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“I noticed an advertisement for Arrangements of Beethoven Piano Sonatas for Four Hands, by a Mr. H. G.,” Rees said, distracted for a moment. “Are those the pieces you were working on last summer?”

She nodded. “I’m writing a waltz at the moment,” she said. “Well, this has been an utterly enthralling conversation, Rees, but I really must—”

“I need you, Helene.”

“What?”

“I need help.” He said it jerkily, in the tone of a man who hasn’t asked for help since he was eleven years old. “I have to put an opera on the stage next season, and I’ve only written a few songs that are even decent. I shouldn’t have left the house this morning.”

“That’s not like you. I thought you poured out all that comic stuff as if it were dishwater.”

There was a muscle working in his jaw. “Believe me, Helene, the stuff I’m writing now is worse than dishwater.”

He met her eyes with the old flare of obstinacy and anger, but there was something else too. A plea? She frowned. “You need my help? How could I possibly help you?”

“I thought perhaps we could make an exchange. You’ve gotten better and better over the years. Whereas I’ve become pedestrian.” He couldn’t think how to frame it in proper terms. “If you can help me turn my score into something playable, I’d be grateful.” It was clear how his gratitude would be expressed.

Helene felt her cheeks going pink. “That’s—That’s—” she spluttered. “Absolutely not.”

He turned away, raking his hand through his hair. “All right.”

Helene watched him suspiciously. He was giving up, just like that? He must not have wanted her help very much. And did he really think that she was a better composer than he?

“If you can wait nine months or so, until the opera is rehearsed and opens, I’ll start coming over here whenever you want me to,” he said, sounding extremely tired.

“Couldn’t you possibly do so now?”

“I really couldn’t.” He was looking out the window, back to her. “I’ve dried up, Helene. I slave over the damn melodies, and they get worse every time I touch them. I lost most of last night due to the Hamilton ball. I can’t afford to do that again.”

“What part is she taking?” Helene said sharply, suddenly realizing something.

He looked at her. “The lead.”

“So you need her in the house to sing the parts,” Helene said, working it out.

“Yes.”

“And for other reasons,” she pointed out with a little edge to her voice.

He’d got his satirical gleam back now. “It’s not as if you would like to do any recreational bedding, is it, Helene?”

“No!” It was madness. Utter madness. And yet, she couldn’t bear the idea of waiting months. She’d already waited half her lifetime, or so it felt. If she were honest, there was also a small part of her reveling in the idea that he wanted her help. That he admired her music. Fool that she was.

“I’ll do it for one month, and on one condition.”

“What?” Rees was rather startled to find how much he wanted her to agree.

“You can’t even enter that woman’s bedchamber while I’m in the house. Not under any circumstances, Rees. Do I make myself absolutely clear? You are not going to parade from one bed to another. She can stay and sing, but that is all.”

He looked at her, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse. Bile rose in her throat.

But then he said, “I see no problem with that request.”

“And no one can know that I’ve returned to your house,” Helene commanded. “I’ll inform my household that I’m traveling in the country. It’s not as if anyone from polite society would think of paying you a call.”

“No one ever comes to visit. But you would have to be a virtual recluse, Helene. And servants talk.”

“Do you still have Leke?”