7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

As the crow would fly… Well, a crow wouldn’t bother to fly, it would merely hop the short distance from the door of the Hempel household to his own. Stamping down the stairs, walking past the bay window full of Hempel faces pressed to the glass, up the stairs and sliding the key in the lock before barging into his home like some criminal—he’d not exactly covered a momentous distance. It did not even take a minute.

It felt like a million miles.

He’d known Hempel had a temper. Had opinions and preferences. What surprised him was that they inched their way under his skin and turned like corkscrews, niggling him to irritation, when nothing and no one ever got to him.

Phineas stepped into the replicated entrance of his own home. He wanted to slam the door shut; he wanted to shout into the street, Well, fucking die then . Instead, he crossed the room and placed his hat on the entrance table.

As he shrugged off his coat, Rosanna trounced in. ‘You don’t have to be a shrew,’ he spat.

She drew an indignant breath. ‘I’m not a shrew. I’m a woman. A young woman in a demanding city that has certain expectations of how I look and present myself. And if you expect me to help you—’

‘I am helping you —’

‘You can make me more amenable by fetching my things so that I can dress and groom myself in the way that suits me!’

Phineas slung his coat on the hook as his irritation grew. His chest tightened with each breath, and although he tried to expel each gulp of air between pressed lips, his ire wouldn’t settle. ‘I’m so sorry to inform you, milady , but the world no longer gives a fig what you look like. You think they’re going to put you in the society pages? Mrs Babbage, wife of the unknown bank clerk, stuck a feather in her cap today. Or better again, how is this—recently married, she wore her second-best dress for her burial. Shame they couldn’t have a viewing, because after they hauled her body from the Thames, she was such a goddamn mess—’

‘Stop it!’ Her entire body went rigid with her shrill screech. She tugged at the finger on each glove, huffing as she did so. ‘I am still myself. I am still a woman who likes to change her morning dress.’ She slapped her gloves into her palm. ‘You may be planning to leave, but I will need to carry on after all this. And I would like some consistency between who I was and the person I will need to become.’ She untied her bonnet and pulled it from her head. Then she paused, her arms stretched mid-air as she scanned the walls. She turned to him, fury and confusion in her eyes.

He only had one hook. He’d never had need for two.

His discontent mumbled something like, Should be grateful I’m helping you at all , but it was quickly silenced by the shame that rushed from his toes through his entire body. For all her sharp bravado, Rosanna was not a worldly woman, and in the time it took for an angry man to smack the back of his hand against her cheek and tear her dress, her life had been upended. Every dream she’d ever held dear had fled—as fast as the heels of the man who’d promised her a shining future, only to run at the first test of character. For Phineas, there would be a future beyond this. For her, it wasn’t so simple. Even with her reputation somewhat restored, she’d be marked by this moment for years. Was it any wonder she was angry?

‘I’ll get you a hook.’ Phineas pointed at the wall, then shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘I would like you to be comfortable while you are here. I know this isn’t what you planned for yourself. But it is important. And better than the alternative.’

In the dim light of the entrance, her green eyes had grown large. Full of fear and worry, they shone like they had that night in the park when he had allowed himself to be swayed from his path. Rosanna fidgeted with the gold charm bracelet at her wrist. Its jingling filled the entrance, the melody a counter to their angry breaths.

‘Lord Richard gave you that?’ Phineas asked with a nod, even though he already knew the answer. He’d long ago learnt how to read the sweep of a longing hand, of a delicate movement attached to a gentle memory.

She nodded as she spun it, her fingers caressing each little charm.

‘It’s not real,’ he said.

She jerked her head up, and her gaze landed on him, as sharp as a blade. ‘It is. He buys them from a jeweller on the Champs-élysées.’

‘It’s a good imitation. Good plating. It would still have cost him. Just not what you imagine.’ Phineas crossed the room, caught in a mix of guilt and fortitude. There was no reason to tell her, to remove her from the certainty of her cocoon of truth and love. But she lived in a city built on a bedrock of the lies of men, and they were often exposed through the jewellery and gifts they lavished on their wives and mistresses. It was far better she learnt the truth now, from him, than she discover it for herself after he’d gone.

He took her hand. Unlike in the church, she let him draw her a little closer. He spun the chain. ‘The clasp is always the giveaway. It doesn’t have a proper lock. Middling forgers rarely think to protect from theft. Why would they?’

Such soft hands… Perfect for a lady, the sort that she’d been on the verge of becoming. Her skin was unmarked by the harshness of life that her parents had endured, but despite its inexperience of physical labour, it still held memories. All of a person’s memories could be found in their hands. In rough callouses, in nicks and scars—and in Phineas’s case, in the sweep of a blade across his palm. A scar that marked him as more than a blank slate.

Her expression morphed from a hateful glare, turning inward to sadness and confusion. ‘Why would he lie? Why not just buy silver? Or from a London jeweller?’

Phineas shrugged. ‘Embarrassment. Understanding the importance of appearances. Wanting to stand apart from other men. Not every lie has a malicious seed.’

The summer flush had faded, and the barest hint of rose pink grazed her cheeks. The mass of white lace and silk washed the normally healthy glow from her complexion. Her gaze darted from the chain on her wrist to the wedding band on her opposite hand. Then she looked beyond him, searching, thinking. She was quick. A spark of admiration lit inside him as he followed her shifting expression, as her nimble mind drew together fragments of memory, whispered promises and polite exchanges. He did not know their detail, but he knew the shape of them, all reflected in her eyes as she came to the unwanted conclusion herself.

‘He wanted my money.’ The words dragged out coarse, each syllable so dry and brittle it snapped short in the air. ‘Right from the start. I was second to it, wasn’t I? I spent years wading through men chasing money. Twenty-three, almost twenty-four years old, and I’ve not had one proposal because I would not allow the courting to continue once I spotted a fortune hunter. But I missed him.’

He nodded. False sympathies and lies had no purpose between them. She raised her chin and took a defiant breath, but he saw through her like glass. She was hurting. And she’d be no use to him if she stayed hurt.

‘Felix,’ Phineas called over his shoulder. A few short toe taps, and Felix, slightly ruffled and with his top button unfastened, appeared. ‘Can you fetch the whisky?’

‘Sir, it’s not Christmas. And it’s eleven in the morning.’ Felix shot a look at Rosanna as he fastened his top collar button.

‘It’s her Christmas.’ Phineas pulled his face into an expression which he hoped looked conciliatory. He didn’t smile often and wasn’t sure his muscles were arranged right. ‘And can you rustle us up something to eat? We left the wedding breakfast in a bit of a rush.’

‘Toast?’ Felix asked. ‘You haven’t asked for anything other than toast in more than seven years.’ He turned to Rosanna. ‘You like toast, ma’am?’

Rosanna shook her head. ‘Not particularly.’

Felix frowned. ‘We only have bread in the pantry and few cooking implements, save a toasting fork and a few plates and pans. I doubt there’s even an egg. For years I’ve been waiting to use that kitchen. And now a request, and no notice. With some warning, I could have at least stocked something other than butter and jam.’

‘Head out, then!’ Phineas waved a hand at the door. ‘Find some cheese. Ask a neighbour.’

‘And in the current state of the street, who do you suggest?’ Felix shot back.

Phineas bit his lip as he counted out each house, numbers one through ten. ‘Miss Delaney. She’ll understand, be generous, and have a stocked larder. Don’t go to her door though, head straight to the kitchens. She has company.’

Felix shot Phineas a disapproving look, then grumbled down the shadowy hallway. He re-emerged a moment later, wearing a flat cap and a coat. He continued muttering about toast and time until the door closed and silenced his complaints.

‘I usually take breakfast on this level, in the room that overlooks the courtyard.’ Phineas tipped his head at the hallway. ‘Do you know the way?’

Rosanna studied the blank walls as if she hadn’t heard him. Her eyes darted left to right like she was reading, and with an uncomfortable jolt, he realised she was reading him . She turned in a slow circle, and once she had canvassed every inch of his unwelcoming entrance hall, she stepped through the door and into the corridor.

He followed her as she moved confidently through the lobby, past the staircase, then into the short strip that led to the dining room. A confection of white silks and lace, Rosanna glowed luminescent against the dull walls which were devoid of memories. He’d never bothered to change the paint in any room. Never called a decorator, never even instructed Felix to coat a wall in green or yellow or hang a boring painting of the Thames. He’d never attended to anything more than basic furniture, filled the rooms that had use to him with the essentials, and gone about his life.

And why would he? He hadn’t planned to stay.

Not for seven years.

Seven years.

‘We also eat our meals in this room,’ she said as she stepped into the dining room. The small breakfast table sat central, and she paused before it. ‘Our table stretches the entire length of the room. Mama had it made after Ottile was born. Father constantly bangs his chair against the wall when he stands to cut the roast or to help one of the younger children master their knife.’

She looked left, then right, and in her sway, he followed the length of the table in her thoughts. Despite never having seen it for himself, he could draw it in his mind: long and filled with love and life. And although he was looking at the back of her head, with her hair tousled by their escapade across the park, he felt her gaze as keenly as if it were concentrated on him, slow and lingering.

How curious that she moved with such familiarity, yet was a stranger. How easily he could read her life, although he had never set foot inside the house next door apart from this morning.

Strangers, occupying identical spaces, separated by a double row of bricks.

‘On the rare occasions I eat dinner at home, I do so in the library,’ he offered. ‘It’s a little nicer. Perhaps we could dine there?’ And before she could agree—or more likely, disagree—Phineas crossed to the small sideboard to open the cupboard, retrieved the decanter of whisky and two glasses, and headed back to the front of the house, towards the library with the window that overlooked the street.

The glasses clinked as he sat them on the table. Rosanna’s dress rustled as she followed. She paused in the doorway for a long time. When she finally entered his favourite room, he had just poured himself a second glass.

She had divested herself of every society pretension that had survived the journey across the park. No veil, no gloves. No charm bracelet. She slouched into the chair beside him, and when she crossed her feet at the ankles, her stockinged toes poked from beneath her dress hems. She took the whisky he’d poured for her and placed it on her chest. Then, like him, she stared into the cold hearth. The silence between them sat hard and angry, the air tense with frustrations and questions. Phineas took a hefty swig.

‘I can’t touch your money,’ he blurted out. Rosanna turned her head but otherwise stayed unmoving. ‘I thought you should know. Your father has the best solicitors in London. You’ll keep everything when we separate. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I’d not be able to claim a penny. This really is just for show.’

‘You said many things to Father the other night. He wouldn’t have agreed to your plan if he didn’t think it mattered.’ She clutched her glass between her palms as she stared into its depths. ‘Why must my life be upended?’

Phineas pressed his glass to his temple. ‘Clerk is not quite the right word for what I do. Nor is spy. But then, neither are far from the truth of the work I do for the bank.’

‘Which bank?’ she asked.

No one had bothered to ask him before. ‘Empire Savings and Loans. It’s a small outfit, funded by a man who made his money speculating on shipping routes, here and in America and Canada. Not as grubby as some places, but large enough to attract people who think they might be able to beat the system, or clerks who think they can sneak a bond here, transfer a few pounds there. My job is to look for problems in the books. Anomalies that might be a sign of fraud. I report what I find. Usually, the managers find a way to keep it quiet to preserve the bank’s reputation. Public trust and all that.’

‘That man said Lord Richard owed a man named Pennington money. What has that got to do with the bank?’

‘Your Lord Richard is a recent addition to the board of Argonauts Trading, formerly Abberton & Co. That’s why their books caught my attention,’ he explained, inwardly chastising himself for his curiosity. ‘They’ve changed direction since they removed Iris and Albert from the board, and they’re seeing spectacular returns.’

Her face brightened a little. ‘Lord Richard didn’t need my money?’

‘ Too spectacular. It’s a sign that someone is manipulating the figures. Maybe someone in the bank, maybe someone inside the company. Two things are going on, but through Lord Richard, they’re connected. I think Lord Richard borrowed money from Pennington to buy his seat on the board, and now he’s come to collect. For some reason, Lord Richard can’t pay.’ He spun his glass in his palm. ‘Pennington has no mercy. He’ll use anyone to get what he wants.’ He looked to the calotype of Imogen, captured in sepia by a photographer in Edinburgh, now framed on the mantlepiece. ‘I’ve come across Pennington before, although I’ve never met him. He was at the centre of another problem I was looking into a long time ago, at a different bank. An enquiry that went bad.’

‘Who is she?’ Rosanna asked.

‘Imogen. She was providing us with information. One day, she went missing.’

‘And why would Pennington know where she is?’

Phineas downed his last inch in a gulp. ‘Because she was his wife.’

Imogen Pennington, who’d come into the Edinburgh National to ask questions about her accounts, had been dismissed by everyone as a woman who should leave her husband to manage their financial affairs. Phineas had instead made her tea and given her space to tell her story. Through her, he’d learnt that Pennington had a stock trade in smuggling, false tickets, opium, bootleg liquor, and cruelty. Over time, he’d discovered that fraud and corruption riddled the entire bank. And when Imogen had come in one day with a bruised cheek, he’d known he had to get her away. Stupid him—he’d thought he could protect her. He’d secured false documents and booked tickets abroad so that they could both start anew. But when he’d arrived at the bridge where they’d arranged to meet on Christmas Eve, he’d only found wheel ruts in the snow.

Phineas poured another glug into his glass. ‘I know it’s not the best plan, but it was all I could think of in the moment. If Pennington thinks Lord Richard can’t touch your money, he’ll likely leave you alone. Thwarting Mrs Crofts was a bonus.’

Rosanna shot him a conspiratorial smile. ‘She did look disappointed, didn’t she?’

‘Crestfallen. I walked down personally to invite her to the wedding. She said she had a prior arrangement.’

He smiled to himself while Rosanna settled into the corners of the chair and laughed, loud and deep, her mirth filling the room. Had these walls ever heard such pure joy?

The front door shuddered, and Felix hollered into the hallway.

‘In here,’ Phineas called.

For all his grumbling on departure, Felix was jubilant on his return, grinning like a schoolboy who had caught his first frog. He held a stuffed basket with two hands. ‘I have caviar. And dried fruit. And cake. And ham. And look at these…’ He juggled the bundle against his hip to retrieve a box of bread squares. ‘Just like toast, only very small, and very crunchy. And champagne . Such delicacies. I’ll need to plate them. I’ll need to—’

Felix had an overinflated sense of loyalty, which made him perfect as the only household attendant at Number 1. He’d always been diligent and set everything how Phineas liked it, which meant the same things in the same order, every day. But with this slight alteration to his duties, the man had practically… Phineas squirmed with discomfort… he had blossomed .

‘An indoors picnic needs a blanket,’ Felix muttered to himself. ‘And proper flutes. And little plates for pips and crusts.’

As Felix scurried out of view, Rosanna’s eyes followed him with curiosity before she fell back against her chair, laughing. ‘Your poor manservant has been starved for stimulation. I hope he doesn’t expect me to change into dining dress.’ She scooped up her glass and took a swig, then coughed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Sweet mercy, it burns.’

Phineas sniggered as he poured his third dram. ‘That’s how it gets rid of the parts that hurt.’

Rosanna blinked fast until the moisture in her eyes cleared. She raised the glass again and tipped it back lightly. Her cheeks hollowed a little as she paused, thinking, tasting. Savouring. When she swallowed, her neck elongated with the action, revealing a supple stretch and grace. A man with less control might imagine kissing that neck.

Thankfully, he was a man with control.

With a satisfied swish of the glass, she settled back inside the chair, her eyes glimmering with the flush of inexperienced drinking. ‘All this time, right under our noses, you’ve secretly been a sneak. Why a bank? Why not work somewhere more exciting, like for the Crown or at Scotland Yard, as a detective? You could track down some proper criminals.’

‘Fraudsters are proper criminals. They may not hurt people like thieves or murderers do, but the damage is there just the same.’ Phineas shook his head when Rosanna raised an unconvinced brow. ‘Do you know how hard it is to pin cheats like Pennington down? Complacency is their weapon. Boredom is their weapon. Numbers are everything. Money is everything. It shows weaknesses, loves, priorities, indiscretions. You can learn almost anything about a person if you can trace their receipts.’

‘But people can write anything in a ledger. Do you know how many Mr and Mrs Jones and Smiths stay at the hotel? Even for a common name, it is frightfully common. And a room at the Aster is not cheap.’ She took another small sip. ‘Truth be told, it’s a bit underwhelming. I thought we’d be posing at parties, then rifling through drawers looking for incriminating evidence.’

‘To begin with, we will not be doing anything. You will be posing as a dutiful wife.’

‘While you will be a doting husband who cannot believe his good fortune—’

‘And you will continue to work with your father because that’s the kind of progressive, open-minded husband I am—’

‘Because your salary is not nearly enough to keep a woman such as myself, and I must work to supplement your income—’

‘Because your father is oddly liberal, and because rich businessmen with home-grown empires and a healthy respect for society may indulge their daughters working aspirations so long as they remain useful and powerful and don’t tread on too many toes!’ Phineas inhaled with a small gasp as he reached the end of his outburst. No one got under his skin. Rosanna Hempel would not be the first. He took a slow sip, forcing calm into his demeanour. ‘I need you to look for names in the guest register. I’ll give you a list.’

‘And then I’ll search their rooms?’ She leant forwards again in her seat, and the light sparkle returned to her eyes. ‘Looking for clues—’

‘No! You will come home and tell me that they are staying or have in the past. I will take things from there.’

‘I thought life here might be a little bit more exciting.’ Rosanna sat back with a humph . Alcohol-induced honesty infused each word. ‘But life will be the same, except I’ll be stuck with you instead of my family.’

‘Don’t you have excitement? Singing in the park. Riding your horse. Spending time with all those ladies you so desperately want to impress,’ he snapped. This was why he never drank, except at Christmas, ensconced before the fire with only Felix and Arley for company. Although this year, he would only have Felix.

Phineas shook his head. This year, he would have no one. He wouldn’t be on this bloody street anymore.

‘Interests and excitement are far from the same thing,’ she said. ‘You said I was in danger. What if that man comes after me, regardless?’

‘I suppose I could show you some tricks.’ Phineas set his glass aside, stood, and beckoned for her to do the same.

Rosanna leapt from her chair. She tensed and raised her hands as if waiting for him to strike, but at his chuckle, she lowered them and flicked him a contemptuous glance.

‘No need for dramatics,’ he said. ‘The first trick is simple: be dispensable. Forgettable. As nondescript as possible. Every group in society has codes. Basic marks of belonging, if you will. Don’t just dress like a clerk or a lady, or whatever you are trying to be seen as. Study their mannerisms and habits. All clerks carry an umbrella, even when there’s no sign of rain. All members of Miss Hartright’s singing troupe wear mittens. Never muffs. All members of Mrs Crofts’s society wear pastels, even though she wears black. Wilhelmina Hempel always has her children wear a touch of red, a habit the older children continue, although I doubt most of them realise they do.’

He nodded at the hem of Rosanna’s skirt. She frowned, began to object, then paused as she gathered a swathe of fabric into her arms which revealed a bright line of red stitching along the edge of her petticoat. She shook her skirts out again and planted her fists on her hips.

‘You say all this as if women do not spend their lives trying to blend in. I imagine every case in the country would be solved if you had a force of ladies on hand. What else?’

‘Listen to feet.’

She scowled at him, unimpressed.

‘On floorboards, on carpet, on the street. Different types of shoes make different sounds. A man with a limp sounds different to a woman who has been dancing all night, who sounds different from a tired maid or a man intent on harm. Knowledge is power. You can learn a lot about a person from how they walk and the boots they wear.’

She looked down, and he followed her gaze to the floor. Her stockinged feet poked from beneath her skirts, and when she wiggled her toes, they both giggled. The pair of them, total lightweights with drink. Barely a few glasses, and they were both foxed.

‘I have a hole in my stocking,’ she confided in a loud whisper. ‘What does that say about me?’

A soft vulnerability peeked from behind her fierce expression, coupled with a deprecating tug at her lips.

Phineas dragged his gaze over the soft silk of her stocking to the errant hole. Little crescent moons had formed around it, threatening to stretch and run the length of her shin. Such a small thing. What might it say?

While you try to play the part of a proper rich girl, you are likely too busy at life to maintain the perfection you wish to project. Or maybe you put others before yourself, but in a way that you hope doesn’t show. You can handle discomfort and only complain to buttress yourself. On the whole, it says that there is more to you than dresses and the opinions of others. And even though you value them so much, if you can find the courage to trust your bravado, there is more in store for you in life than those insipid doves you are so intent on impressing could imagine.

Like a pawing letch, like a common lusting rake, Phineas took too long to draw his gaze from her toes to her eyes. He always saw too much without seeing, and his imagination filled in what her silhouette merely hinted at.

Delicious thighs.

A lovely round arse.

Eyes as bright as a fresh spring leaf.

‘It says I need to find you needle and thread so that you can mend it before it catches and tears.’ He’d wanted to sound flat and dismissive, but instead he spoke in a rasp of a whisper.

‘I once read a book where a man made another man pass out with just his fingertips.’ She touched him just below his ear. Phineas inhaled to suppress the delicious prickle that radiated out from the pressure, which was a mistake because her wrists smelt of lilies and hope. Now he had to contend with the urge to breathe her in fully instead, to kiss her just to see if she tasted as sweet. She pressed her fingers more firmly into his muscle. ‘Can you show me how to do that?’

‘I fear the male sex would revoke my membership if I equipped a woman like you with knowledge like that.’ With a shoulder shrug, he broke away from her touch.

‘Just one little weak point,’ she insisted. ‘An Achilles heel. Men have all the power. At least let me know I could if I wanted to.’

‘To begin with, there is no magic point in the neck that will incapacitate a man. But when you are smaller than your attacker…’ He contemplated her again. Blazes be, she was precisely his height. ‘The trick is to be agile and unpredictable, not so that you can defeat them, but so you can run away. If an attacker were to grab you, what would you do?’ He clasped her wrist and spun her so fast that she swayed a little, then fixed one arm firm around her middle, with her back pressed to his chest.

Rosanna squawked and struggled. ‘Let me go. You can’t just grab me like that with no warning.’

Phineas held firm. ‘No man intent on harm is going to warn you. Breathe . Your fear is their power.’ She remained tense. ‘I’m trying to teach you. If I were your attacker, you could do lots of things to distract me. You could bring your heel down on my toe, right on the edge. You could raise your arms and slip down, out of my hold, then pick yourself up so that you can run.’

He was about to release her when her heel cracked against his toe. As he tipped his chin to curse at the ceiling, she raised her arms, whacked his nose with the back of her hand, then dropped to the ground and sprung free from his hold. Phineas staggered back a few steps, steadying himself against the bookshelves.

‘I did it! I saved myself,’ she cried, her voice bright with elation. ‘Oh—did I hurt you?’

Phineas shook his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose. The room glistened where he blinked through the sting, and for a moment through the haze of pain and whisky, Rosanna became the only light in his library. Her old white dress gleamed, her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, but above anything else, her smile could have lit the candelabras. An unselfconscious mix of youthful innocence and mastery radiated from her, the same energy that had been lost to him so very, very long ago. With a stab of greed, he wanted to draw her to him and keep just a little for himself.

Then his gaze flicked to Imogen on the mantlepiece.

And all emotions, good and bad, died.

‘I’ll show you to your room,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’

Phineas trudged up the stairs. Her skirts rustled as she followed, but he kept looking straight ahead. On the first floor he flicked a switch for the gas lamps, and their low light hummed into the corridor.

Rosanna peered up into the stairwell. ‘At home, I’m higher. My room is on the fourth floor.’

‘I thought you’d want a proper space with your own washroom.’ He strode into the room and gestured at the small sink in the little cupboard behind the door. ‘I sleep directly above. Felix set things up for you. You should have everything you need.’

She must have picked up her boots in the hallway because she dropped them to the floor. Bits of dust and dried mud scattered over the rug. He winced. Rosanna scanned the room from floor to ceiling before tapping the foot of the simple steel bed.

‘Wedding night or not, I hope you have no intention of staying.’ Her words rang bold, but she knocked her knuckles against each other in a nervous jitter.

He needed to reassure her that while she was here, he’d make no marital demands. Lawrence had not expressly said as much, but it was implied that Phineas would respect her independence. She would be mistress of herself. And this marriage was not real or meant to last. Genuine fear had coursed through her when he’d taught her how to evade a captor, and a little of it flittered across her face now. If they were going to get through this, he needed her secure and a little trusting. He should say something… affable. Even comforting. So he took her by the shoulders and looked her square in the eyes. ‘I am not interested in you. In your body. In that way.’

And with a breath that felt like regret, he turned away and left her alone.

As he trudged down the stairs, a lurid fantasy danced through his imagination. It teased at his foxed edges and squeaked through the gaps in his slightly soused defences. Of tumbling onto sheets together and frantic kisses, of lips and fistfuls of flesh and hair and stolen breaths, of her crisp green eyes and her warm skin and fallen garments. It taunted him all the way to the ground floor. There he met a slightly downcast Felix who stared into the empty library with a tray balanced in his arms.

‘She’s in her room.’ Phineas brushed past him. ‘Take it to her.’

Phineas picked up the crystal decanter and swirled its contents. Liquor loosened everything in him—his thoughts, his memories, his control. It was why he normally only allowed himself one day a year to seek oblivion. He opened the window and tipped the bottle. Amber whisky glugged as it splashed against the hydrangea leaves.

He could not allow that to happen. He could not lose control.

There would be no more drinking while Rosanna Hempel lived in his house.