“Bah. Get out.” Smith glared at the superintendent of thief-takers. “I have a call to make.” He waited for the door to bang shut behind the other man before he added, “Sir Roderick is going to be very annoyed. But I’ll make sure that damned woman gets her comeuppance soon enough…”

Weeks passed: days of pain, days of loss, days of mourning. Finally, an evening clear of snow beneath the winter skies over New London found Miriam standing in the foyer of the Brighton Hotel, dressed to the nines in black, smiling at the guests with a sweet solicitude she hardly felt. “Hello, Lord Macy! And Hello to you too, Mrs. Macy! How have you been? Well, I trust?” The line seemed to stretch around the block, although the red carpet stopped at the curb—many of the visitors were making a point of showing up in new Otto cars, the ones the Durant Motor Company was fitting with the new safety brakes.

“Hello, my dear lady! You’re looking fine.”

Her smile relaxed a bit, losing its grim determination. “I think I am, indeed,” she admitted. “And yourself? Is this to your satisfaction?”

“I think—” Sir Durant raised one eyebrow—“it will do, yes.” He grinned, faintly amused. “It’s your party: Best enjoy it as much as you can. Or are you going to stand by your widowhood forever and a day?” He tipped his hat to her and ambled inside, to the dining room that Miriam’s money had taken over for a night of glittering celebration, and she managed to keep on smiling, holding the line against desolation and guilt. The party was indeed glittering, packed with the high and the mighty of the New London motor trade, and their wives and sons and daughters, and half the board of trade to boot.

Miriam sighed quietly as the carpet emptied and the doors stopped revolving for a moment. “Busy, isn’t it?” Brill remarked cheerfully behind her.

“I’ll say.” Miriam turned to face her. “You’re looking beautiful tonight,” she mimicked, and pulled a face. “Anyone would think I was selling them pin-up calendars, not brake shoes.”

Brill grinned at her cheekily. “Oh, I don’t know,” she began. “If you put out a calendar with yourself on it, that might improve sales—” She held out a full glass of something sparkling.

“Here, give me that. It’s not suitable for young ladies!” Miriam took it and raised it. “To…something or other.” Her daringly bare shoulders slumped tiredly. “Success.”

Brill raised the other glass: “Success. Hey, this isn’t bad.” She took a big mouthful, then wiped her lips with the back of one lace glove. “Do you think they’re enjoying it?”

“They will.” Miriam looked at the dining room doors, then back at the front: It was almost time for the meal to begin. “Or else,” she added bitterly.

“You haven’t seen Lady Olga yet?” asked Brill.