He braced himself for a scold as he passed her a shawl that had been draped over the back of a reading chair. “Shall I light the fire?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.

By the limited illumination of a few candles, she looked weary. “I’ll be going out again, just across the street, and I don’t light the hearth until I’m in for the night.”

Eleanora Hatfield, like much of London, had no cooking facilities in her domicile. Of course, she’d go out to fetch a hot meal.

“I’m still dressed for the weather,” Rex said. “I’ll get us some food, while you consider a strategy for organizing our efforts over the next two weeks.”

He bowed and left before she could argue. By the time he returned, she’d curled up in a chair, her shawl about her shoulders, her hearth crackling. She’d also fallen asleep.

He dealt with the cat first, unwrapping a morsel of fish and leaving it on its paper in a corner. For himself and his hostess, salty fried potatoes came next and slices of hot roasted beef followed. The scents were humble and tantalizing, and apparently enough to tempt Mrs. Hatfield from her slumbers.

“You bought beef and potatoes.”

She looked at him as if he’d served her one of those fancy dinners Mama made such a fuss over. Four removes, three feuding chefs, footmen run ragged, the sommelier pinching the maids, and all the guests more interested in flirtation than food.

“Voltaire has started on the fish course,” Rex said. The cat was, in fact, growling as she ate, and sounding quite serious about her meal.

“Her manners were formed in a hard school,” Mrs. Hatfield said, sitting up. “Where are my—?”

Rex passed her the spectacles, though he preferred her without them.

“Have you cutlery,” he asked, “or do we shun etiquette for the sake of survival?”

“In the sideboard.” She took a plate from him. “I can put the kettle on if—you brought wine.”

“A humble claret, but humility is a virtue, I’m told.”

The shared meal reminded Rex of something that ought to also be part of a peer’s curriculum: Some people had the luxury of chatting and laughing as abundant food was put before them. Other people had such infrequent acquaintance with adequate nutrition that the notion of focusing on anything other than appreciation for food was a sort of blasphemy.

Eleanora Hatfield ate with that degree of concentration. She did not hurry, she did not compromise her manners, but she focused on her meal with the same single-mindedness she turned on her ledgers.

“You have known poverty,” Rex said, buttering the last slice of bread and passing it to her. “Not merely hard times or lean years. You have known the bleakest of realities.”