How to make a fire and aim a gun and all that sort of thing.

Eventually, maybe how to become the sort of man who could freeze the gizzards of a Newgate warden with a mere glance, and

magically spring his wife from jail.

The thing that made Magnus thrilling in a frightening way, and frightening in a thrilling way, was the ruthlessness that ran right down through the core of him. She'd always known he was much more than that; he was a complicated man. But it was an unavoidable part of him, the support beam around which his very spirit was constructed. She had come up against it, and it had nearly crushed her. It would behoove her to never forget this.

She pictured him as he likely was now, sitting in front of the fire in his shirtsleeves, staring fiercely at the pages of

his book, lost in an adventure. It suddenly made her restlessly sad that she couldn't just sit beside him and talk to him

of idle things, because she thought they both might enjoy it. But she also felt they both had forfeited the right to do that.

She suspected she was, as Agnes of Newgate had said, safer where she was: behind a door, and not anywhere near the bare, bronzed

skin of his arms.