He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. "Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”

She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No… of course there wasn't! She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.

"I haven't thought about it," she replied, trying to sound light and casual. "I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”

He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.

Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if she were angling for the greater influence he had obliquely referred to… perhaps… or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done! She could feel the colour burning up her cheeks.

She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing! Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.

He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.

"I don't really have that kind of skill," she said very measuredly.

"Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer.

She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up…”

"Do you?" he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.

"No, of course I don't." There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness, and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.

She swung round to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.

"I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield, and my own weapons.”

"Bravo," he said softly, his eyes studying her face.

She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.

He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.

She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.

The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.

Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.

Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.

"What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?" she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?

As if he too had seen Monk's face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.

"A society paternity suit," he said with a half-smile. "There is really very little to prove. It is largely a matter of negotiation to limit the scandal. It is an exercise in diplomacy." He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. "I am endeavouring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.”

He shrugged. "If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since…

." He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.

"Since Princess Gisela," she finished for him.

They both laughed. It was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken, and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honour from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.

"And will you win?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "This I will win…" he hesitated.

Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.

"How is your father?" she asked.

"Very well," his voice dropped a little. "He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig where he met a number of interesting people, and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them, about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”

She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened on to the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.

"I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I travelled anywhere.”

"Where would you like to go?”

She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently, with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him, and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.

It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.

"Egypt!" she said with a lift of enthusiasm. "I have just been hearing about Signer Belzoni's discoveries… a trifle late, I know.

But I should love to go up the Nile! Wouldn't you?" Oh God! She had done it again… been far too forthright, and desperately clumsy!

There was no retracting it! Again she felt the tide of colour hot in her face.

This time Rathbone laughed outright. "Hester, my dear, don't ever change! Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signor Belzoni, and what did he discover?”

Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.

It was nearly midnight when they parted in his carriage where it stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a clear night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness.

It had been an island of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. "Thank you, Oliver.”

He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and even as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.