“No drinking,” she said. She knew she was treading on delicate ground, but it was important. She thought of the broken bottle in the snow at the Shadow Market. Of Matthew stumbling, slipping during the fight in Nelson Square. She had not wanted to see it, but if there was anything she had learned from her marriage, it was that looking away from truth helped nothing. She could do this for Matthew, as no one had ever done it for her father. “A little champagne, wine, as you like, but not—like my father drank. Not to get drunk.”

Something flickered in his dark green eyes. “You are serious?” he said. “I agree to this and you will come with me?”

“Never more serious,” said Cordelia. “We could leave tonight. There is always an evening train.”

“Then yes,” he said, “yes, yes. In Paris, with you, I will not need to forget.” He kissed her hand and released it, rising to his feet. “I will leave a message for James with the porter. He can deliver it in the morning. I shall tell him there is no need to worry. He can let the others know—tell them whatever he likes—Anna will be delighted, perhaps she will come and visit with us.”

And she would leave messages for her mother and brother, Cordelia thought. They would still worry, but that couldn’t be helped. She felt flushed with energy, an almost physical longing to be moving, traveling, free of constraint, with the wind at her back and the sound of a train whistle in her ears. “Matthew,” she said. “In Paris, will you be able to forgive yourself?”

He smiled at that—a real smile; his face lit up, and Cordelia could not help but think that it was a face that would open any door in Paris to them. “In Paris,” he said, “I shall be able to forgive all the world.”

“All right,” Cordelia said. In her mind, she was dancing down the Rue Saint-Honoré. There was music, light, joy, the promise of a future that would not be empty, and all with Matthew, her steadfast friend, by her side. “Let’s find me a coat.”

Fleeing out into the darkness of London was well and good, but James realized quickly it wasn’t going to help him find Cordelia. He could try to guess where she’d gone, but the two most obvious places—Cornwall Gardens and the Institute—both seemed unlikely to him. If she were as upset as he guessed, the last thing she would want would be questions she could only half answer. Nor, knowing Cordelia, would she want sympathy, and certainly not anything she might interpret as pity. Cordelia would rather be set on fire than pitied.