I looked up at the sky. Cloudy but no sign of rain—a blessing for such a long journey. We were making good time, the horses ready for the lengthy ride, and the road reasonably dry and in good repair. So far, we had not met anyone else traveling along it, although a few miles from Charlotte’s estate we had seen a couple crossing a field in some haste, the woman clad in a country cloak of scarlet and the man pulling her along by the hand. I had suggested secret lovers. Evan had laughed and said they would have a hard time finding a haystack at this time of year, which had made my imagination leap back to that alleyway in Covent Garden.

I glanced across at him, his body moving with relaxed grace in time to the horse’s gait in an undulating rhythm, the strong line of his thigh close to mine. I hurriedly looked forward again; my mind, it seemed, was determined to turn everything he did into some kind of carnal distraction.

It did not help that we had, for some time, ridden in heavy silence, my awareness of his body beside mine growing with every mile. Whereas his attention seemed firmly fixed ahead, brow furrowed in thought.

What had prompted such inwardness? Had it been something I said?

I picked over my memory of our conversation; it had mainly been about the interview ahead: what we might discover and the steps we might take afterward, namely, a petition to the courts for a pardon or even an overturning of the original judgment. Perhaps it was the possibility of exoneration that had silenced him. Or maybe he was thinking upon the problem of Hester and where, exactly, we could find a safe haven. I had not brought it up myself; my mind had been going around in circles upon the subject for too long without any result. Besides, if the doctor provided information we could use, then surely Evan must stay in the country to pursue true justice.

I said as much, breaking the silence between us.

“There is that,” Evan conceded, “and I am not convinced Hester would survive a sea journey. Yet moving her from one situation to another in England will not keep her from my brother for long, nor me from Mulholland. I do not like it, but we must try to sail. Ireland would be the most obvious destination for its proximity, but there are too many of our acquaintances there. I think it must be Sweden. They are not allied with Bonaparte and we could live in obscurity.”

Sweden. Good God, so far away. And through the dangers of Napoleon’s Europe.

“I will come with you,” I said abruptly.