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“I have already made my excuses to Lady Latimer.”

“I think I might retire as well, my dear,” Sir William adds. “You know how much events like this exhaust me.”

Lady Hamilton clucks her tongue. “By all means, William, if you prefer.”

Hamilton turns to Dora. “What will happen to the pithos once the soirée is over?”

Edward watches her, heart hammering. He wants to speak with her. He needs to know what has happened. Why she smiles at Sir William and not at him...

“It is to be delivered back to the shop tomorrow. After that, I do not know what my uncle has planned for it.”

Only now does Dora look at him, but the second her gaze meets his it slides away again. It is enough. He sees the accusation in her eyes, the anger kept so assiduously at bay. Edward looks to Cornelius in alarm, but his friend is now staring studiously at the floor.

“I see,” Hamilton says. “Dora, I should like to invite you and Mr. Lawrence—and Mr. Ashmole too, of course—to dine with us tomorrow evening. You have no objection, do you, Emma?”

“Not at all! I will welcome the chance to speak with Miss Blake in more intimate surroundings. I have the most superb creation in mind. My dear Hora—” She cuts off, blushing prettily, says to Dora instead, “Yes, please do come. It would be our honor.”

There is a hesitation. A small nod in assent.

Sir William stamps his cane, offering up a smile. It is the first time Edward has seen him smile all evening, though it appears forced.

“It is settled then,” he says.

Lady Hamilton flicks her fan.

“Well, as you’re retiring for the night, I will return to my dancing. I have such a love of dancing, you know, and I intend to have my fill of it before the evening is done. You’ll be quite all right now, Miss Blake, won’t you?”

Dora takes a telling breath. “Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

“Then I wish each of you goodnight.”

And off Lady Hamilton goes, a beautiful phoenix in a swirl of fire-shot skirts.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mr. Ashmole hails a carriage that sits directly outside the villa’s yawning doors. Dora has been striding ahead of them, fully determined to journey back to Ludgate Street by herself, but Edward has caught up with her, reaching for her hand, and before Dora can shrug him off the carriage is upon them and she has been bundled inside.

She knows Edward and his friend were whispering fiercely to each other as they followed after her, knows that Edward understands he has been found out, and the wheels of the carriage have barely run a full circle before Dora turns on him. Her anger—so fiercely ripe—frightens her, but she cannot contain it, it is impossible to do so.

“How dare you,” she hisses as the carriage trundles away through the iron gates. “I trusted you! I invited you into my home, offered my help, and this is how you repay me?”

“Please,” Edward tries, wringing his hands together on his lap. “You must understand, that’s not—”

“You’re writing about me!”

“Now, that’s not precisely what I said,” Mr. Ashmole interjects, but Dora ignores him, feels her voice rising to hysteria pitch.

“You are writing about the shop, about my uncle.”

“Not in so many words. I swear, I—”

“You have told your superior at the Society about us!”

“No, Dora, I have not! I’ve mentioned no names, I promise you that.”

Dora can hear the plaintive in him but she does not trust it. Edward sits further forward in his seat, tries in vain to reach for her hands but she pulls them away, crushes them into the folds of her arms.

“Please,” he begs, “you must understand. Let me explain. Dora, I couldn’t possibly use the pithos as a credible study knowing that it had been sourced illegally. My reputation, the Society’s reputation, it would have been compromised! But there has never been a study published about the black-market before. If you would only—”