By the time the first true days of spring reached London, with crocuses braving the soot-streaked gardens and ladies daring to leave off a layer or two of shawls, Rowan and Livia had begun to find a way to inhabit the city that did not devour them.
They divided their days, as they had sworn.
Mornings were often for business.
Livia went with Harcourt to the Exchange, to the docks, to the cramped, smoky back rooms where deals were made. Rowan accompanied her sometimes, more often than he once would have, listening rather than talking, absorbing the dynamics of trade like a foreign language he was finally learning to speak.
Afternoons, they made their necessary calls—appearing at Lady Vernham’s, at a banker’s, even, once, at the Tansleys’, where Rowan’s cool civility and Livia’s polite indifference set an example that made other hostesses think twice before attempting open cruelty.
Evenings, when they chose to attend entertainments, they did so with intention.
“We will not,” Livia said firmly one night as she pinned on a simple pair of pearl earrings, “go to every ball and every supper simply because a piece of paper bids us. We will choose. Like investments.”
“High risk, high return?” Rowan suggested, adjusting his cravat in the mirror.
“High entertainment, low stupidity,” she said. “As far as possible.”
“That eliminates half the Season,” he mused.
“Three-quarters,” she corrected.
Amelia, naturally, dragged them to things they would not have chosen themselves.
“There is to be a masquerade,” she announced breathlessly one afternoon, flopping into Livia’s favorite chair without asking. “At Lord Fenton’s.”
Livia stiffened. “No.”
Rowan, across the room, looked up sharply.
“Absolutely not,” Livia said. “I am not stepping into that man’s house. Mask or no mask.”
Amelia pouted. “But it will be *scandalous.*”
“Precisely,” Livia said. “He will have gaming tables in the card room, girls in costumes that would make a courtesan blush, and more champagne than sense. It is the last place I wish to be.”
“And the first place half of London will be,” Amelia said. “Think of the information you could gather.”
Rowan’s mouth tightened.
“I do not need,” he said, “to gather any more information about Fenton. I know enough.”
Amelia eyed him.
“You used to be thick as thieves,” she said. “You can’t pretend you don’t miss the thrill a little.”
Rowan stiffened.
Amelia’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” she breathed. “You don’t.”
“No,” he said, blunt. “I do not.”
Livia’s gaze softened.
“Amelia,” she said gently, “Fenton invited Rowan to a ‘friendly’ game not long ago. Rowan declined.”
Amelia blinked. “He did?”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “In writing. Using ‘unfortunately’ in a very pointed way.”
“You are becoming respectable,” Amelia said, sounding half-appalled, half-impressed.
“Do not spread that rumor,” Rowan said. “It will ruin my remaining mystique.”
Amelia giggled.
“Very well,” she said. “We shall let Fenton’s masquerade proceed without you. It will not be nearly as entertaining, but one cannot have everything.”
She flounced out.
Livia looked at Rowan.
“You truly do not… feel… the pull?” she asked quietly.
He considered.
“Not to *that*,” he said. “Not to Fenton’s tables. Not anymore. I remember too clearly what I lost there. And what I nearly lost.” His gaze met hers. “You… are more… exciting. And less expensive.”
Her lips twitched.
“That may be the most romantic thing you have ever said,” she said.
He put a hand to his heart. “My standards are low.”
***
It was at a much more sedate event—a musicale at the home of a wealthy brewer in Bloomsbury—that a different sort of temptation arose.
The room was crowded, overheated, and filled with the sound of an unfortunately earnest soprano attempting an Italian aria beyond her range.
Livia sat between Amelia and Lady Vernham, fanning herself.
Rowan stood at the back of the room with a knot of gentlemen, including Sir James Copley and Mr. Edgeworth, a Member of Parliament known for his interest in agricultural reform.
“So,” Edgeworth said, lowering his voice as the soprano soared for a note and missed it, “is it true, Merrow? That you and your wife are sinking funds into some… factory in Derby?”
“Manufactory,” Rowan corrected absently. “And yes.”
Edgeworth’s brows rose. “Brave. Or foolish.”
“Both,” Rowan said. “We prefer to diversify our follies.”
Copley snorted.
Edgeworth tapped his lip.
“There is talk,” he said, “of new legislation. Regarding factories. Hours. Ages. The use of certain… machines. The spinners and hand-loom weavers are pressing hard. They see the jennies as the death of their trade. The mill owners, naturally, are pressing back.”
“And you?” Rowan asked. “On which side do you fall?”
“Neither,” Edgeworth said. “Or both. I see the necessity of machines, if we are to compete. I also see the danger of letting greed drive them. I am… inclined to listen to those who actually run such places. And to those who have… interests… in both land and industry.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You, Merrow, are in a… unique position. A dukedom tied to trade. A wife who understands both.”
Rowan’s mouth quirked.
“Yes,” he said. “She is… unique.”
Edgeworth smiled. “Indeed. I would value her thoughts. And yours. On how laws might be shaped to encourage investment without encouraging… abuse.”
Rowan’s brows rose.
“You wish us to… advise?” he asked.
“Yes,” Edgeworth said. “On an informal basis. For now. Come to the House. Listen to the debates. Sit in the gallery if you like. Speak with me, and with others. There is a group of us—merchants, landowners, a few radical clergymen—who meet to discuss such matters without the theatrics of the chamber.”
Rowan considered.
Once, the idea of spending any time in the House of Commons—or in its smaller, less gilded cousin, the Lords—would have made him yawn.
Now, with Merrow’s fields in his blood and Derby’s looms in his ledgers, it sounded… relevant.
“Would we be… welcome?” he asked. “We are still something of a… curiosity.”
Edgeworth’s lips twitched. “The House is full of curiosities. At least you are not boring. Besides, we could use a few more people who know how to balance a book. Your wife in particular.”
Rowan’s chest warmed.
“I will speak with her,” he said.
“Do,” Edgeworth said. “We meet on Thursdays. In the coffeehouse on Fleet Street with the terrible muffins and the excellent coffee.”
Rowan smiled faintly.
“We will bring our own muffins,” he said.
***
Livia listened to Amelia whisper scurrilous commentary about the soprano’s gown’s alarming lack of structural integrity and felt… the first stirrings of something like her old excitement.
Not for balls.
For… influence.
“Why are you smiling?” Amelia hissed. “She sounds like a dying goat.”
“I was thinking,” Livia said absently, “about looms.”
Amelia blinked. “Only you.”
Rowan found her between pieces, weaving through the crowd.
“May I steal you,” he murmured, “from the altar of music?”
“Please,” she said fervently.
They escaped to a quieter corner near a fern and a badly executed painting of a pastoral scene.
He conveyed Edgeworth’s proposal.
She listened, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“Informal,” she said. “Meaning: uncredited. Unpaid. Possibly unheeded.”
“Possibly,” he said. “But Edgeworth is not without influence. Nor is Copley. Nor Vernham’s cousin in the Lords. This could be… a crack.”
“In what?” she asked.
“In the wall between… people like you… and… the making of laws,” he said. “Imagine, Livia, if you could… whisper sense into the ear of men who write the rules. About factories. About fields. About… money.”
Her heart thudded.
“You make it sound,” she said slowly, “like a… game.”
“It is,” he said. “A deadly one. Often played badly. We might… play… less badly.”
She thought of Mrs. Belling in Derby. Of Miss Hartley’s sharp tongue. Of Mrs. Dobbins’s leaky roof.
“These men,” she said, “who meet. Do they… truly wish to listen? Or do they wish to be seen listening?”
“We would have to find out,” he said. “We could always… leave our coffee mugs in protest if they prove deaf.”
She smiled faintly.
“Very well,” she said. “We will go. We will… listen. We will… see if they can bear being told they are wrong.”
“They will not enjoy it,” he said.
“Few people do,” she said. “You have learned to.”
He inclined his head. “I am a reformed case.”
She looked up at him, something like pride flickering.
“Yes,” she said. “You are.”
***
The coffeehouse on Fleet Street was dim, smoky, and noisy.
Men in plain coats and wigs—lawyers, clerks, minor officials—argued in low, intent voices around battered tables. The air smelled of burnt coffee and ink.
Edgeworth waved them over to a corner table where Copley, Lady Vernham’s cousin Lord Ashby, and a thin, intense clergyman Livia recognized vaguely as a pamphleteer on poor laws already sat.
“Merrow. Duchess,” Edgeworth said. “Welcome to the mad house.”
Ashby rose, bowing politely.
“Your Graces,” he said. “I have been curious to meet the woman who convinced my cousin to serve pigs’ trotters at her last dinner in a fit of economy.”
“Lady Vernham serves what she pleases,” Livia said. “I merely pointed out that poor households do not have the luxury of ignoring certain cuts.”
Ashby smiled. “She said you would answer thus.”
Copley waved a hand. “Sit, sit. We are discussing whether it is possible to limit working hours for children in factories without bankrupting the owners and causing riots.”
“Someone,” the clergyman—Mr. Hale—said dryly, “has suggested reducing profits by one percent to cover the cost of an extra shift of adult workers. He has not yet recovered from the collective swoon.”
Livia slid into a chair, Rowan beside her.
“What are the current hours?” she asked.
“Twelve to fourteen, in most mills,” Hale said grimly. “Sometimes sixteen, in the worst. For children as young as eight.”
Her throat tightened.
“And the mill owners object to… what?” she asked. “A limit of…?”
“We propose ten for adults,” Edgeworth said. “Eight for children. With one day in seven absolutely free. No penalties for absence due to illness.”
“And the owners,” Copley said, “are… reluctant. They say they cannot compete with foreign mills if they pay more and produce less.”
“Do they invest in better machines?” Livia asked. “In training? In maintenance? Or do they simply work their existing ones harder and pray the wheels do not fly off?”
Copley smiled grimly. “You have met Belling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And Derby?” Ashby asked. “Your own… venture?”
“We have already restricted child labor,” Rowan said. “Under ten, no work in the main shed. Under twelve, no night shifts. We are… tightening further. It is clumsy. Messy.”
“It is also… profitable,” Livia added. “Slowly. Because we invest in repairs. In efficiency. Not simply in more bodies.”
Ashby’s brows rose.
“You would say, then,” he said, “that it is possible to be… both humane and solvent.”
“Yes,” Livia said firmly. “If one’s definition of ‘solvent’ does not include three houses and a stable full of racers.”
Edgeworth chuckled.
“Write that down,” he said to Hale. “We can engrave it over the entrance to Parliament.”
Hale scratched at his paper, a wry smile on his face.
They talked.
For hours.
Of numbers, yes—profit margins, wages, costs of coal versus water power. But also of people. Of what happened to a ten-year-old’s hands in a mill. Of what happened to a village when a factory closed abruptly.
Livia challenged.
Rowan, too, increasingly, spoke—not as a duke used to being obeyed, but as a man who had learned the cost of others’ folly on his own land.
“They will listen to you,” Hale said to Livia at one point. “If we… frame it correctly. If we can find a Lord willing to stand up and say the words. Perhaps Ashby. Perhaps Copley. Perhaps…”
His gaze flicked to Rowan.
Rowan stiffened.
“I—” He looked at Livia.
She held his gaze, steady.
“You do not have to,” she said softly.
He swallowed.
“I have… stood up… in rooms full of men and said… foolish things,” he said slowly. “Perhaps it is time I stood and said something… useful.”
Her lips curved.
He drew a breath.
“I will speak,” he said to Hale, to Edgeworth, to Ashby. “Not as a… paragon. As an example of… what happens when one does not watch one’s own… greed. Or… laziness.”
Ashby nodded, approving.
“Good,” he said. “A confessional. Parliament rarely hears those.”
Edgeworth grinned.
“We shall draft something,” he said. “With your wife’s help, naturally. We must not let you bumble.”
“Obviously,” Livia said.
Rowan felt a strange mixture of dread and… exhilaration.
He would stand, perhaps, in that long, echoing chamber, under the carved ceiling, and speak of things that mattered.
Not to impress.
To warn.
To argue.
To change.
Once, he had thought his life would be played out on velvet tables and in glittering halls.
Now, the idea of speaking in the House of Lords held more allure than any gaming hell.
It was… unnerving.
It was also… right.
***
That night, back at Merrow House, as the candles burned low and the city’s hum muffled against the thick windows, Livia and Rowan sat on the edge of their bed, shoulders touching.
“You will be magnificent,” she said.
“I will be terrified,” he said.
“Both can be true,” she said. “I was terrified the first time I spoke at the Exchange. My hands shook so much I thought I would drop my pen. I did not. I did, however, call a man a fool in front of twelve witnesses. It set the tone.”
He smiled.
“You are not reassured,” she observed, amused.
“A little,” he said. “Only because I know you will be in the gallery, rolling your eyes when I say something pompous.”
She laughed.
“Grain,” she murmured.
“Ledgers,” he replied.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
They sat in silence for a while.
“Livia,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you ever… imagine… what it would have been like to have… that child? Now. Here. In this house.”
She went very still.
“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes. When Mrs. Dobbins’s baby wails. When I see a small coat in a shop. When Mrs. Talbot scolds a maid for dropping a plate and sound like my mother. I see… flashes. Then I… close the door.”
“Does it… hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And also… no. It is… a healed bruise. Tender if pressed. Otherwise… part of the landscape.”
He swallowed.
“And you?” she asked quietly. “Do you… see… them?”
He stared at the opposite wall.
“Yes,” he said. “In the oak. In the field. In the study, reaching for the damned calculating machine. Then I remember that… they… existed only for… moments. Heartbeats. And I feel… mad. For mourning a shadow.”
She turned, cupped his face in her hands, made him look at her.
“Do not,” she said fiercely, “belittle your own grief. It is yours. It is… valid. You do not need a christening record to prove it.”
His eyes stung.
“You sound like Agnes,” he said roughly.
“I sound like myself,” she said. “And she sounds like mildew.”
He laughed, the sound thick.
She kissed him, soft and sure.
“We will always have a… someone… who is… not here,” she whispered. “We will carry them. Quietly. That does not make us less… full.”
He closed his eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
It was easier to say now.
The word, once sharp and frightening, had become a habit.
A necessary one.
“I love you,” she replied, without hesitation.
They lay down, not as they once had, not as they might in wild youth, but as people who had seen each other bleed and chose, still, to share warmth.
Outside, the city pulsed.
Inside, in that bed, in that house, in that odd, hard-won life, they had carved out a space where loss and love could lie side by side without destroying each other.
It was not perfect.
It was not safe.
It was… theirs.
And for both of them, that was—astonishingly—enough.
***