“Shall I cut you some seed cake?” Julia asked, knife poised above the newly baked round.

“Yes, please,” I said.

She cut into the cake. I had noticed that she had not brought down the little gold filigree box in which she kept her blue mass pills. Had she given them up? Good God, I hoped so. I took a sip of coffee, stifling the question upon my lips. It was her decision. But, Lud, it was hard not to ask.

After breakfast we moved into the drawing room, as had been our routine for years and years. And the silent expectation still drummed: What next? What next?

The answer came midmorning. Julia sat at the little writing table near the window, catching up on the invitations that had arrived while we were in Lancashire. I sat before the hearth reading The Times, hoping I would not find a report of a highwayman recaptured.

A knock upon the door brought Weatherly into the room, his expression troubled.

“Lady Augusta, there is a man at the kitchen door insisting upon seeing you. He has a letter that he will not give up to me. He says it must be delivered into your hands only.”

“What does he look like?”

“He is dressed as a tinker, my lady, but his voice does not match his garb. Far too refined.”

“And you do not recognize him?”

“I do not, my lady, but I would wager he is a gentleman.”

Julia placed her quill back upon its rest. “I do not like the sound of this, Gus.”

“Weatherly, tell Samuel and Albert to join us in here, and to be ready for the possibility of violent action. Then bring our visitor here.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Julia rose from her chair and came to sit beside me upon the sofa. “Violent action?”

I shrugged. “It has happened before. I wish to be prepared.”

Our two footmen duly arrived, an air of suppressed excitement about them as they took up their positions inside the door. If nothing violent occurred, I suspected they would be greatly disappointed.

Finally, a knock upon the door and then it opened. Weatherly led a shabby man into the room, his coat smeared and dusty and an old tricorn upon grizzled gray hair. But all that could not hide the close-set eyes or the overly small mouth of Charles Whitmore.

I stood up, the force of the action bringing Samuel and Albert a step closer, and Weatherly looming behind our visitor. “Why are you here, Mr. Whitmore?”

“Mr. Whitmore?” Julia echoed. She rose from her seat. “Good Lord, why are you dressed in such a manner?”

“I am in disguise,” he said.

“Clearly,” Julia said. “I hardly thought this was a fashion choice.”