“Well…” the bishop began.

Vespasia did not remain. She tapped on the door of Garrick’s box, and the moment it was answered, went inside. She was dreading it. It was going to be forced, because they both knew that she would not have sought him out from friendship, and they had no interests in common.

Garrick was a widower and he had a small party with him, his sister and her husband, who was a minor banker of some sort, and a friend of theirs, a widow from one of the home counties up to London for some reason. It was she who provided Vespasia with her excuse.

“Lady Vespasia?” Garrick raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a good deal less than an expression of welcome. “How delightful to see you.” He would have used the same tone of voice had he found an apple core in his pudding.

She inclined her head. “How typical of your generosity to say so,” she answered, dismissing it as if it had been a vulgarity apologized for at the table.

His face tightened. He had no choice but to continue the charade by introducing his sister, her husband, and the lady who was visiting. Vespasia’s lack of reason for intruding hung heavily in the air. He did not quite ask her what she wanted, but the attitude of his body, the expectant angle of his head, demanded she explain herself.

She smiled at the widow, a Mrs. Arbuthnott. “A friend of mine, Lady Wilmslow, has mentioned you most kindly,” she lied. “And she has asked me if I should encounter you to be sure to make your acquaintance.”

Mrs. Arbuthnott blinked with pleasure. She had never heard of Lady Wilmslow, who, in any event, did not exist, but she certainly had heard of Vespasia, and was enormously complimented.

Vespasia salved her guilt with generosity. “If you are in town for the rest of the month,” she continued, “I shall be at home on Mondays and Wednesdays, and if you find it convenient to call, you will be most welcome.” She slipped a card with her address out of its silver case in her reticule, and offered it.

Mrs. Arbuthnott took it as if it had been a jewel, and indeed in social terms it was, and one that money could not purchase. She stammered her thanks, and Garrick’s sister hid her envy with difficulty. But then, if she conducted herself with any care at all, Mrs. Arbuthnott was her guest, and she could accompany her without raising any eyebrows.

Vespasia turned to Garrick. “I hope you are well, Ferdinand?” It was merely a politeness, something one would say as a matter of form. The reply was expected in the affirmative; no information was required, or wished for.

“In excellent health,” he replied. “And you appear to be also, but then I have never seen you look less.” He would not allow himself to be maneuvered into ill manners, especially in front of his guests.

She smiled at him as if she had heard what he had said and accepted the compliment, although she knew it was made for effect, not because he meant it.

“Thank you. You speak with such warmth one does not discard your generosity as merely the instinctive answer of courtesy.” There was a dark, angry part of her enjoying this. She had forgotten how much she disliked Garrick. He reminded her of other aggressively virtuous people she had known, closer to home, obsessed with rule-keeping, self-control, and slowness to forgive, a suspicion of laughter, and an icy pleasure in being right. Perhaps her opinion was more supposed than real. She was indulging in exactly the same sin for which she blamed him. Later, when she was alone, she must try to recall what she actually knew about him.

She kept her face deliberately mild and interested. “How is Stephen? I believe I saw him in the park the other day, but he was moving at some speed, and I might have been mistaken. Would he have been riding with the Marsh girl, I cannot remember her name, the one with so much hair?”

Garrick was absolutely motionless. There was no evidence of it, but she was certain that his mind was racing for an answer.

“No,” he said at last. “It must have been someone else.”

She remained looking at him expectantly, as though the merest courtesy demanded some further explanation. To have stopped there would be a snub.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, for an instant quite unmistakable.

Vespasia considered whether to notice it or not. She was afraid he would change the subject.

“I apologize,” she said quickly, just before his brother-in-law could rescue him. “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

Anger washed up his cheeks, dull red, and the muscles of his body locked rigid. “Don’t be absurd!” he said tartly, his eyes stabbing at her. “I was merely trying to think who it was you could have seen. Stephen has not been well. The coming winter will exacerbate his difficulty.” He breathed in. “He has gone to stay in the south of France for a spell. Milder climate. Drier.”

“Very wise,” Vespasia acknowledged, uncertain whether she believed him or not. It was an extremely reasonable explanation in every way, and yet it did not sit well with what Gracie had heard from the kitchen staff at Torrington Square. “I hope he has someone trustworthy to care for him,” she said with enough solicitude to be courteous.

“Of course,” he replied. He took a breath. “He has taken his own manservant.”

There was nothing she could add that would not betray an unseemly curiosity, and curiosity was a social sin of which she had never been guilty. It was vulgar, and implied that one’s own life was of insufficient interest to fill one’s mind. No one would care to admit to that; it was the ultimate failure.

“I daresay he will feel the benefit,” she observed. “I admit I do not care for January and February very much myself. I preferred it when I spent more time in the country. A walk in the woods is a pleasure at any time of the year. London streets in the snow offer a great deal less-mostly wet skirts up to the knees, unless one is fortunate. The south of France sounds more and more appealing all the time.”

He fixed her with a flintlike stare. It was not entirely her imagination that there was also enmity in it, a knowledge that she would not have come wholly as a gesture of courtesy to a woman she did not know.

“I am most pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Arbuthnott,” she said graciously. “I am sure you will enjoy your stay in London.” She inclined her head to the sister and brother-in-law. “Good evening, Ferdinand,” she finished, and without waiting for acknowledgment she turned and went back into the passage leading from box to box. Only feet away, Theloneus was still standing with the bishop, a slightly glazed look on his face.

“… misunderstanding of virtue,” the bishop was saying intently. “It is one of the curses of modern living that…”

Theloneus was sorely in need of rescue.

“Bishop, would you come to join us for champagne?” Vespasia said with a dazzling smile. “Or were you going to say that we drink too much of it? I daresay you are right, and of course you are bound in honor to set us all an example. So refreshing to have seen you here. Do enjoy the evening.” And she offered her hand to Theloneus, who took it immediately, trying hard to suppress his laughter.

VISITING SAVILLE RYERSON was altogether a more difficult matter to arrange, and in spite of the fact that she was genuinely concerned that Martin Garvie had met with some misfortune, regardless of Garrick’s statement that he was in the south of France with Garrick’s son, her fear for Ryerson was deeper. At best he was going to be disillusioned in a woman he loved, perhaps not wisely but certainly with all the power of his nature. To find yourself betrayed, not only in fact but in hope, to have your dreams stained beyond repair, was one of the hardest of all tests of the soul. And at worst he could find himself in the dock beside Ayesha Zakhari, and perhaps even on the gallows as well.