As time and people passed by, we talked. I spoke about our mother’s death when Julia and I were thirteen, my fear about my sister’s illness—so like our mother’s—and my intention, my hope, to take her on a grand tour when the Continent was no longer locked down by war. He told me how he had worked his way back to England on cargo ships and the wonders he had seen: gigantic whales jumping from the sea, squid as big as men, and majestic sea turtles. And also, a little bit about his time in the prison colony in New South Wales assisting the prison surgeon: a Dr. William McLeod.

Now, there was a familiar name.

“Is he, by chance, any relation to our own Dr. Robert McLeod?” I asked.

Evan nodded. “His uncle. William McLeod gave me a letter to carry to his nephew in the event of my return to England—an introduction, if you like. I believe he wrote about a time I saved his life from an attack by a demented prisoner. That is why, I think, the young Dr. McLeod is helping us so discreetly.”

“It sounds as if you have completed an entire medical apprenticeship under the instruction of the elder McLeod.”

An unusual accomplishment for the son of a marquess.

“No, far from it. As you can imagine, I have not had much experience with women’s ailments.” He gave a wry smile. “Your sister’s illness, alas, is not within my knowledge, so I cannot offer much in the way of advice.” He looked down at the flagon in his hands, his thumb tracing the stamped letters of the maker, Cunningham and Co. “I would say my specialties are flogging wounds, stabbings, dislocations, strangulations, and broken bones. Not really a full medical education.”

There was something in his eyes—an inward, endless quality—that spoke of unimaginable suffering. There would always be so much I could never truly understand. Even, I think, if he wished to tell me.

“Well, I am heartily glad of your stabbing specialty.” I touched my shoulder where the stiletto knife had done its damage a few months earlier. “Without you, my wound would have been a great deal more dangerous.”

He looked up at me again, the abyss gone from his eyes. At least for now. “Is it still healing? Do you have pain?”

“It is little more than a scar now, thank you, Dr. Belford,” I said, and bumped his shoulder with mine, to prove the point.

He swayed theatrically under the soft blow, then said rather more seriously, “Still, you must take care of it. Stiletto wounds are narrow but notoriously deep.” His mock-stern expression shifted into sudden focus beyond me. “Look. The door is open.”

Number 2 Bedford Street had come alive.