Isobel didn’t look at him and jerked her elbow free of his grip the instant her foot touched the boards. That was nothing unusual—but today she turned her head suddenly, fixing him with an odd, piercing look before turning away, biting her lip.

He got up beside her and twitched the reins over the pony’s back, but was aware of her eyes burning a hole in his right shoulder.

What burr’s got under her saddle?he wondered. Had bloody Betty said something to her? Accused him, maybe, of interfering with her? Was that what the little besom had meant by “I’ll tell”?

The lines came to him suddenly, from a play by Congreve: Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d, / Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d. Damm it, he thought irritably. Was it not possible to refuse a woman’s bed without her feeling scorned? Well … possibly not. He had a sudden distant memory of Laoghaire MacKenzie and an ill wish, a bundle of herbs tied with colored thread. He shoved it aside.

He’d read the Congreve play in Ardsmuir prison, over the course of several weekly dinners with Lord John Grey. Could still hear Grey declaim those lines, very dramatic.

         As you’ll answer it, take heed

         This Slave commit no Violence upon

         Himself. I’ve been deceiv’d. The Publick Safety

         Requires he should be more confin’d; and none,

         No not the Princes self, permitted to

         Confer with him. I’ll quit you to the King.

         Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent

         The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:

         Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,

         And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn’d;

         Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,

         Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d.

“What?” said Lady Isobel, rather rudely.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“You snorted.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

“Hmmph.”

         Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,

         To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

         I’ve read, that things inanimate have mov’d,

         And, as with living Souls, have been inform’d,

         By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.

         What then am I? Am I more senseless grown

         Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!

         ’Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

         Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night

         The silent Tomb receiv’d the good Old King;

         He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg’d

         Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.

         Why am not I at Peace?

He wondered whether music really did help. He could not himself distinguish one tune from another. Still, he was pleased to know that he could recall so much of the play and passed the rest of the journey pleasantly in reciting lines to himself, being careful not to snort.

AT LADY ISOBEL’S DIRECTION, he deposited her at an imposing stone house, with instructions to come back in three hours. He nodded—she glowered at him; she thought him insolent, because he never tugged his forelock in the manner she thought proper deference (Be damned to her for a high-heided wee baggage, he thought, smiling pleasantly)—and drove to the square, where he could unhitch and water the pony.

People looked at him, startled by his size and coloring, but then went about their own business and left him to his. He hadn’t any money but enjoyed himself in strolling through the narrow streets, luxuriating in the feeling that—for however short a time—no one in the world knew exactly where he was. The day was bright, though cold, and the gardens had begun to bloom with snowdrops, tulips, and daffodils, blowing in the wind. The daffodils reminded him of Betty, but he was too much at peace with himself just now to be bothered.

It was a small town, and he’d passed the house where he’d left Isobel several times. On the fourth passage, though, he glimpsed the wind-tossed feathers of her hat through a screen of thinly leaved bushes in the back garden. Surprised, he walked to the end of the street and went round the corner. From here, he had a clear view of the back garden, neat behind a black iron fence—and a very clear view of Lady Isobel, locked in passionate embrace with a gentleman.

He ducked hastily out of sight before either of them should look up and made his way back to the square, nonplussed. Carefully casual inquiry among the loungers near the horse trough elicited the information that the house on Houghton Street with the black iron fence belonged to Mr. Wilberforce, a lawyer—and from the description of Mr. Wilberforce, it was indeed this gentleman who had been making love to Lady Isobel in his gazebo.

That explained Isobel’s manner, he thought: excited, but wary lest he discover her secret. She’d had a parcel under her arm, a taped packet of documents; no doubt she’d brought them to the lawyer, her father being ill. Lord Dunsany had had a bad winter, having taken a chill that turned to pleurisy, and Isobel had come often to the town during his sickness, presumably on the family’s business. Whereupon …

Aye, well. Perhaps I’m none so worrit by what Betty might say to her ladyship.

Whistling tunelessly through his teeth, he began leisurely to hitch up the pony.

THERE WAS A NOTABLE LACK of green branches for the next few days, nay a squeak out of Betty, and he began to relax. Then on Thursday, a warm bright day, Lord Dunsany came down to the paddock where Jamie was shoveling manure, accompanied by old Nanny Elspeth with William in her arms.

Lord Dunsany beckoned to the deeply suspicious nursemaid and waved to Jamie to approach. He did, his chest feeling tight, as though the air had suddenly grown too thick to breathe.

“My lord,” he said. He didn’t bob his head, let alone knuckle his forehead or make any other physical sign of subservience, and he saw the nurse’s mouth purse in disapproval. He gave her a straight, hard look and was pleased to see her rear back and glance away, sallow cheeks flushing.

He was prey to the most extraordinary array of emotions. For the most part, he succeeded in keeping his thoughts of William strictly confined, though he thought of him every day. He seldom saw the child, and when he did, it was only as a glimpse of a woolly bundle in the arms of Nanny Elspeth or Peggy, the nursemaid, taking the air on one of the balconies. He had accustomed himself to thinking of William as a sort of small, glowing light in his mind, something like the flame of a wax candle lit before a saint’s statue in a dark chapel. He couldn’t afford such a candle, and wouldn’t be allowed into the Helwater chapel, but liked to imagine himself lighting one when he said his prayers at night. He would watch the flame catch and swell, wavering a bit and then growing tall and still. He would go to sleep then and feel it burn, a peaceful watch fire in his heart.

“MacKenzie!” Dunsany said, beaming at him and waving at the child. “I thought it time my grandson became acquainted with the horses. Will you fetch out Bella?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Bella was a fine old mare, long past breeding but kept by Dunsany for the sake of their long association; she was the first broodmare he had acquired when he established the Helwater stables. She had a kind eye and a good heart, and Jamie could not have chosen better for the purpose.

He had a burning in his chest now, but this was drowned by a wash of panic, guilt, and a ferocious cramp that knotted his belly as though he’d eaten bad meat.