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He glanced up warily and found her wrapped in a blanket off the bed, her hair still loose about her shoulders. “I’ve water for you here,” he said, clearing his throat and standing.

She took the water with thanks and shuffled back inside to wash and dress. Benedict scratched the back of his neck, still gazing at the door she’d shut after her. Sebastian yawned and Benedict glanced at the dog, only to find the beast regarding him steadily.

“I suppose you want another bone,” he muttered, retrieving the sack which was decidedly lighter than when he’d carried it back the previous day. He held one out for Sebastian who clamped his jaws around it and dropped down on his haunches beside the fire.

Lizzie joined them there ten minutes later in a dress of dark gray wool, her hair once more demurely coiled at her nape. She sat on an upturned wooden crate and reached for the teacup he slid toward her wordlessly.

“Thank you,” she murmured and settled back to enjoy the hot drink. “It seems funny,” she commented a moment later, “to think our view will be a completely different one after today.” Benedict grunted and she shot him an inquisitive look. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night – ” she started, and Benedict shot to his feet.

“You don’t need to set any great store by anything a man might say to you in bed,” he heard himself say abruptly. “That kind of talk … It doesn’t really mean anything.”

Lizzie blinked and stared at him a moment, then she said blankly, “Oh.” Then, “I see.” Something about the way she said it bothered him and even more so, the way she averted her face a moment from him. He opened his mouth again but found himself at a loss for words. When she turned to face him again, she was perfectly calm and even had a small smile for him. “Thank you for explaining,” she said simply and picked up both their empty cups, carrying them over to the basin of water, and employing herself there washing them clean.

Benedict stared after her, feeling if anything, worse than he had on first waking. Shit, that didn’t come out right.

“I must go and visit with your grandmother at some point today,” Lizzie’s raised voice carried over to him. He had the feeling she was talking simply to fill the awkward silence, but after his unpardonable clumsiness, thought he had better humor her in any case.

“Why?” he asked, frowning.

“To return her headscarf for one thing and ask if I can keep her black cloak.”

“I see.”

“When do you think would be the best time for me to go in search of her?” Lizzie asked, looking back over her shoulder.

Benedict shrugged irritably. “She both rises and goes to bed early, if memory serves.”

Lizzie nodded, reaching for a drying cloth and employing unnecessary care over the cups. “Shall we head for the main field now?” she asked brightly, and he answered her with a wordless nod. He told himself it did not bother him when Lizzie chose to cling to the dog’s collar instead of his arm.

They had crossed into the main field, and he was helping Lizzie down from the stile when a stifled cry had them both turning their heads. Benedict saw a plump, middle-aged woman in a purple dress staring at them with her mouth open.

“Annie!” Lizzie exclaimed, straightening up and pushing Benedict’s hands away from her waist.

Annie? Benedict looked from Lizzie’s expression of dismay to the other woman’s obvious stupefaction with raised brows. Was no one to speak?

“Lor’ bless you, Miss Lizzie,” the other stammered, recovering her wits. “I scarcely recognized you for an instant.” She stole another incredulous glance at Benedict, and it occurred to him he did dimly recognize the woman, though from where he could not quite recollect. Annie swallowed convulsively. “And you’ll remember Dick,” she said, pulling at her escort’s arm.

The man beside her, sporting a fluffy pair of sideburns, pulled on his braces and cleared his throat.

“Of course,” Lizzie replied unevenly. “You are Mr. Blake, the butcher’s assistant, are you not? I believe you made the deliveries to Sitwell Place.”

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“That’s right,” the other agreed cheerfully, looking Benedict up and down. “I been walking out wiv Annie some six months now in all. How do?”

“I did not realize,” Lizzie murmured. Then she seemed to pull herself together. “I’m sure, Annie,” she said half-turning toward Benedict, her expression self-conscious in the extreme, “that you remember Mr. Toomes.”

“O’ course I do!” Annie responded, bobbing up and down. It was at that moment that he remembered her, crouching at the keyhole when he opened the parlor door open after breaking his engagement with Betsy. She was the Anderson’s maid.

He gave a curt nod, observing the way Annie stared at Lizzie. Then she seemed to notice something that made her gasp aloud, and she staggered against her swain.

“’Ere careful, old girl!” Dick protested, extending a steadying arm about her reeling figure. “You turnin’ faint?”

Benedict followed Annie’s gaze and deduced she had seen the brass ring on Lizzie’s third finger. It struck him once again with uncomfortable force that the thing looked cheap and was beneath her.

“You haven’t been frequenting the waxwork tent, have you?” Lizzie asked with a feeble attempt at humor. “Only I saw a woman carried out of there half-insensible the other day.”

“She works there,” Benedict cut in, feeling he ought to have some share of the conversation. “Her name’s Nancy, and she faints at least five times a day to attract passing custom.”