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Lying in bed was an exercise in futility. He caught traces of Sophie’s scent on his skin and his clothes, which he was too bereft to bother shrugging out of. When he opened his eyes, he imagined the bed hangings were crimson, and she was above him—amber eyes piercing, full breasts swaying with their combined movement. Staring at the back of his eyelids was no better; his imagination reproduced the image even more effectively.

Their shared night was tinged with anger now, juxtaposed against the sharp words she had leveled against him. Really, he knew well enough his life was part nightmare, expected all along that she would see it, too, and reject him on such grounds. Did it really brook saying aloud, while he was still as naked as a newborn babe?

He rose from bed, crushed a hat over his hair, and tossed on a greatcoat better suited to winter, the copious length and folds camouflaging his dishabille.

Berkeley Square still lived in nighttime, the mature trees resisting the intrusion of first light. Curse all these rich folk in their towering brick façades. Curse them for snoring on their overstuffed mattresses while their servants’ muscles ached, lugging water and scrubbing plates and spending half the small hours making something as menial as a cup of chocolate that the mistress of the house probably wouldn’t bother to finish. Curse their privilege and their damned comfortability with it.

He rounded the street corner, putting the sleeping square behind him. Crisp, damp air filled his lungs. He was in an exceptionally foul temper. Even he could acknowledge it. The same ugly thought kept swimming up to him, refusing to drown: had Sophie lured him to her bed with the express intention of making her argument afterward?

She had all but said, ‘You compromised me, now tell that to my father and the rest might go down smoothly—my way.’ It would fit with what he had first thought of her, like a puzzle piece sliding cleanly into place. She was strong-willed and whip-smart. She thought she knew better than everyone (no doubt this had been proved true enough times to forgive her thinking so). She cared about him, damn it, even he could not deny it now, and it smashed his insides into pulpy bits. But God, he didn’t want a new chief-in-command over his life. He couldn’t have it, not if he was to ever find himself in a place of self-contentment.

The crisp soprano birdsong of a great tit dragged his thoughts back to the present, to his own plodding footsteps, the mist clinging to the low points of the pavement, a burnt-out streetlamp and a boy pissing on its post. He’d walked farther than he realized, he was already past the mews. The coo repeated itself, and his gait faltered. It was certainly the see-saw pitch and rhythm of the little yellow bird, but it sounded distinctly …

He turned around with a frown. Sure enough, the squatting bulk of Chenoweth’s silhouette lingered by the entrance of Bruton Mews, his great hands cupped around his mouth. Rafe crammed his fists into the pockets of his greatcoat and retraced his steps.

“I sure be glad to see you out this morn’,” the old coachman said, his gaze taking in Rafe’s form. The unusual assessment made him shrug deeper into the concealing wool box.

“Whereabouts are—?” Chenoweth shook his head. “’Tis no matter. There’s somethin’ you might wish to know.”

“Something the matter?”

Chenoweth turned his head left and right, his straggling white beard scratching his coat front. “Yourn father’s havin’ me rush ’im down to Hampshire this morn’. Did you already know it?”

Rafe swallowed the knot in his throat. Already going, then, and with apparent secrecy. He must have the darkest of intentions. “I did not know,” Rafe said. “But I’m afraid I know where he’s bound. Tell me what you can.”

“He asked there be a pistol case put in the coach, an’ change the team so as to not make any stops. I’ve seen ’im in a fair lot of states …”

Rafe closed his eyes and emptied his lungs of air. “But never so bad as this.”

“No.” Chenoweth’s rebuttal was strong, instant, enough to demand attention. “I seen him this way once before, when—after—well, the missus had ’er accident. He’s like a bolt o’ lightnin’, like a spooked filly—”

“Yes,” Rafe said tersely. “I understand. Is there nothing else you know? Nothing at all?”

The man stared down at his feet. “Only as I’m not s’posed to tell you any of it.”

Despite it all, a small smile graced Rafe’s features. “I appreciate you doing so. What do I need to do to stay ahead of the pair of you?”

Chenoweth’s eyes grew large. “Yourn to follow?”

“To outpace, I hope.”

He considered telling Chenoweth all—his third soul-spilling confession in as many days—but he hadn’t the time, energy, or trust. Not that the old coachman would intentionally betray his confidence, but there was a reason Rafe had never approached him over the years, even knowing his good heart and his affection for his mother: Chenoweth wore every emotion on his face like a gaudy kerchief. He also talked—constantly, unrestrainedly, and to anyone who might listen. To send him reeling with the truth and load him into a coach with Thomas and a pistol was exceptionally unwise.

“Oh, no hope of that, I fear. We’re to leave in an hour’s time. The roads ought to be dry, and we’ve got the big ’en in the traces, y’see, and he’s a might faster ’an—”

“Forgive me, but what I’m hearing is I haven’t much time.” Rafe wanted to grab the man by the shoulders, to communicate with something other than the unbridled truth just how serious the circumstances were. “Tell me, Chenoweth, what’s my best course, here?”

The coachman’s thick, ungloved hands went to his sides. He huffed a breath, twisting the wide breadth of his body toward the mews, where an anonymous horse whinnied. Rafe coughed. It smelled of the equine species, like waxy hair and steaming shite. Sunlight was breaking over the horizon, sending scarce white beams through the streets and trees. It felt like an intruder. Rafe’s skin itched, and his caped disguise felt suddenly ludicrous.

“I s’pose I could put you on my fastest gelding,” Chenoweth said at length, still staring distantly. “But I don’t know as my conscience will let me.”

“Conscience be damned. Where is he?”

“You don’t ride, lad. And pardon my sayin’ so, but what wi’ the troubles that befell your mam, if you be even a mite nervy, the animal will sense it, an’ share it.”

Rafe preferred when the old man kept his eyes averted, for now they mirrored the slim morning light and he looked downright paternal. Like the caring grandfather he’d never had the chance to know.

“They say you can’t lose the skill once you’ve learnt it. God knows I put in enough hours as a boy.” He scuffed his shoe against the cobbles. “Just see him readied for me, will you?”