Over the next few days, Richard heard more about Laura's marriage to Maidstone, in brief, quiet conversations that left both of them drained and exhausted. He was almost ashamed now that it had never occurred to him that Laura's marriage had not been happy, let alone never suspected the level of brutality she had been exposed to. In hindsight, it seemed so obvious. As a child and a young woman, she had been barbed, but never broken. He ought to have seen something had broken her, he ought to have guessed what. Instead, he had thoughtlessly assumed her reticence about her marriage came from a grief not yet dulled by time, had never questioned the origin of her unhappiness.

It horrified him to realize that she had never asked for help to leave her marriage, nor even told anyone else about it before. But there had been no one to help her — her elopement had made her an enemy of her father, and her marriage had taken her into Lancashire, far from anyone she'd ever called friend. And now that she had Richard to call friend, there was nothing he could do but listen and regret with her.

Late at night, after she had left his bed and gone back to her room, Richard would lie awake worrying about it. He thought she was better now than she had been months ago, certainly better off than that night in November when she'd seduced him out of what he could now see was nothing more than fury at the world. But he wanted her to be more than better. He wanted her to be happy. And he wasn't sure she ever would be truly happy while she remained his mistress. There was too much pressure in such an arrangement for her to keep him happy, to allow her to properly think of her own happiness. All she could hope to be was safe — and safe only as long as she was with him, for the world in general scorned to protect a woman content to call herself a mistress.

He wrote to Neil again, asking his advice. A cautious little letter, saying only that Laura's husband had broken her spirit and that he thought his arrangement might be doing her harm in the end.

He wasn't surprised to receive prompt reply, an encouraging, rather optimistic reply, in which Neil urged Richard to end the arrangement and set Laura up in comfort and quiet somewhere far away.

"I'm sure she would like France," Neil wrote. "Or I could give her some introductions in Italy. I've no wish to hurt her, Rich. But from what you say, it seems like it would be best for everyone to terminate the arrangement, and for her to be somewhere out of public sight and condemnation."

It was a letter that made Richard thoughtful, but he wrote back declining Neil's offer and saying that he saw no need for Laura to leave England. Privately, he thought that would be worse than the current situation: alone in another country she could only be more isolated than she was now. More vulnerable.

Richard had still not decided what to do by the time Elizabeth was prepared to go home. Her morning sickness was calming enough for her to travel now, and her children were quite recovered from their pox. At dinner the night before Elizabeth left, Laura pleased Richard by her solicitude to his sister, her well-wishes for the new baby, and her concern for Elizabeth's comfort on the journey home. There was perhaps a shadow of gladness to her solicitude, as though she was relieved to see the back of Elizabeth, but Richard could not begrudge that enough not to appreciate that Laura really was trying to be nice — to someone other than him.

Elizabeth was tired that night and went to bed early, leaving Richard and Laura alone in the drawing room. They drank their coffee and then she played the piano. Richard watched her fingers on the keys, the pale curve of her cheek, her face half-hidden from him. A lock of hair curled down in front of one ear, and he ached to push it back. To run his hand behind her head and kiss her. To feel her hands clutch his coat and then close around him.

He shivered, coming to a sudden decision about the matter. Then he abruptly stood, went over, and kissed her, the music ending in a harsh jangle of notes as he startled her. When he drew back, her eyes were wide with surprise and the curl by her ear was floating up over her temple like an antenna. He bit back a laugh and smoothed it down.

"What was that for?" she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Just because." He kissed her again. "Look, I want to go up to London with Liz tomorrow — I'll only be gone a few days — do you mind?"

"No, why should I mind?" She hooked her hands around the back of his waist. "What do you have to do?"

"To speak with my lawyer."

She frowned. "Couldn't you just write?"

"Not about this."

"What a nuisance." She sighed. "I'll miss you."

His heart skipped a beat. She cared for him — she must care for him. And he cared for her. More than he dared tell her. It had started out nothing more than lust and curiosity, but he'd always known it wouldn't stop there. He wasn't the kind of man who could be intimate with a woman and not develop feelings for her. It almost hurt him now to realize that she was — in all probability — the first woman who had ever developed feelings for him in his life. Ending this would hurt them both.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, frowning at him.

"I'll miss you too," he said. "That's what's wrong."

"And in a few days I'll be waiting on the front step to welcome you back." She ran her hand up his waist to the lapel of his coat, trying to pull him closer. "I promise."

It was a long, intimate goodbye between them that night, which left him holding her in his arms and hoping, wishing she would not eventually leave. But inevitably she did, slipping out from his bed with one last sleepy kiss. He no longer tried to persuade her to stay. He knew now why she left. But the morning after, at dawn — they were leaving early — he went into her bedroom and woke her to kiss her goodbye again. She looked sleepily up at him.

"Do you really have to go?"

"I'll be back in five days," he promised, kissing her again. "It's not long."

She tangled her fingers in his hair and looked up at him with a softness that made his heart quicken. "Then travel safe," she said, and went back to sleep while he watched. He stayed there a few moments, watching her and wondering if he was doing the right thing, then he heard Elizabeth's irascible step in the hallway and hurried out to meet her.

They did not often travel together and when they did travelled mostly in silence, so the first half hour or so of their journey passed without a word. Then Elizabeth, who was holding a sleeping Catherine on her lap, made a motion to Richard and he took the child, understanding when Elizabeth buried her mouth in her handkerchief.

"Some air?" he asked.

She nodded, and he let the glass down so she could breathe in fresh air through the window. Catherine squirmed a little but then closed her eyes again and drooled contentedly over Richard's collar. After a few minutes, Elizabeth sat straighter and the colour came faintly back to her face. Richard felt a strange pity for her; she was ordinarily so resolutely healthy.

"I owe you an apology," he said wryly. "I thought you came down to Albroke to interfere with me about Laura. You've not said a word since that day in London."

Elizabeth shrugged, seemingly still unable to speak. But at the minutes passed by she said, in a rather tired voice, "I've long learned that it's useless to persuade men against their own temptation. You know better and you're not doing it. No reason will change that. No persuasion will make you do what is right. Not until it's too late."

Richard watched the countryside roll by. "You're right — and wrong. I do know better. That's why I've come up to London. To get it sorted out."

Elizabeth's mouth made an o of surprise. For a moment, there was silence, then she said, rather distantly, "I don't dislike her, you know. I feel sorry for her, really."

"Sorry for her?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "She could have been so much more than what she chose to be."