Morning came late to Mrs. Willoughby’s house.
The masquerade had ended in a blur of feathers and candle smoke; Mira had not closed her eyes until the birds were already thinking of singing. When she finally woke, the light at the curtains was fat and golden, and Sally was bustling about the room with the air of someone who had been waiting *ages*.
“You’ve slept half the day, ma’am,” Sally announced, opening the shutters a fraction. “Mrs. Willoughby says we’re not to wake you ‘til the sun was over the roofs, but I think it’s near tea.”
“Cruel world,” Mira muttered, sitting up.
Her body ached in unfamiliar places—shoulders, calves, the fine muscles along her sides where the stays had bitten at each turn of the waltz. Her lips felt…oddly sensitive. As if they had been about to do something and had been denied.
Memory popped up: Ferris’s fingers at the edge of her mask, his voice low and strained. *Different enough that you would not be asking. You would be telling me when to stop.*
Heat prickled beneath her skin.
“The red gown is hangin’ across the screen,” Sally went on, cheerfully oblivious. “I brushed it myself. There was a bit of…er…confetti? In the bodice. Little gold bits. I shook ’em out so as you won’t be presenting yourself as a Christmas goose at breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Mira said faintly.
“And your mask!” Sally dug into a bandbox and held up the burgundy and gold half-mask. “Look, ma’am. One of the beads came loose. I can fix it. I’ll do it now, in case you’re wantin’ it again.”
“I am not sure I can survive another masquerade,” Mira said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sally said, head cocked as she considered the mask. “You looked…different. Like you’d swallowed a candle and it was shinin’ through your eyes.”
Mira flung a pillow at her. Sally dodged neatly.
“Mrs. Willoughby says you’re to come down as soon as you’re dressed,” Sally added, undeterred. “She says there’s ‘news of a deliciously alarming nature.’”
“Of course there is,” Mira sighed. “There always is.”
She dressed in dove-grey muslin—after last night, anything brighter felt like too sharp a contrast. Her hair she let Sally coil more simply, a few pins, no elaborate curls. She felt—oddly—naked without the weight of the mask.
In the morning room, Mrs. Willoughby lay draped on a chaise-longue like a wounded peacock, a damp cloth across her brow.
“You have killed me,” she announced as soon as Mira appeared. “I am a corpse. Bury me in green. Tell everyone I died of shock.”
“Good afternoon,” Mira said. “Or is it evening?”
“Time has lost all meaning,” Mrs. Willoughby moaned. One eye peeked from under the cloth. “Sit. Tell me everything. Begin with the balcony. Do not omit anything for decency’s sake; you know I have none.”
“It was cold,” Mira said, taking a seat and reaching for the teapot. “Lady Holt’s gardens are draughty. You really must speak to her about that.”
“And?” Mrs. Willoughby demanded.
“And I did not throw myself into Mr. Ferris’s arms or over the balustrade,” Mira said. “So you may be reassured on that score.”
“You *wanted* to,” Mrs. Willoughby said darkly.
Mira poured herself tea. “Perhaps.”
“*Perhaps,*” Mrs. Willoughby echoed, outraged. “You were standing alone with a man who has spent his entire adult life practising wicked remarks in mirrors, wearing a dress that barely contained you. Of course you wanted to.”
“Containment was certainly a concern,” Mira muttered, thinking of his gaze dropping, involuntary, to where the red silk curved. “But we behaved. Or rather, he did.”
“That is what I feared,” Mrs. Willoughby said, sitting up. “He is infuriatingly honorable for a man with such disreputable habits.”
“He is determined to be proper,” Mira said. “For now.”
“‘For now,’” Mrs. Willoughby repeated, eyes gleaming. “Those are the most interesting words you have uttered all week.”
“More interesting than ‘I have met Caine’?” Mira asked drily.
“That was shocking,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “This is entertaining. There is a difference.”
Mira hid a smile behind her cup.
“Speaking of shocking,” Mrs. Willoughby went on, reaching for her own neglected tea, “Lady Holt’s ball was positively *seething* with rumor today. Half the callers I have already endured came to say how delightful the evening was, and the other half to ask whether you truly waltzed with a man *not* in mourning black.”
“Do they not have anything better to do than count the colors of my partners’ coats?” Mira asked.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It is what keeps them from noticing how dull their own lives are. But that is not the deliciously alarming news.”
Mira raised a brow. “Do tell.”
“Pell,” Mrs. Willoughby said with relish, “did *not* go home alone.”
Mira tensed. “Who—”
“A gentleman,” Mrs. Willoughby said.
“Oh,” Mira said, wrong-footed.
“Not in *that* sense,” Mrs. Willoughby added, amused. “Honestly, your mind. No. He left the ball early, looking like doom in satin. And half an hour later, who should also vanish but Mr. Harcourt.”
Mira set her cup down carefully. “You are sure?”
“Lady Bennett’s footman saw them sharing a hack,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “And Lady Bennett’s footman is wholly devoted to gossip. They went in the same direction. Toward St. James’s. Not the docks.”
“So Harcourt went crawling to Pell,” Mira said slowly. “Or Pell to Harcourt.”
“Either way,” Mrs. Willoughby said, “men in that much lace do not call on each other after midnight to discuss hymnals.”
Mira’s mind leapt ahead. “Caine said he would speak to them separately.”
“He likely already has,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Or they *think* he has. Either way, they are rattled. Men who have shared secrets for profit do not like being reminded of them in company.”
“Did you see them?” Mira asked. “Together?”
“Only for a moment,” Mrs. Willoughby said, fanning herself at the memory. “Harcourt looked as if his stays were too tight. Pell looked as if he had swallowed a wasp. You, my dear, have them both dancing on very hot coals.”
“I have done very little,” Mira said. “Caine is holding the poker.”
“And you are the reason he cares enough to stoke the fire,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Do not sell yourself short. Or tall. Or in any way.”
Mira rose and paced to the window. Outside, Hanover Square went about its business—carriages rattling, nursemaids gossiping, gentlemen pretending to walk for their health when in fact they were assessing who drove the finest equipage.
“Caine means to use me,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” Mrs. Willoughby said, unruffled. “The trick, dear, is to use him while he’s using you. You are not a pawn; you are—at worst—a knight. Possibly a queen.”
“A queen,” Mira said, glancing back. “That suggests rather a lot of power.”
“You have more than you think,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “You simply haven’t noticed, because no one has handed you a crown with your coffee.”
Mira thought of the way men’s voices had dropped when she passed, of the way Harcourt watched her from across rooms, of Pell’s constricted smile, of Caine’s lazy, assessing gaze.
She shivered.
“This is no game,” she said.
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Life always is. The difference now is that you have decided to stop playing blindfolded.”
***
Daniel Ferris did not often receive morning callers.
When his landlady announced, with a sniff that suggested mild disapproval, that Mr. Reggie Clarke was below, Ferris considered briefly pretending he was not at home.
Then he remembered that he had promised Reggie an account of Lady Holt’s masquerade, and—if he was honest—that he did not entirely wish to sit alone with his thoughts.
“Send him up,” Daniel said, shoving papers into something resembling order.
Reggie burst into the modest sitting room like a cheerful gust.
“You look dreadful,” he announced.
“You are too kind,” Daniel said. “Tea?”
“God, yes,” Reggie said, collapsing into a chair. “My head is an anvil. Lord Renshaw insisted on toasting everything. Including Lady Holt’s dog.”
“He has a generous nature,” Daniel said, pouring.
“He has a hollow leg,” Reggie corrected. “I think he was still toasting something when I left this morning. Possibly the moon.” He accepted the cup with a sigh. “Well. Go on.”
“Go on?” Daniel repeated.
“Don’t trifle with me,” Reggie said. “You danced with the Widow Godwin in that dress. Do not pretend you have anything else of equal interest to report.”
Daniel winced. “News travels quickly.”
“Of course it does,” Reggie said. “Half the room stopped to watch. It was like seeing a thunderstorm waltz with a shipwreck.”
“That is…a distressing image,” Daniel said.
Reggie waved a hand. “You know what I mean. You looked as if you’d been struck by lightning and she looked as if she’d set the carpet on fire.”
Daniel remembered the feel of Mira’s waist under his hand, the way her breath had hitched when he’d dared honesty. *All the time.* His own recklessness had shocked him.
“Nothing happened,” he said.
Reggie snorted. “Something always happens. It may not have involved unbuttoning anything, but do not tell me nothing happened.”
Daniel stared into his tea. “We talked.”
Reggie leaned forward. “About?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” Daniel said.
“On the contrary,” Reggie said. “I am excessively fond of hearing other people make mistakes before I copy them.”
Daniel set his cup down. “Leave it, Reggie.”
Reggie’s gaze sharpened. He sobered. “Is it that bad?”
“It is that…complicated,” Daniel said.
He paced to the small window, looking out over the street—a far cry from Hanover Square, with its neat facades. Here, washing hung from lines between houses. A cat stalked along a wall. A boy kicked a rag ball with grim concentration.
“I like her,” Daniel said abruptly.
Reggie blinked. “Well, obviously.”
“No,” Daniel said. “Not in the academic sense of ‘ah, yes, that widow, she is admirable.’ I like her in the sense that my brain turns into pudding when she walks into a room and my conscience starts arguing with my libido.”
Reggie coughed tea. “Good God.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Exactly.”
“You’ve been…involved before,” Reggie said cautiously. “With widows. And wives. And that actress in Drury Lane we don’t talk about at your brother’s house. What makes this different?”
“She is Thomas’s,” Daniel said, the word slipping out before he could catch it.
Reggie’s brows rose. “Ah.”
“And she is not—” Daniel groped for words. “She is not stupid. Or needy. Or bored. She is *angry.*”
“You’ve always had a weakness for angry women,” Reggie observed. “They make you feel useful.”
Daniel glared. “She doesn’t need me. That’s the worst of it. She’d march into Harcourt’s office with a pistol if she thought it would get answers. She went to Caine, Reggie. Caine. And came away with her throat uncut.”
Reggie whistled softly. “You’re serious.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “And now she is at the center of something that could drag half of London’s trade into the river, and I—”
He broke off, clenching a fist.
Reggie watched him. “And you,” he prodded gently.
“And I feel like the man who lit the first match and now must decide whether to throw water or oil,” Daniel said.
Reggie was silent for a long moment.
At last, he said, “You cannot…fix Thomas through her.”
“I know,” Daniel said.
“You cannot balance the ledger of what happened by…what? Sleeping with his widow? Taking a bullet meant for her?” Reggie’s tone was not mocking; it was simply blunt.
Daniel closed his eyes briefly. *If I start, I might not stop.*
“I know,” he said again, more quietly.
“Do you?” Reggie asked. “Because from where I stand, it looks very like you are trying to write a different ending to a story that has already ended.”
Daniel turned, leaning back against the window frame. “What would you have me do, then? Abandon her? Leave her to Pell? To Caine? To Harcourt?”
“Of course not,” Reggie said. “Help. By all means help. It suits you. Just…don’t pretend your heart is made of ledger-paper. It will not tear neatly along the lines you draw.”
Daniel let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “When did you become wise?”
“I have always been wise,” Reggie said. “I have merely disguised it beneath waistcoats.”
Daniel smiled, then sobered. “I told her. Last night. That I think about kissing her.”
Reggie’s eyes widened. “You what?”
“It slipped out,” Daniel said. “Masquerades are dangerous. One begins to believe one’s mask will catch the words.”
“And did she—” Reggie gestured inelegantly.
“No,” Daniel said. “We did not do anything. I told her I would not. That…it would complicate what is already…fragile.”
Reggie studied him. “You did the decent thing.”
“It felt like the cowardly thing,” Daniel said.
“It can be both,” Reggie said. “You can be a decent coward. In fact, I recommend it. Keeps one alive.”
Daniel sank into the chair opposite, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Do you trust her?” Reggie asked suddenly.
Daniel blinked. “What?”
“Trust,” Reggie said. “That she will not use you. That she will not trample over you in her rush toward her goal. That she will not look at you one day and see only Thomas’s mistake with a different face.”
The question landed harder than Daniel expected.
He thought of Mira’s eyes in the tavern, bright with fury and fear. Of her hand on the railing at the theatre, trembling but steady. Of the way she had said, *I do not trust you either.*
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think I do.”
“Then that is something,” Reggie said. “Dangerous. But something.”
They sat in silence a moment.
Reggie drained his cup and set it down. “Very well, then,” he said briskly. “Since you are determined to hurl yourself into this like a hero in a bad novel, we must arrange to keep you from dying in the first act. What is the plan?”
“The plan,” Daniel said, grateful for the change, “is to push at Harcourt’s weaker joints without putting Mira in the line of his anger. Caine will be working him from one side. We can nudge from the other.”
“And Pell?” Reggie asked.
“Pell,” Daniel said grimly, “is beginning to run out of hiding places. He invited Mira to the Albany last night. Offered help.”
Reggie’s jaw dropped. “He did not.”
“He did,” Daniel said. “The mad part is, he might even mean it. In his own, self-serving way. If he can wrap himself in her respectability, he may hope to ward off Caine’s teeth.”
Reggie shuddered. “Don’t let her go.”
“I intend to plant myself in the doorway,” Daniel said. “And be very loud and inconvenient.”
Reggie grinned. “There is the Daniel I know: pest extraordinaire.”
“If you happen to hear anything from your father’s banker about Harcourt’s credit,” Daniel added, “let me know. Rumor says he has been overextending himself. If we can find where he creaks, we may be able to pry something loose.”
Reggie’s expression sobered. “I’ll listen. But—Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“Try not to fall in love,” Reggie said gently. “It will make all of this far more complicated than it already is.”
Daniel’s laugh was a bark. “Reggie, it is already far too late for that.”
Reggie winced. “Oh, hell.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Exactly.”
***
Two days later, Mira sat in Ellison’s office, watching dust motes dance in a shaft of light while the solicitor mopped his brow.
“I must insist, Mrs. Godwin,” he said, “that you proceed with caution.”
“I have never in my life proceeded any other way,” she said. “What precisely do you fear?”
“That you will provoke Harcourt into some rash act,” Ellison said. “He is…highly strung at present. If he believes you mean to drag his name into court—”
“Do you think I would succeed?” she cut in. “If I *did* drag him into court?”
Ellison faltered. “The law is…uncertain in such matters. Joint-stock ventures, private correspondence, the movement of goods—it is all very murky. A clever man could wriggle.”
“And Harcourt is a clever man,” she said.
“Yes,” Ellison said, unhappy.
“Then I must make it…unprofitable for him to wriggle,” she said. “If he fears ruin more from me than from Caine, he may choose a lesser evil.”
“Mrs. Godwin,” Ellison said, flustered, “you speak as if you are one of those villains in a novel, plotting in smoky rooms.”
“I have been in smoky rooms,” she said. “I have met actual villains. I find they are far more ordinary than novels suggest.”
Ellison dabbed his forehead. “I am a respectable man, Mrs. Godwin. I handle leases. Wills. Debts. I am *not* accustomed to advising ladies on how to wield…leverage against merchants with questionable associates.”
“Then consider this a broadening of your practice,” she said.
He looked as if he might faint.
She softened, slightly. “What would you advise, then? If I were…a client with no taste for smoke or danger?”
“I would advise you to accept Mr. Pell’s offer when he comes with it formally,” Ellison said. “Take the money he can secure. Retire to the country. Let the men who played this game sort it out among themselves.”
“And be beholden to Pell for the rest of my life,” she said. “Knowing that whatever comfort I have is built on something rotten. No, thank you.”
“You could use the funds to pay your creditors,” Ellison said. “To keep your house.”
“I may yet find another way to do that,” she said. “One that does not require me to sign away my right to ask what happened.”
Ellison sighed. “You are…remarkably stubborn.”
“So I am told,” she said. “Now. Tell me about Turner.”
Ellison blinked. “Turner?”
She produced the slip of paper she had been carrying like a talisman. *Turner – warehouse south wharf – ask Cobb?*
“Sir Miles Perrin mentioned, quite loudly, that Harcourt has been shifting certain consignments to a warehouse on the south wharf,” she said. “He named a man—Turner—as overseer. I assume you have seen his name in the ledgers.”
Ellison shifted uncomfortably. “Turner…handles some of Harcourt’s, ah, more complex shipments,” he said. “Goods that require…discretion. Sugar from certain islands where papers are…questionable. Cloth that has taken…unusual routes. He signs the receipts. He pays the men.”
“Does he drink?” she asked.
“Most men do,” Ellison said cautiously.
“Where?” she pressed.
Ellison sighed. “Cobb would know better than I. But I have seen Turner at the Three Bells near the bridge. He plays hazard badly.”
“A man who drinks and gambles is a man who wants to talk,” she said. “About his importance. His grievances. I should like to listen.”
Ellison’s eyes widened. “You cannot possibly mean to go—”
“I have gone to worse places,” she said. “With worse company.”
Ellison looked faint. “At least take Mr. Ferris,” he muttered. “If I must advise on madness, let it at least be accompanied madness.”
***
The Three Bells was noisier than the Mariner’s Rest and somewhat less grim.
It sat near the south side of the bridge, wedged between a chandler’s and a pork shop. The air inside smelled of tallow, ale, and roasts—as if someone had tried to layer respectability over rougher scents.
Mira sat in a shadowed corner with Bess’s cousin—whom Daniel had sworn was reliable—and a tankard of watered ale she had no intention of drinking.
Ferris, in a coat that had seen better scrub-brushes, lounged at a nearby table, playing cards with two men who looked as if they had been born with dice in their hands.
“You see him?” he murmured once, without looking at her.
“Yes,” she murmured back.
Turner sat near the fire, a large man with an impressive moustache and a waistcoat straining over his middle. He laughed loudly at something. His hands moved as he spoke, miming casks, ships, coins.
Already on his third mug.
“He likes himself,” Mira observed.
“Good,” Ferris said. “Men like that leak when pricked.”
“Can you prick him?” she asked.
Ferris’s lips quirked. “I thought that was your specialty now.”
“Idiot,” she muttered; but her heart thudded harder when he rose with a lazy stretch and drifted toward Turner’s table, cards in hand.
“Mind if I join?” he asked easily.
Turner eyed him. “What’s your game?”
“Whichever loses me the least coin,” Ferris said. “I like to make other men feel clever.”
Turner guffawed. “Sit, then. We’ll oblige you.”
Within minutes, Ferris had lost a small, carefully calculated amount. Enough to make Turner feel superior. Enough to merit a drink on Turner’s tab.
“Where do you work, friend?” Turner asked, squinting at him over his cards. “You don’t have the look of a dockhand. Too many teeth.”
“Here and there,” Ferris said. “Used to be with Godwin and Pell. Now I mostly mind my own mistakes.”
Turner’s brows rose. “Godwin, eh? Heard he coughed himself to death.”
“He did most things enthusiastically,” Ferris said. “Including dying.”
Turner laughed again. “And Pell? He still walking upright? Surprised no one’s tossed him in the river, that slippery bastard.”
Mira leaned forward, breath shallow.
“You work with him?” Ferris asked, letting just enough interest leak through.
“Worked with Harcourt more,” Turner said, tossing a coin. “Pell’s a fidgety one. Always talking about schemes. Harcourt—now, he knows where the profit lies. Keeps his hands clean, he does. Leaves the dirty work to us.”
Ferris feigned boredom, yawning slightly. “Dirty work?”
“Oh, you know,” Turner said, pleased to be asked. “Making sure certain casks go one way and not another. Signing for goods that have taken the scenic route. Repacking things so they smell right to the agents. That sort of thing.”
“And does Harcourt reward such…initiative?” Ferris asked.
Turner snorted. “With more work, mostly. And the occasional bonus. Pell, now, he hands out coin when he’s flush. But he’s not flush lately. Harcourt’s tight-fisted as a nun. I’m the one with the risks, and they’re the ones with their names on the brass plates.”
Mira’s fingers dug into the edge of the table.
“So why do it?” Ferris asked, shuffling. “You could go honest. Count flour for bakers. Mend nets. Something less likely to end with you at the bottom of the Thames.”
Turner took a long swig of ale. “Because honest men starve,” he said. “My father broke his back hauling rope and died with two shillings to his name. I’d rather risk hanging and leave my boy a house. Harcourt knows that. Pell knows it. They dangle respectability like a carrot. ‘Sign here, Turner. Take this wagon there. Don’t ask questions.’ They’d be right furious if the wrong questions were asked.”
“By whom?” Ferris asked idly. “The Crown? Caine?”
“Widows,” Turner said with a guffaw.
Ferris’s hand stilled on the cards.
“Widows?” he repeated, light.
“Aye,” Turner said. “Harcourt was fuming the other day about some merchant’s wife poking her nose where it don’t belong. Godwin’s, I think. Kept blatherin’ about ledgers when she should’ve been learnin’ to knit shrouds.”
Mira nearly bit through her lip.
“Horrifying,” Ferris said. “Women asking about numbers. Next they’ll be demanding to know where the sugar on their table comes from.”
Turner rolled his eyes. “As long as it’s sweet, who cares? Harcourt said if she don’t watch it, she’ll find herself on the wrong side of certain…people.”
“Such as yourself?” Ferris asked.
Turner puffed up. “I don’t bother with ladies,” he said. “Too much shrieking. But there’s men as would. Men who don’t mind wrapping trouble in bricks.”
Mira’s blood chilled.
“Seems a waste,” Ferris said. “Brick’s expensive.”
Turner laughed. “You’re all right, you. Another hand?”
Mira forced herself to sit back, heart pounding.
Ferris played a few more rounds, losing enough to keep Turner flushed and talkative. He coaxed out a mention of a particular warehouse on the south wharf—the one Mira had noted—where certain crates were “redecorated” before being sent upriver.
By the time they left, Mira had enough to sketch a crude map of Harcourt’s shadow trade.
Enough, perhaps, to threaten him with.
Or enough to get herself wrapped in bricks.
Outside, under the bridge’s shadow, Ferris caught her arm.
“Now,” he said softly, “do you understand why I keep saying ‘careful?’”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice shook. “And I am still going to Harcourt.”
He shut his eyes briefly. “Of course you are.”
“I will not go alone,” she said. “You may plant yourself in the doorway and be very loud and inconvenient.”
He opened his eyes, meeting hers. “Promise me one thing,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“If, at any point, you decide the truth is not worth the cost,” he said, “you will walk away. You will let Harcourt stew in his own guilt and Pell hang in whatever noose he weaves, and you will go to the country and let Gilbert count turnips around you.”
She swallowed. “You ask the impossible.”
“I know,” he said. “Humor me.”
“I will consider it,” she said.
“That is not a promise,” he said.
“It is the best you will get,” she said.
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Very well,” he said. “Then let us go shake a merchant’s house.”
And for a fleeting second, despite everything, Mira felt almost giddy.
Danger, yes.
But also: purpose.
And at her side, an infuriating, steadying presence who had somehow become necessary.
She was not ready to call it love.
Not yet.
But the word hovered, unspoken, like a ship just beyond the horizon.
Waiting.