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Mrs. Malloy’s mouth opened, no doubt to protest, but Alfie interjected. “Let him set the table, Lucia. Laddie’s not afraid of work.”

“Not very hospitable of you, dear,” she quipped, but she was smiling and directed Rafe on where to find the cutlery.

As he laid the pewter plates down, he stole glances around the room. Nearly all their possessions were housed in this central space: the active kitchen and its small, clean table; a window-lit corner with a rug, sofa, and chair; and a single adjoining door that was sure to contain their bedchamber. The ceilings were low, but a colorful profusion of wallpaper lent the space life.

Alfie snatched a slice of chicken from his wife’s workspace, and she gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs—but not before he managed to get the morsel into his mouth. “Mm. Wonderful as always, my dear,” he mumbled.

She scowled at him. “Scoundrel.”

Rafe smiled to himself. It was they who truly leant this place its vivacity. He thought he could live quite happily like this. A nicer, larger space than what he was currently able to afford for his mother and Abigail. Perhaps if it was on the outskirts of the city, he could let a house with two bedrooms for the ladies. He wouldn’t mind the sofa for himself, and he’d be out most hours of the day anyhow, working.

God, it might be possible, if he were to settle on a trade like butchering. Yes, there were contracts in the papers every day for butchers, quite well-paying ones … But would Thomas not find him? Find the home and his own wife in it, who he supposed to be locked away in Hampshire, and who he’d told all his acquaintances was dead? The risk was immense.

If he could grit and bear it for a while longer, Thomas’s plan would afford him more of everything. He had promised to release half the store’s earnings per annum to Rafe, and that sum would enable him to not just let a gentleman’s apartments, but buy a fine house if he wished it. He could hire a cook that could cater to his mother’s fitful appetite, and perhaps even see gaslight installed in her rooms, to keep the smoke off those wretched candles from her lungs.

He would be able to afford a place that even Miss St. Quinton would find worthy of living in.

Idiot. The self-recrimination came instantly. This is the same plan that sees you wed to Miss Penney. At least half of whatever sum you think you’d possess would go to her keeping her own rooms, her own appetites. There would be no room for Miss St. Quinton in your life. You’d never see her again. If today had proved anything, it was that Thomas’s plan had no yield. It was as rigid as steel.

Rafe brushed his fingers over his left cheek. The skin was sensitive beneath his touch, and he wondered if the strike had left a mark. Was it red? Had the short, stubby fingers left impressions? Could his friends tell what had happened to him, and that’s why they had welcomed him in?

Did his shame bear a tangible mark?

“Doing difficult calculations?”

His hand slid from his cheek and he found Alfie staring. “Hm?”

Alfie gestured to the space between his own smooth brow.

“Oh.” Rafe tried to relax his features. Bread was laid out on the table, as well as cups of weak beer, and the Dutch oven had been moved away from the coals. It gave off the aroma of sugary pie.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Malloy said with a smile.

Rafe complied. These people were too generous with him, letting him stand about in his own agonizing dimension while they finished setting the table around him. He might feel more ashamed if he weren’t already worn to the bone.

The food was exquisite. The company, too. He had questioned whether he had an appetite, but the first taste of chicken absolved him of that concern—savory, spiced, and cooked to perfection. The Malloys led the conversation, and as if in silent comprehension, Alfie never brought up the events of yesterday or Miss St. Quinton.

The breadth of the table separated Mrs. Malloy from Alfie and himself, but the camaraderie between husband and wife was obvious. Her green eyes danced when they landed on Alfie, and he, in turn, reached over to squeeze her hand and praise her sorceress’s powers each time he tasted a new course. Rafe couldn’t help but laugh in time with them, to be happy for their happiness. And yet, it also made him feel vaguely despondent, as though a bottomless cave was opening in his gut.

He had said he didn’t want this. That a marriage built on love and shared responsibility would only add to his existing burdens. But watching them and feeling their hospitality like a warm presence in the room, no one would be foolish enough not to desire such a life for themselves.

After the meal, Alfie tried to draw out his pipe and Mrs. Malloy shooed them outside, chasing her husband with a rag. The men sat down on the top step, and Rafe leant against the iron railing.

“Care for any?” Alfie asked in the wake of his first, pluming puff of smoke.

“No, thank you.” He closed his eyes. He could sleep here, stay here all night, risking theft and whatever else in the open street, and still feel safer than he might in his bolted bedchamber in No. 36. “How much do you think I’d stand to make if I took to doing contract work?”

A long pause. He didn’t open his eyes.

“Only contract work, you mean?”

“Right.”

The sweet smokiness grew thicker, and he heard Alfie loose a breath. “Enough to let a place like this one and feed yourself. And a wife.”

He ignored the latter. “You mind if I ask how much they charge you?”

“Five shillings a week. Still not cheap.”