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Something hard settles in her stomach and turns itself over. Dora does not understand the meaning of that smile, but she does know her uncle well enough to understand that no good can come from it.

Behind her the door swings open. Dora remembers how to breathe, and Lottie sets the tea tray down on the sideboard, the fine bone china rattling.

“Here we are, sir,” she says, overbright. “And I’ve brought in the sugar plums you ordered, fresh this morning.”

Lottie is brandishing a box shaped like a hexagon.

“Offer one to Dora, Lottie.”

The housekeeper hesitates, narrows her eyes, but she does as Hezekiah asks and Dora stares at the box, the treats nestled within. Her gaze moves warily to her uncle who watches, hands clasped beneath his chin.

“What are these?”

Her tone is suspicious. She cannot help it.

“Sugar plums, as Lottie said. A delicious delicacy.”

Lottie wafts the box under Dora’s nose. She catches the scent of sugar. Hesitates.

“Go on,” Hezekiah presses. “Why don’t you try one?”

Gingerly she selects a plum from the top and bites into it, teeth sinking into the gelatinous orb, and for a brief moment Dora relishes this fine and unexpected offering. The flavor bursts on her tongue—vanilla, spice, a hint of orange and nut, quite unlike anything she has ever tasted in her life—but then she catches Hezekiah watching her from across the table. He is looking at Dora in a way he never has before.

A cat watching an unsuspecting bird. Hungry, calculating.

Chapter Four

From a cramped window seat tucked into a small alcove, Edward Lawrence watches January play out its cruel and bitter game. The morning is as cold as a mortuary slab and the wind has whipped itself into a frenzy, sending flurries of biting ice down the terrace of Somerset House. The sycamore trees that line the formal path bend against the wind, empty bird’s nests hang on desperately to their bare branches the way a beggar clings to bread. The water in the fountain is frozen solid, the walkways dangerously slick, and over the balcony the barges rock angrily in the Thames.

How long he has been waiting, Edward cannot say. At the far end of the lengthy corridor—above the large doors behind which his fate is being decided—there is a clock, but it needs winding. His shoulders ache from slouching into such a confined space; the window seat is uncomfortably hard. He has been nibbling a jagged fingernail on and off since he got here, counted the frescos on the ceiling twice. He has recited the Society’s motto—Non extinguetur—too many times now to count. Shall not be extinguished. So. He might have been waiting an hour. He might have been waiting only minutes.

On his lap is a copy of the report he presented to the committee. The binding is simple, the paper the cheapest in stock, but it is his labor of love, his proudest achievement in his twenty-six years and what Edward hopes will be his ticket into the Society of Antiquaries. A Studie of Shugborough Hall’s Shepherd Monument. It all rests on the election—the Blue Paper—a minimum of five votes.

When the doors eventually open Edward stands, clutches his Studie close to his chest. Cornelius Ashmole, his oldest (his only) friend, is making his way toward him, parquet creaking beneath the tread of heel to toe. Edward risks a hopeful smile but he can see from Cornelius’ face that the news goes badly. When he reaches him, Cornelius gives a small apologetic shake of the head.

“Only two votes.”

Deflated, Edward sinks back onto the window seat, holds his Studie loosely between his knees.

“My third try, Cornelius. I was so thorough...”

“You know what Gough’s methods are. I did warn you. Something less cryptic, more grounded in antiquarian scholarship.”

“When the facts aren’t there, Cornelius, sometimes conjecture is all there is!” Edward raises his papers, brandishes them in his friend’s face. “I thought this would be enough. I truly did. The detail I went into. My drawings...”

“‘Amateur’ is the word they used, I’m afraid,” Cornelius responds with a grimace. “They’ve been spoilt by the likes of Stukeley. If it’s any consolation, they said you showed great promise. The depth of your descriptions really was extremely impressive.”

“Hmph.”

Cornelius, being so very tall, sinks down on his haunches.

“Many,” he says gently, “do not gain entrance into the Society until much later. Some only when they are nearly decrepit.”

Edward lances his friend with a look. “Do you think that makes me feel any better?” Then, “You are thirty!”

“I experienced the joys of the Grand Tour. I spent my summer desecrating Italian tombs and when I returned could devote all my time to scholastic interests at leisure. Besides, my father is on the board.” Seeing Edward’s crestfallen expression he lays a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to rub my good fortune in your face, but it is a fact that these things made all the difference. Think how much better you will feel having achieved a fellowship on your own merit. No shortcuts, pure mettle.”

But Edward is shaking his head. “How much easier it is for those with money to achieve what those without it cannot.”