Sam started forward, and Alfred turned and hurried down the street as fast as he could without looking inelegant. She watched him leave, as alien to her as his brother had always been. When he disappeared around the corner, she nodded and turned to Sam. “I thought we were meeting at Liefdehuis,” she said.

“I took your hatbox with me,” he said. “I was dropping it off when I heard him.”

“I see,” she said. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know you’re being blackmailed,” he said. “Enough to hear him threaten you.”

“Come inside,” she said, the cold clinging to her bones. “We’re not going to do this on the street.”

She led him back into the sitting room, the servants who’d come out to watch the fight hurrying away ahead of her. This time, when she closed the door she made certain it was fully shut.

“Do you understand what he’s blackmailing me with?”

“He thinks you murdered your husband. His brother?”

“Yes. And no, I didn’t.”

“I don’t care whether you did or not,” Sam said, running one hand through his shaggy hair. “Damn it, though, Alva, you should have told me.”

She sat down heavily. She’d never seriously considered telling Sam about Alfred. This was what her life was, violent and complicated. Even if she was able to make something real with Sam—and for the first time in many, many years she thought it possible—the texture of her life would be the same. One way or another she’d never be rid of Alfred: either he’d slowly bleed her dry, year after year, reminding her that she’d never truly be free; or she’d stand up for herself, he’d go to the press, and she’d be haunted by murder accusations for the rest of her life.

The funny thing was that Sam was the one who’d given her the strength to choose between the two options. She’d been about to tell Alfred to go to hell when Sam had stormed in, to go public if he dared. Sam had reminded her—or maybe she’d never even known it before—she was worth standing up and fighting for.

She let her eyes run over him, dwelling on the dear laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, his silly rumpled hair, and his clothes in need of ironing and mending. Samuel Moore was a Good Man, a true-blue, kindhearted, genuine love of a man, and if she let him stay he’d never leave. He’d be at her back at every turn, he’d fight her battles for her if he could, and he’d be dragged through the muck and mire along with her.