He was not a man who thought much of the future. He'd had enough of the expectations and demands of his grandfather's extravagant fantasies as a boy. In the early days of his boxing promotions, he'd had dreams of backing Jem Fowler to the Championship of England, until that ended in the bout that killed Jem and left his wife and baby on Trev's hands. It was a lesson. There were no more friends of his heart in the ring.

He maintained no ambitions for himself beyond arranging the next prize bout or making good on the betting books he held. His very detachment was his strength. With no particular desires or emotions to burden his judgment of the outcome, he was very good at what he did. It did not ruin him to pay out on a losing stake, because he never made odds that would break him.

It made no odds for him to think of the future now, but he couldn't seem to help himself. It wasn't a real future; it was this moment of smiling down at her, extended somehow into tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and he would never have to say that he must go, or put her hand away from his, or hide what he felt, or lie. He was profoundly weary of lies. He wished to be himself—if he could have settled on any notion of who he might be.

Both of them seemed to realize at the same instant that they were stopping the way. Callie gave a slight "oh!" and Trev stepped aside, escorting her up onto the pavement to avoid a goat cart that desired to pass. As he raised his eyes from the curb and looked ahead down the crowded street, he saw the certain end of any wishful reveries.

"Sturgeon!" he uttered, forgetting himself far enough to lapse into English. "God curse the man."

Callie went stiff beside him. She gripped his arm and craned her neck to see past the crowd.

"Don't look," he said, quickly turning her away and reverting to French. "He's down beside the Green Dragon. The devil seize him, what's he doing here?" They were walking now away from the danger, Trev restricting himself with an effort to a more casual pace. He had thought Sturgeon had departed for London yesterday, when Colonel Davenport came up to Hereford. That had been the word from Jock. He paused for a moment, catching the eye of the "footman" who had been dogging them at a respectful distance.

The burly boxer came forward, bending his bewigged head to listen as Trev murmured to him. Charles gave a brief nod as he took his instructions and stood back again, folding his hands behind him.

"It seems I'm forced to be suddenly unwell, chérie," Trev said to Callie, pulling the sheaf of broadsides from his coat. "I'm afraid you'll have to make the announcement. Noon, at the prize platform."