Upon that uneasy thought, I narrowed my eyes and searched the gloomy tree line alongside the Row. It had been three long weeks since we had heard from Lord Evan, and I half hoped to see him, despite the fact that it would be madness for him to risk London. It seemed a new lover’s heart was always full of hope. And, as I was quickly discovering, doubt too. Three weeks felt like a long time to go without some kind of message, and I could not help but wonder if he still felt the same as I did. We had parted on our first kiss—a giddy, wonderful moment for me—but perhaps not as memorable for him. Had he come to his senses?

Of course, there was no sign of his lean silhouette in the remnants of the silvery mist.

I did, however, see the inevitable Bow Street Runner watching me in case he did appear. A lone figure standing at the fence—mid-height, slouch shouldered, and clad in a sober dun greatcoat. At least I hoped he was a Bow Street Runner. The other possibility crawled across my nape: could it be Mulholland, the thieftaker? He had, I believed, once worked for the Runners but had been dismissed for egregious corruption. We had heard he was hunting Lord Evan, too, and did not care if he brought his bounty in dead or alive. The descriptions of him reported sandy hair and red whiskers. I peered at the slouched figure, trying to distinguish his coloring, but the brim of his beaver hat was pulled down low and the distance between us too far for detail.

Seeing my attention upon him, the man turned and walked into the last of the low-lying mist, leaving a knot of disquiet in my innards.

I turned Leonardo and stroked his neck, preparing to gallop. I needed to outrun these megrims and ghosts. At least for the length of Rotten Row.

2

By the time I trotted Leonardo into the mews behind our new Grosvenor Square home, my thoughts had shifted back to the mare I had bought and how I was going to justify the price to my sister. Perhaps if I asked Julia to name the horse, she would overlook the fact that I had paid three times the market price for a broken-down mare that we now had to stable in London at exorbitant cost.

John Driver, my coachman, emerged from the tack room.

“How was he moving today, my lady?” he asked, taking Leonardo’s bridle and receiving a muzzle nudge in the ribs for his pains.

“Very well, as you can see,” I said. “No more hint of that stiffness.”