Chapter Two

Waters came in the next morning bearing a tea tray in his hands and the world on his shoulders. ‘Your Grace,' he said. ‘I am informed of the most distressing news. It cannot be correct.'

‘My wager with Leo?' The Duke had been awake for some time, wondering if his great idea was in fact quite as great as it had seemed last night under the influence of several glasses of wine and the flush of insult. The concept was impeccable: a month in which he could track down the scoundrel John Martin and retrieve his ring. It was the execution – specifically, the fact that he had no idea how to go about executing it – that worried him.

‘But Your Grace cannot seriously intend this.' Waters looked distraught. ‘To travel alone? Without your carriage, or James, or a single outrider, or a wardrobe? Without me ?'

‘It is only for a month,' the Duke said soothingly.

‘A month! Your Grace jests. Who will brush your coats and see to your linen? What about your boots?'

‘I expect inns have people who do that.'

‘Hardly to the standards Your Grace expects.'

‘Indeed not. It will teach me to appreciate you.'

‘Your Grace,' Waters said strongly. ‘You must not. Surely Lord Hugo objects.'

‘I dare say he does, but I don't require his permission.' Or yours , the Duke did not say, because, exasperating though it was to be nannied, Waters had cared for him all his life. The tightening of the valet's lips suggested he had taken the inference anyway, and was offended. The Duke sighed internally. ‘Will you help me select the most ordinary clothes from my wardrobe?'

Waters stiffened even more. ‘Your Grace does not possess any ordinary clothes.'

This was true. The Duke's coats were made by Hawkes or Weston, and it showed, even if he did not display them to any great advantage. In the end he resorted to borrowing a couple of Matthew's older coats, noting with satisfaction that they were a touch large for him and rather worn. He looked wonderfully ordinary. Waters wrung his hands in the background as the Duke admired his nondescript appearance in a full-length glass, and left in a huff when he expressed his intent of wearing his Wellington boots, which were informal and comfortable and had always grated on his valet's soul. All his linen was of the first quality but hopefully that would not be as obvious as coats were: he took just a few changes, intending to buy more and plainer items, along with toiletries and so on, because everything he had was embroidered or embossed with the Severn crest. He also appropriated a Paterson's British Itinerary and a copy of The Traveller's Oracle that belonged to Matthew, on the grounds that his need was greater.

As he put his luggage together, realising there was an art to packing and wondering whether Waters was too offended to help, his uncle came in.

‘You cannot be going ahead with this, Severn.'

‘It is a wager.'

This ought to be a clincher to a man of Lord Hugo's generation, but he shook his head. ‘It is a nonsensical wager. I shall tell Leo to retract.'

‘I beg you will do no such thing. I shall come to no harm, and it will be an interesting experience. And it is my choice. I am above the age of majority after all.'

He said it with a smile, but he'd had to make similar reminders too many times over the last year. If he was of Lord Hugo or Leo's temperament he might have said How many times must I tell you? or Will you remember my place and yours! He could not imagine saying such a thing to his uncle, and so the comments never stopped.

Lord Hugo snorted. ‘You are your own master, but you are also Severn, and I wish you would consider your position. This is cursed rash behaviour. You will find it extraordinarily uncomfortable, hobnobbing with the scaff and raff, and sleeping in damp bedsheets. I have no doubt you will catch a chill. And the vile sustenance available at ordinaries will not agree with you. It is very well for the common sort, but I repeat, you are Severn.'

‘It doesn't sound very well for the common sort,' the Duke remarked. ‘Should I not know the hardships my fellow men undergo, that I may strive to alleviate them?'

His uncle eyed him menacingly. ‘Don't give me that Quakerish clap-trap. I see you are determined to be defiant.'

‘You mean, to carry out my intention?'

‘That's what I said. Oh, curse it, boy, you have not the knowledge of the world of a child, and I am not easy in my mind. If anything happened to you, my brother's son . . . He entrusted you to my care.'

‘Nobody could have fulfilled his request with more attention,' the Duke said sincerely. He would, in fact, have been very happy with rather less attention. ‘But it is time I learned to care for myself. I do not wish to be, as Leo said, held up by a scaffolding of service all my life.'

‘Nonsense,' Lord Hugo said. ‘You are not anything of the kind.'

‘You don't think Leo was right, sir?' the Duke said hopefully.

‘Of course he was right; naturally you will not manage for yourself. I meant to say, you are quite wrong in your understanding of your position. The service, the attendance, all that – it is not a scaffolding. It is Severn; that is the point. You cannot be Severn and live in a cottage on pease pudding. Your position must be filled.'

‘My position is filled, whether I like it or not.'

‘I should hope you like it, since you are the most fortunate man in England. I dare say it is hard that you had so little time to be Harmsford,' Lord Hugo added, sounding slightly less brusque. ‘My brother died too early, and ermine is a heavy weight on young shoulders. You could have got all this independence out of the way if you had succeeded later on. But here we are, and you have your duty.'

‘I do have my duty,' the Duke agreed. ‘And I am truly not going to live in a cottage on pease pudding. But I also have my wager, which I intend to win, so if there is nothing else, sir—'

Lord Hugo scowled. ‘And suppose you fail and people say Leo set you on to this recklessness? I did not coddle you for twenty years in order to have my son blamed when harm comes to you! Good Lord, it was bad enough when that young oaf persuaded you to climb the Great Oak. You might have been killed when you fell, and the world would have called it his fault!'

‘I landed on him,' the Duke pointed out. ‘I have always counted it an act of great loyalty that he broke my fall, especially since I broke his arm.'

It had no effect, nor had he expected any. Lord Hugo had always taken his responsibility for his orphaned nephew stiflingly seriously. The Duke sighed. ‘Uncle, I proposed the wager and Leo can hardly be blamed for taking me up on it. I am looking forward to my adventure and I shall come to no harm. This is a civilised country under the rule of law. Pray do not fret.'

‘I do not fret, ' Lord Hugo said indignantly. ‘If I am concerned, it is because I have more regard for your rank and station and safety than you seem to.'

The Duke let that pass. ‘I will – no, I can't write to you here, in case anyone should observe the superscription. But I shall think of you, and send at once upon my re-emergence into Polite Society.'

‘You are a feckless young fool,' Lord Hugo told him, surrendering without grace. ‘And you will take a goodly sum with you – a hundred pounds at least – and the address of your bank, and your card-case . . .'

He finally departed, still muttering, and the Duke had about five minutes' peace to go over his immediate plans before Leo came in.

‘If you're on a mission from Uncle Hugo, go away,' the Duke told him. ‘I shall not withdraw from my wager, or let you do so.'

‘He did tell me to,' Leo admitted cheerfully. ‘I told him I thought this lark would do you the world of good. I shan't enquire as to why you so badly want a month unsupervised, dear coz, but merely extend my good wishes in your endeavours.'

The Duke's eyes flew to his face. Leo grinned, a little sheepishly. ‘It occurred to me this morning that you might have taken the opportunity of my foul temper to carve yourself a little freedom, and I don't blame you: in your shoes I'd have run mad years ago. Just come back safely, or my father will never forgive me. Sev?'

‘Mmm?'

‘I apologise for my words last night. I was cursed rude to you, mostly because I was in a shocking rage at myself. Matthew dressed me down for jealousy of your circumstances, which I hope isn't true, although even if it is the little whelp should still respect his elder. Notwithstanding, I took out my frustration on you and I beg your pardon.'

‘Oh, nonsense, Leo.' The Duke put out his hand.

His cousin grasped it. ‘You're too tolerant. And this doesn't affect the bet. I still want your greys.'

‘Are you setting up as a whip? Because horses won't do it alone: you'll need to be a deal less cow-handed first.'

Leo grinned at that accurate hit. ‘I have no aspiration to drive your greys: I wouldn't presume. But Vier covets them, so—'

‘Vier?'

‘Sir James Vier. You know the man.'

‘Yes, I do. And since I do, I have refused to sell him my greys several times. Why would you do such a thing?'

‘Because he's the man I lost the money to,' Leo said. ‘Did Father not mention that, or were you not listening? He's the very devil at whist, him and that smooth swine he partners with, but I'm quite sure he'd take the greys in settlement, so—'

‘You are not giving Vier my horses,' the Duke said, not mincing words. ‘The man is a brute. He thrashes his cattle like the worst sort of carter. For God's sake, Leo, you cannot!'

‘I have limited options,' Leo said, the humour dropping from his eyes. ‘I lost heavily. More than I can afford, in truth. Villainous, I know.'

‘We all make fools of ourselves now and then; look at my performance. But for heaven's sake, let me give you the money. Or lend it, if you must be particular,' the Duke added, seeing a familiar mulish expression on his cousin's face.

Leo had always made a point of never taking so much as a shilling from his vastly wealthy cousin, supporting his father's position of honest stewardship. As ways of handling the gulf between their positions, it was as good as any and better than many, and the Duke respected that Leo did not expect to be hauled out of the River Tick whenever he fell in. But what was the point of wealth if one could not spend it on people one loved? ‘I know you'd never ask or expect it, but just this once? Please? I'd far rather spend the money than see my greys in Vier's hands.'

‘I'm not biting your shins. You know how my father feels.'

‘He has never treated my money as his to use, and nor have you. It is mine to spend as I choose. I choose to spend it on you.'

‘No. I can't ask that, or take it either. Sev, it's three thousand pounds.'

‘Good God. What were you thinking?'

‘I was drinking, not thinking.' Leo waved an airy hand, which did not fool the Duke in the slightest. ‘It was my foolishness and I will bear the consequences.'

‘But what will you do? Other than give Vier my greys, which, I must tell you, you should not bank on.'

‘I dare say the old man will oblige when he calms down. Or I shall sell out of the Funds, if I need to. Your father was generous with his bequests.'

‘Leo, that's your income! For goodness' sake, don't waste your capital on Vier. Let me loan you the money, and you may repay me at a sensible pace. I'll charge you interest.'

‘I do not and will not depend on you to solve my troubles,' Leo said. ‘Though I shall be delighted if you lose our wager. Otherwise, dear coz, I wish you well on your adventure.' His tone made it clear the subject was closed.

The Duke negotiated starting his travels in Gloucester. The Bird in Hand inn where he'd been robbed was on the outskirts of the town, and he'd ascertained from the landlord that John Martin had departed in a northerly direction. He'd hoped to pick up the fellow's tracks without too much difficulty.

He'd been optimistic. It turned out that ostlers were very busy men who didn't have time to answer the questions of undistinguished greenhorns, whether about who they'd seen or where the coaches were going. In fact, most people were completely uninterested in helping him. One pleasant individual did come up to engage him in conversation; the Duke, having completed a tour on the Continent and not being quite such a Johnny Raw as all that, had declined the invitation to take a drink or pass the time with a game of chance. He congratulated himself on that much, and was feeling quite satisfied by his performance once he managed to take a place on the stage to Cheltenham.

That was a guess, but it was a spa town where one might find idling gentlemen: it seemed plausible John Martin might attempt to repeat his performance there. The Duke therefore boarded the stagecoach in a spirit of hopefulness that was rapidly knocked out of him.

The interior of the coach reeked, of the potations of at least two of his fellow passengers, a small boy who'd recently been sick, and another passenger's hot meat pie, which somehow left a film of grease on the Duke's lips from two feet away. He was squashed between a rubicund farmer and a buxom lady, both of whom expressed their pleasure that he was such a small man. The coach was unsprung, the seats unpadded, the roads of a vileness, the journey longer than he could have imagined. He staggered out at the other end, cursing John Martin and Leo and himself, and discovered that at some point someone had picked his pocket and stolen twenty pounds.

At least it wasn't more. He'd split his money up and secreted it about his person and in his luggage. But it had gone from an inner pocket, which was rather frightening, and he had no idea when, which was worse, and it was a sizeable part of his entire worldly wealth for the duration of a month. It was a bad blow on his first day.

He'd decided to retire early and ask questions tomorrow, thinking to ensure a good night's rest. That also was denied him, since his person did not command instant obsequious attention, or comfortable rooms, or the choicest viands. He dined on the ordinary, which was extremely ordinary – a slurry of oversalted, overcooked vegetables and a few pieces of gristly meat – and found himself allocated a dismally dark, smoky space under the eaves with decidedly damp sheets and rough blankets. Worst of all, the noise from outside was unceasing: rattling wheels, shouting, an endless hubbub that made him pull the miserable covers over his head and wish himself back in the luxurious quiet of Staplow.

Burned coffee and an inadequate breakfast for a sum he suspected was extortionate did not help his mood in the morning. He was unwashed and had made a poor fist of dressing, and it took a strong effort to command his feelings. If he was uncomfortable, he reminded himself, it was because of John Martin, and he would use his irritation to fuel his enthusiasm for the pursuit.

He set himself doggedly to the task. He asked ostler after ostler if they had seen one not-particularly-notable man out of hundreds, discovering that a shilling was the best coin to win attention but not too much attention. He made his wearisome way around the edges of Cheltenham, and then ventured into the centre with his senses on alert for acquaintances. It would not be in breach of terms for him to be recognised, but he'd have to refuse any invitations, and explain what he was doing in an ill-fitting coat, and word would doubtless get about, and the whole thing would be cursed awkward.

It didn't arise because he saw nobody he knew, and in particular, he did not see John Martin.

He hadn't expected immediate success, of course, but it was still a disheartening and exhausting day that made him aware he was seeking not just a needle in a haystack, but one with the power of movement. He wanted nothing more than a hot, deep bath to rest his aching feet, and if he were going home to Staplow, Waters would have one waiting ready for him. He put that thought out of his mind and made his way to probably the eighth and definitely the last inn of the day, the White Hart on the Birmingham Road.

It was busy. He would have to wait for a quiet moment to speak to the ostlers; in the meantime he went inside and attempted to command a room.

The landlord cast an unimpressed glance over him. ‘I might have a bed. Sit you down with a mug of ale and I'll see. Saloon bar's over there.'

The Duke didn't want to sit down with a mug of ale: he wanted to be conducted to a comfortable room without delay. He murmured thanks anyway, wondering if he was being polite or merely weak, and went through to the saloon bar.

It was occupied by a man, who sat opposite a woman wearing a quite remarkable bonnet. He was staring intently at her, and had a sheet of paper with a black patch at its centre in his hands. She was turned sideways to him, clearly posing. The Duke said, ‘I beg your pardon.'

‘Don't mind me,' the man said without looking at him. ‘Have a seat. Mine hostess will be free to attend to you in just a few moments.'

‘I am having my likeness taken,' the lady added, casting the Duke a glance and a smile. Clearly she was the landlady; she wore an ordinary day-dress with what looked like her Sunday-best hat. The man was cutting her profile, the Duke realised. He had never seen one done before, only the results. He hesitated, interested but unwilling to intrude.

‘You are welcome to observe,' the shade-cutter said, still without looking.

The Duke moved closer, and watched with fascination. The shade-cutter had a pair of tiny scissors which he seemed to be holding very still as he snipped, instead moving the paper into the jaws of the blades in a slow but almost continuous turning motion. The scissors cut smooth, confident curves, paring the blackened paper so that the extra material fell away and the landlady's outline emerged, including the hat. It was a surprisingly quick process. The artist cut the remains of the paper surround free, and made a few additional snips. He took a rectangular card from a leather satchel, pasted the back of the profile from a little pot, placed it neatly on the card, and presented it to the landlady with a bow.

‘Well!' she said, delighted. ‘Well, good heavens, look at me. See, sir!'

The Duke examined it, looking back and forth between paper and woman. It was a striking likeness, considering it was simply an outline without depth or detail. The artist had been kind to her jawline, and somehow managed to convey a curve to her mouth that radiated the woman's obvious good humour.

‘That is quite delightful,' the Duke said. ‘You have remarkable skill, sir.'

The cutter glanced up at him with a glowing flash of a smile. ‘Why, thank you. And thank you , Mrs Sturridge. Will your good man be having a likeness too?'

‘I can see all I want of him any day.' She examined her profile again, beaming. ‘That's worth a night's lodging to me, and a meal too. And you, sir,' she added to the Duke, ‘what may I bring you? Ale?'

He agreed reluctantly. A glass of wine would be preferable but he had already learned the unwisdom of ordering any such thing in an inn outside London. He took a seat, while the other man put away his paste-bottle and card.

The shade-cutter was a good-looking fellow with a cheerful sort of face, the kind that looked wrong without a smile. He had a fine pair of brown eyes, and his wavy hair combined bronze, copper and gold like a handful of coins: no silver there yet. His coat gave the impression he'd worn it for rather too long, and that impression was carried through into the rest of his dress, which was well used to the point of shabby. He looked like a pleasant gentleman, but down on his luck.

He also seemed vaguely familiar, especially the bright glinting hair. The Duke had a panicked moment wondering if he was an acquaintance, perhaps someone met in London – but no, not with that sadly worn coat, and in any case this was a professional profile-cutter and he'd never sat for a profile, even to an amateur. No, he couldn't place the fellow, but all the same, exasperatingly, he was sure he knew him.

The man glanced up, catching the Duke in the act of scrutiny. ‘Unlike the dancing bear, you may observe me at no charge. Or may I serve you? Would you care to have your profile taken?'

‘Thank you, no. No, I was merely . . . I beg your pardon, but are we acquainted?' the Duke said recklessly. ‘You look very familiar.'

‘Do I? I can't say the same, I'm afraid.'

That was unsurprising: the Duke knew himself to be entirely forgettable. That was currently a good thing, just as it was good that the shade-cutter wasn't trying to pin down where they might have met, even if it seemed a rather unfriendly response from a man with a friendly face.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken,' the Duke said. ‘I beg your pardon. My name is—' He bit Severn back, reminding himself that he'd settled on his favourite of his many names, one he never got to use. ‘Cassian.'

‘Good day to you, Mr Cassian. Charnage.'

‘Charnage?' the Duke said. ‘ Daisy Charnage?'

He saw Charnage's smile die, his lips staying curved but without any happiness behind the expression. ‘Daizell, if you please, and yes, the same. I dare say you have had a long, tiring day if you are travelling, so I won't disturb you.' He reached into his satchel and took out a book.

The landlady returned at that point with two tankards of ale. The Duke took his with a word of thanks, mind racing.

Daizell Charnage, the bizarre first name pronounced to rhyme with ‘hazel', usually shortened to Daisy at school. The Duke had been two years behind him at Eton, a fact he was quite sure Charnage wouldn't remember since he had been just another small boy and a particularly unimpressive one at that. Titled, yes, but many of their peers were peers: Charnage himself was a connexion of the Marquess of Sellingstowe, albeit no longer acknowledged as such. There was no reason he would recognise the Duke.

There were a number of reasons the Duke should have recognised him, and refrained from conversation accordingly.

His name had not been mud during most of the Duke's school career. In fact, Daizell Charnage had been a highly popular boy. He'd been expelled, granted, but only for running a gambling ring, which was doubtless very bad, but from a schoolboy's perspective had felt trivial compared to the unpunished cruelty of many of the older boys. The Duke remembered him as that schoolboy might: a glowing, laughing young trickster, to be hopelessly admired from a safe distance.

Not any more. His father's appalling actions had ruined his son's name and left him penniless and disgraced, whether entirely by proxy or because he'd been somehow involved, the Duke wasn't sure. He'd been abroad at the time. Then there was the scandal that Charnage had had on his own account a year or so ago. The Duke couldn't recall the details if he'd ever known them – an elopement, he vaguely thought – but Leo had shaken his head. Either way, Charnage had disappeared from good society and now moved in decidedly less elevated circles, attending the sorts of parties that the Duke of Severn would never grace with his presence even if anyone had invited him.

And, it seemed, he cut profiles in public houses to pay for his lodgings. That was horribly sordid for a gentleman, or at least a man born a gentleman, and Charnage had doubtless decided to end the conversation before he could be snubbed. He probably received plenty of snubs, and indeed the Duke would probably have snubbed him. Severn could not risk letting an encroaching mushroom grow on the fringes of his ermine robes.

He wasn't currently the Duke of Severn. He was the unknown, unrecognised Mr Cassian who could talk to anybody he pleased, and he was lonely, and he remembered Daizell Charnage so well as that bright young god at Eton.

‘So what are you doing?' he asked.

Charnage glanced up from his book. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘At the moment. I mean to say, are you, uh, travelling somewhere?'

Charnage didn't make the obvious point that they were in a coaching inn. ‘Not urgently. Dawdling on my way to an engagement. And yourself?'

‘I'm currently struggling with rather a challenging task, which is what brings me here.'

Charnage's eyelids drooped. ‘A challenging task. Really. Does that involve the placing of horses before a race?'

The Duke didn't understand for a moment, and then he laughed with surprise. ‘Not at all, no, and I am not going to suggest a game of chance or skill, either.'

‘I'm relieved to hear it.'

He didn't enquire further. The Duke was used to people showing rather more interest in his doings. He pressed on. ‘The fact is, I was recently robbed.'

‘Sorry to hear it,' Charnage said, with no effort to sound sincere. ‘Unfortunately, I will not be able to tide you over with a small loan.'

This was entirely unfamiliar ground. As one of the richer men in England, the Duke had never had to fend off accusations of breaking shins, nor had he ever had to work to make people speak to him or feign interest, his family excepted. ‘I don't require one,' he said. ‘Actually, I was robbed of a certain item of sentimental value and I'm trying to discover where the thief went.'

‘Good God.' Charnage gave him an examining look. ‘Are you a Bow Street Runner?'

‘Me? No.'

‘Thief-taker?'

‘Again, no. I have no experience in this at all.'

Charnage's brows tilted. ‘I suppose there's a reason you are doing this yourself rather than calling in someone competent?'

The Duke's cheeks heated. ‘Yes, but – the thing is – well, it's rather a delicate matter. For reasons I prefer not to disclose,' he added, feeling the weakness of it.

‘Naturally. Naturally.' Charnage waved that away. ‘And you are in this caravanserai to lay hands on the thief?'

‘I wish I were. I have been trudging across Cheltenham trying to pick up his trail without success. I don't know he's anywhere near here, to be honest.' He was blurting out more than Charnage wanted to hear, probably, but it had been a very solitary and disheartening few days. ‘The robbery happened in Gloucester and the only clue is that the fellow took a stage going north rather than south.'

‘Does your thief have an eyepatch? A dramatic scar?'

‘Nothing. He looks quite the gentleman, but without any very distinguishing features. A perfectly pleasant ordinary sort of man.'

‘You can't just ask at every inn if they've seen an ordinary sort of man recently,' Charnage said. ‘Or rather, you could, but not to any effect.'

‘I realise that. I do have his name, but it's probably false. John Martin,' he added in response to a questioning look.

‘Oh, certainly false.' Charnage put down his book and pulled his chair round to face the Duke more squarely, as though he'd decided the conversation was worth his interest. The Duke found himself absurdly flattered. ‘It's a strangely common habit among the false-name-giving fraternity to resort to Christian names as an alias for a surname. A man who calls himself Mr Martin or Mr Peter or Mr George is never to be trusted.'

The Duke would have liked to query such a sweeping statement, and might have done so if he hadn't currently been using a Christian name as an alias for a surname. Thank goodness Cassian was such an obscure name as to be unfamiliar to most Englishmen. That could have been embarrassing.

‘In any case, I can't rely on him using the same name,' he said. ‘I need to . . . To be honest, I don't know what I need to do. I hoped I would cross his tracks.'

Charnage made a face. ‘If I were you – did you say this item was of actual value, or merely sentimental?'

‘Both.'

‘Then I'd go back to Gloucester and try the pawn shops. If he stole valuables, his first thought will have been to get them off his hands. I'd say try the fences, but that would require the help of someone familiar with that profession. A discreet thief-taker would be best.'

‘I've no idea how to go about that. I dare say I seem rather a greenhorn.'

‘A little out of your depth, perhaps.'

‘Very much so. I'm not familiar with the area, and I'm not used to travelling from home like this' – it was technically true depending on your interpretation of those words – ‘and in all honesty, I suspect I have bitten off more than I can chew.'

‘Poor fellow,' Charnage said, with a touch more sympathy than before. ‘Really, are you quite sure you can't put this in the hands of the authorities? Although . . .'

‘Although?'

‘Well, an item both sentimental and valuable – does that make it easily identifiable? Because that isn't an attractive quality to a receiver of stolen goods. A necklace might be more valuable as a collection of matched jewels on a string, but more safely saleable as individual stones. A golden item might be better melted down for the value of its metal, even if that destroys the value of its artistry.'

The Duke's mouth had fallen open in shock. He closed it. ‘You think— No. They could not melt it down. No .'

‘I hope not, for your sake. But you might want to get on and retrieve the thing quickly.'

‘Yes. I need to.' The Duke had the distinct sense of another brilliant idea dawning. He wasn't sure whether he ought to trust that sense, since his previous brilliant idea was not going marvellously. Then again, the clock was ticking and he had not done well by himself, and Charnage, for all his reputation – perhaps because of his reputation – clearly had ideas.

‘I need to,' he said again, and took the plunge. ‘Would you help me?'