“You have a day to think about it, Lady Julia, but no more.” Mr. Whitmore stood and picked up his tricorn. “We have arranged a smuggler’s boat from Walmer to take you across three days hence.”

“Three days?” I repeated. Good God, how would I get everything prepared and travel down to Walmer in such a short time?

“Three days,” he confirmed. “Lord Evan and Mr. Kent must depart the country as soon as possible.” He placed the tricorn upon his gray wig. “Speaking of those gentlemen, I have two messages that I am obliged to pass on to you, for I gave my word.” He drew a preparatory breath. “Lady Julia, Mr. Kent has bid me say, and I quote: ‘On no account do as Mr. Whitmore asks, my love.’ ” He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the final endearment. “And Lady Augusta, Lord Evan says, ‘I will see you soon, Renegade.’ ” He reached into his grimy pocket. “He also asked me to give you this.”

He passed across the item. A small glass pot of arnica balm, a written direction upon it in Evan’s hand: Use it.

I laughed, perhaps more from the fact that I would see my love soon than from the pot of balm. “Tell him—” I started.

Mr. Whitmore stopped me with a raised palm and a shake of his head. “I am sorry, Lady Augusta, I cannot pass on a message. I will not see Lord Evan before he, and you, leave England. It is too dangerous.” He turned to my sister. “We will be in contact soon for your answer, Lady Julia.”

“And you will arrange for the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin to be closed down before I go,” I reminded him. “If you fail me, I will not step foot on that boat.”

“I understand. I will send word when it is done.” He looked at Mr. Brummell’s note in my hand. “May I?” he asked, reaching for it.

In reflex, I passed it to him. He took the few steps to our hearth and threw the note into the fire, watching the wax spit and the paper curl into flame.

With that, he bowed and departed the room.

48

Julia rubbed her hands together and walked to the hearth, although she could not be cold within the warmth of the drawing room. She took the iron poker from its stand and dug into the flames, where Brummell’s note had burned.

“Well,” she said. “That was rather unexpected.”

I watched her as she placed the poker back into its slot and walked to the window, twitching a perfect curtain pleat into further perfection.

“You are perturbed,” I said.

“Of course I am. Are not you?”

“Yes, indeed.”

She shook her head. “I think we differ in our agitation, Gus. You crave this type of thrill, but I do not.”

I opened my mouth to protest but shut it again. Perhaps it was a fair observation.