Workers trickled out as the sun set—women with worn shawls and tired eyes, children who looked far older than their years. A young girl limped past the hackney, favoring her left leg. How many others had been maimed here? How many lives had been casually altered by some man’s arithmetic of human worth?
Hours passed. Finally, a private carriage pulled up to the factory’s side entrance. Peter Moore emerged from the building, looking official in a suit. Years of journalistic experience had taught her not to dismiss any opportunities.
“Follow that carriage,” she ordered. “Discreetly.”
They wound through London’s darkening streets until the carriage stopped before a small townhouse. Amelia watched Moore disappear inside without a backward glance, unaware of the eyes that followed him.
“Where to now, m’lady?” the driver asked quietly.
“Home,” she said finally, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “The Hereford townhouse.”
As the hackney turned toward home, she asked herself what she’d hoped to accomplish tonight. Perhaps she’d simply needed to give her demons a name, a shape.
In her chambers, she sat before her mirror and slowly unpinned her hair. The face that looked back at her was neither the girl who’d once worked in that factory nor the hardened newspaper editor she’d become. A woman with shadows in her eyes and steel in her spine, who now knew exactly where to find her demons.
*
Hereford barely registeredthe soft knock before Barker entered, carrying a pressed shirt and tomorrow’s selected waistcoat. The valet moved efficiently about the chamber, hanging garments and collecting discarded items without comment.
“My lord,” Barker said mildly as he retrieved a carelessly dropped cufflink from beneath the escritoire, “might I observe that you’ve worn quite a groove in the carpet this evening?”
Hereford paused mid-stride. “I was merely… thinking.”
“Indeed.” Barker moved to the washstand, replacing used towels with fresh ones. “Though your thinking appears to have increased considerably since Her Ladyship began these evening excursions.” He glanced meaningfully at the connecting door. “One might almost mistake it for concern.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hereford muttered, resuming his restlessmovement.
Barker said nothing as he laid out tomorrow’s small clothes, though he did pause to straighten a picture frame that had been jarred askew during one of Hereford’s more vigorous turns.
“Barker,” Hereford said suddenly, “in your experience, how does one… that is, what would you recommend when…”
“When one has developed inconvenient feelings for one’s temporary wife?” Barker supplied helpfully, not looking up from brushing lint from a coat sleeve.
“I haven’t—” Hereford began hotly.
“Of course not, my lord.” Barker moved toward the door with an armload of laundry, then paused at the threshold. “If I may be so bold, my lord—the sooner a gentleman acknowledges what’s perfectly obvious to his household staff, the sooner he might actually enjoy his marriage. Rather than wearing holes in expensive carpeting.”
With that, Barker disappeared into the corridor, leaving Hereford staring after him.
The sound of Amelia’s chamber door opening made Hereford’s head snap toward the connecting door. Relief flooded through him so powerfully it left him momentarily lightheaded, only to be immediately replaced by a surge of anger.
His hand rose to the door handle for the tenth time that hour. He had every right to demand answers. He was her husband, damn it all. Even if she had no respect for him. Even if their marriage was a sham. She couldn’t just disappear into London’s dangerous streets doing… No, he couldn’t entertain the idea. It would drive him mad with worry.
Before he could lose his nerve, he rapped sharply on the connecting door.
“Enter,” came her voice.
He found her at her dressing table, still fully clothed in her day dress, removing pins from her hair. In the lamplight, she looked paleand tired. The sight of her, safe and whole, made his chest tighten with an emotion he wasn’t prepared to examine.
“You’re quite late,” he said without preamble, his voice more severe than intended.
“I wasn’t aware I needed to report my schedule to you.” She didn’t meet his eyes in the mirror, and that evasion sent irritation spiking through him.
“A simple message would have sufficed. I was concerned.” The word felt inadequate for the bone-deep fear that had gripped him, the images of her hurt or worse that had tortured him for hours.
She turned to face him, her expression cool, and he felt the familiar frustration at her ability to mask her emotions so completely. “Concerned or simply practicing for your next public display of ownership?”
Heat flooded his face with anger.
