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Wenlocke tapped the stolen proofs. “You know Rook was taken up for the theft.”

Lark rocked back. “No! Viv knew I took them. There could be no mistake about that. You’ve spoken with Rook?”

“Robin has, in Newgate. The Force has been watching Rook for a list of offenses since last October. A pawnbroker in Grays Inn Lane spoke against him. I suspect that Rook faces transportation.”

“A lagging.”

“It’s a Ticket of Leave, a bit like bail, renewed yearly for seven years, and a likely pardon once the sentence is complete. It might be better for him than the path he’s on.”

Lark was not convinced. Wenlocke must have used his influence, but Rook was a creature of habit. He liked his dark little corner of London with its narrow lanes and decaying grandeur, its beer and bloaters, its girls like Liza, and its easy escape after a click. A journey across vast oceans, a new and unfamiliar world seemed beyond Rook.

“Sit. You look done in.” Wenlocke put a hand on Lark’s shoulder.

“Some late nights.” This time Lark took the offered chair. He should have expected that ending his partnership with Rook would embitter his friend. And he knew how resentment could make a man reckless and indifferent to his fate.

“I see that you blame yourself.” Wenlocke took a seat opposite Lark.

“Who else?”

“You must allow Rook his share of the fault. He had quite a lot to say against you. Chief among your many offenses is that you asked him to quit dipping into pockets and enter some legitimate enterprise with you.”

For a few moments Lark stared at the pattern in the Turkish carpet, his mind in a haze of sleeplessness and change. The world was strange and different, and he couldn’t unravel its pattern. He was not Rook’s partner, but surely Lark could do something for him.

“When did you let go of your bitterness?” Wenlocke asked.

Lark looked up. It was awkward to be so well understood, but there was no denying that he had been bitter or that he had let his bitterness go. He had wanted to be done with it. He had realized that it was a resentment against life itself and that it had been holding him back, making him see London as a set of chains binding him. Every click had been a shaking of those chains. But they had been chains of his own forging. He had made those links. The night of the fire he had decided to file them off.

“The night of the fire,” he said. He had not expected it, but when the commons and lords were clearly gone, and the call came to save the adjoining hall, Lark had answered. He had manned a pump with other Londoners amid swirling smoke, flying embers, and falling glass, and they had saved the hall. The exhilaration of triumph in a common effort had been like nothing he’d ever felt before. When he’d returned to their rooms, exhausted and tasting soot with every breath, he found Rook grinning with satisfaction over a pile of watches and wallets. And Lark knew he would never feel the satisfaction of a click again. The next day he had begun the search for his mother. And then he’d met Viv.

He shook off the memories and looked at Wenlocke. “What if Rook goes to Sydney as a free man with a stake to start a business?”

“Could he?”

“I know a man who could arrange it. I have…investments in his shipping company.”

“I thought you had urgent business.”

“I must see Lady Melforth.” He didn’t know how much Wenlocke already understood, but Lark did not want to expose her ladyship’s betrayal if he could avoid it. He simply needed to act because Viv was hurting.

“May I suggest that you bring in reinforcements, to create a distraction. You don’t want to be taken up now.”

“Reinforcements?” In his head, the word now rang oddly.

“The duchess, of course. A morning call from her, coming on the heels of your visit, will keep Lady Melforth pleasantly occupied, not summoning the constables.”

Lark nodded. He liked the plan. Maybe he had been wrong about the now.

Wenlocke stood and indicated the door. “Let me tell the duchess our plan, and don’t worry, I will keep your document safe.”

Lark nodded and rose to his feet. “Can you keep Rook from a lagging until I talk to the emigration agent?”

“Robin can. Your place is watched, by the way, so use my dressing room. I’ll send for coffee, and my man can help you put yourself to rights. Oh, and when you’re ready”—he paused, and Lark halted—“I have news of your mother.”

“Alive?”

He read the answer in Wenlocke’s eyes. Once again, the haze descended, and Lark fought to clear his head. First, he would help the living, then he would mourn his mother.

*