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Lark was silent for a moment, the teasing look gone from his eyes. “What if,” he said at last, “the king doesn’t feel that he was truly a part of the great effort of beating Napoleon. What if the monument makes him feel like a mere onlooker, an idler, as if he doesn’t quite belong among the happy throngs of Englishmen glorying in their splendid victory. A man has to take part in order to belong.”

“Oh dear, I can’t omit it. It’s there, isn’t it? It makes a fine backdrop for Londoners out on a stroll, something for a painter to capture.” She caught his glance, now laughing again, and realized he’d meant to provoke her defense of the place. He was dangerous in the way he had of anticipating her thoughts.

They turned and made their way down the final stretch of the proposed walk toward the western tip of the park where three great thoroughfares came together, and that other, vaster park began. Viv slowed her steps, reluctant to come face-to-face with Apsley House. Carriages and horsemen passed in all directions and a shifting crowd gathered to admire the Duke of Wellington’s famous abode at Number 1, London.

Apsley House stood at the end of a row of grand houses on the north side of Piccadilly. A little island of green with a few trees on it lay between them and the house. People paused before the house, pointing to its features and paying their tribute of awe to the duke and to the men who’d fought with him at Waterloo. Viv could see without feeling the swelling pride and unity of the crowd in the near environs of the great man who had led England to glory on that day. Lark’s words about belonging or not belonging were fresh in her mind. She could not share the thrill or celebrate with others, not because she had not been at the great battle, but because for her June eighteenth was no victory. It was both her birthday, and the day her father died, the day her mother’s widowhood had begun.

It confirmed what she and Lady Melforth had been striving for in their guide. The grand monuments and sights of London might have different meanings for each traveler.

As she stared at Apsley House, she realized that she’d lost Lark somewhere in the crowd. She turned to look for him and found a rough-looking man with a dark brown beard, bear-like in his size and ferocious appearance, his huge fists clenched, his menacing gaze fixed on someone beyond her. She followed the hostile gaze and found Lark looking away from Apsley House, unaware of the man. Lark stood transfixed, the only word for it, staring at a plain building of yellow stone and red brick on the opposite side of Grosvenor Place.

She moved closer to him and put a hand on his sleeve. “Lark, what is it?” she asked. “Do you know that building?”

He didn’t answer. Viv glanced at the building that had captured his attention. Two signs across the upper stories proclaimed in bold lettering: PENITENT WOMEN’S HOSPITAL and VOLUNTARY ADMITTANCE.

Viv turned and found the bearded man still glaring at Lark. She tried to catch the man’s eye and warn him off, but he turned his back to her. That broad back in a plain brown sackcloth coat reminded her of the fleeing pickpocket of the day she met Lark. But they were laughably far from Babylon Street, surrounded by fashionable Londoners. People strolled past, unhurried, unalarmed. The bearded man moved on as if he meant to enter the park. Viv slipped her arm through Lark’s and gave a gentle pull.

He seemed to feel her presence then, but turned a blank face to her, his mind clearly on some inner vision. She tugged his arm again. “Let’s return to Piccadilly,” she said. On Piccadilly, there were always crowds, and perhaps there would be a constable, someone to turn to if the bearded man approached again. Lark fell into step next to her, but said nothing, withdrawn into himself. She thought walking must help, must bring him back to himself and to her. She could not imagine why the building had overset him.

They had gone a very few steps when a harsh voice reached them.

“I’m warning ye. Ye’d better do a click. Ye and yer fine friends can’t dodge me furever!”

Viv couldn’t be sure she heard right. She looked over her shoulder as Lark pulled her along. The bearded man stood alone in the middle of the walkway, rigid with fury, people swerving around him as they passed by. “Does that man know you?”

“I doubt it. Come along, Viv. It’s time you met the duke.”

*

Whatever the Women’s Penitent Hospital meant to Lark, seeing the building had changed him. His face was grim, and there was a reckless gleam in his eyes. He was no longer the easy gentleman out for a stroll in the park that he had been. Instead, he kept them moving at a brisk pace up Piccadilly and into Mayfair, winding through its streets, a man with a purpose and direction.

Several streets and turnings later, he stopped at an imposing stone house, five bays wide, and taller and more austere in its lines than its neighbors. The individual who opened the door came as a surprise to Viv. He wore a grin as if he’d been enjoying a good joke.

“Miss Bradish is here to see the duke,” said Lark.

The man did not go all stiff and haughty on them. Rather, some quick assessment went on behind the professional glance of friendly curiosity, and they were let into a warm and comfortable entry hall and cordially asked to wait a minute. From somewhere above them came squeals of youthful laughter.

Then they were led to the back of the house and admitted to a sunny, book-lined study in which, in the middle of a fine Turkish carpet, stood a castle constructed of books and children’s blocks surrounded by tiny figures of mounted knights arrayed for battle.

Viv’s gaze shifted at once to the man standing behind the castle. He was tall and fair with piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a lean torso encased in a waistcoat of figured blue silk. The cuffs of his white lawn shirt had been rolled up, presumably as he did some work at the large desk to one side of the room. Viv saw the ink stain on his middle finger, the telltale sign of a writer at work. His alert gaze was all for Lark, and some unspoken communication passed between them.

“Your grace,” said Lark. “May I present my fiancée, Miss Vivian Bradish.” He turned to her. “Miss Bradish, His Grace, the Duke of Wenlocke.”

Viv dropped into the expected curtsy. He was something, this living duke, not quite what the word duke might conjure in the public imagination, far too young, too fit, too vigorous, almost like a pugilist in his figure, but undeniably powerful with an easy authority of manner. There was no evident surprise in the duke’s expression at Lark’s announcement, but Viv guessed that the man had taken some cue from Lark. She could hardly decide which of the two of them behaved with greater composure.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bradish.” The voice was deep and sure. “Forgive me if we had an appointment, it must have slipped my mind. What brings you to Wenlocke House today?”

“Miss Bradish has something she wishes to say to you,” Lark prompted.

Viv reddened, remembering her threat of the morning. “I, too, am pleased, your grace. What Lark, that is, Mr. Larkin, is wishing me say, may sound presumptuous.” She paused, but met the duke’s gaze squarely. “You, sir, are a most lax employer if my fiancé is to be believed.”

A corner of the duke’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he glanced at Lark. “You doubt him, then, but if Mr. …um…Larkin has neglected his work of late, surely I may blame that on you.”

A light knock sounded on the door, which opened behind them without ceremony. A woman entered, who could only be described as a fairy princess, petite and golden-haired, shimmering in a pale rose-colored silk gown, a small beribboned pin on one shoulder. She stopped when she saw them. “Oh, I came to return this.” She held up another of the knight figures. “I didn’t realize you—”

She broke off, catching sight of Lark. Her eyes lit up. “Lark!” The word came out on a gust of a sigh. She moved toward him with her hands extended.

“Your grace.” He bowed his head and allowed her to take his hands. “I have been remiss,” he said. “I came to introduce my betrothed.”