As they came to the head of her street, Charlotte stopped abruptly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Lord Wrexford.”
“That sounds awfully final, Mrs. Sloane.”
“We move in different circles, sir,” she pointed out. “Ones that are far from overlapping.”
His fingers clasped around hers, and for a long moment they stood joined together, palm pressed to palm, as the chill breeze tugged at their clothing.
Then she slowly disengaged her hand and turned away.
“And yet,” murmured Wrexford as she started to walk off, “large as London is, the circles occupy a finite space.”
Charlotte paused, then hesitated for a heartbeat before darting one last look over her shoulder. She felt, rather than saw, the cynical amusement softening the chiseled planes of his face.
“So logic and the laws of chance,” he added, “dictate that our paths will likely cross again.”
