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A man might lose himself in the entertainments London had to offer.

Crispin had been back in the city for a month, and he’d tried.

Tried but did not succeed. And now, Jasper had summoned him to Chaumbers for the upcoming Christmas festivities.

All the comforts and joys of the holidays in the bosom of his family. He wasn’t going to go.

He had a new personal failing to dwell upon.

Early on in his adult life, he’d learned that lightskirts did not like to be kissed on the mouth.

Easy enough, he didn’t need to kiss them.

And he didn’t need a girl to flatter him with a performance of her pleasure.

He knew the best way to truly please a trull was to finish his business quickly and pay her more than she’d asked.

Camellia was no trull, but he’d treated her like one because he hadn’t known how to do anything else.

He regretted ever going to Tonbridge. He couldn’t fathom why he had gone back .

He turned up the collar of his greatcoat and trudged into the wind. Darkness was falling although it was only teatime. He needed that cup of tea; he felt faint. Weak. He should have taken a hackney cab. Tinsbury Square was farther than he’d thought.

He continued down Picadilly to his lodgings.

He’d managed to lease a set at Albany, one left fully furnished by a dead man—he hoped that wasn’t a precedent.

Four rooms, an entryway, and the all-important privy.

He couldn’t have remained any longer at 8 Grosvenor Square.

He was sick and trying to hide it, and Peters and Cook watched him too closely.

It was his own fault. He’d been courting illness since he’d left Tonbridge. Pains in his gut had begun weeks ago, but he’d pushed on, continuing down the easy path to ruin.

Now he was constantly fatigued. He routinely vomited his breakfast. If he ate anything during the day, he felt bloated like a dead fish in the sun, and didn’t dare venture far from his apartment. His clothes were loose; he’d lost at least two stone.

Albany was set back from the road by a small private courtyard.

As he crossed it, Crispin saw a man standing outside the gate.

Was it anyone he cared to see? Tall and slim, wrapped in a fashionable dark-blue greatcoat, top hat, walking stick—it was Hazard.

He approached his old friend, resigning himself to being scrutinized.

“I’ve run you to ground,” Hazard said, by way of greeting as they entered the gated area. “Alice is peeved.”

“Peeved?” Crispin fished his key from his coat. “So you’re hiding?”

“Not peeved with me, you idiot. You refused three invitations to supper, then disappeared. You are a hard man to track down.”

“Not hard enough.” He opened his door and gestured for Hazard to go in.

Hazard stepped inside and unbuttoned his coat. “You keep it warm.”

“I like my luxuries.”

Hazard sniffed. “I’ll get to the point. Are you unwell?”

“No,” he lied.

“Take off your coat. Let me judge.”

“Do you think you’ll find me covered in boils?”

“Are you?”

Crispin glowered at him, but the man stood firm. He removed his coat, taking the paper-wrapped parcel that had been tucked inside and laying it on a shelf by the umbrella stand.

“You are too thin,” Hazard said.

“I am always too thin.”

“And you are pale. When did you last eat?”

What was he to say? Three days ago? He’d had nothing but tea and sugar for three days because he’d wanted to go to the Temple of the Muses, and didn’t want to shame himself by becoming publicly sick. And if he was going to be housebound, or, God forbid, bedridden, he wanted something to read.

“Breakfast. And I am starving.” He looked away. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll have to make it. I haven’t hired a valet yet. The poor sod will have to be valet, housekeeper, butler, and cook.”

“I’ll send James over.”

“James?”

“My underbutler. Superb fellow.”

“To spy on me?”

Hazard chuckled. “Face the fact that your loved ones worry. And yes, I will ask James to report back to me. It’s either that or I’ll come visit you daily. I don’t trust your word.”

“Fine.” He needed a manservant and hadn’t the energy to go through the process of hiring one. “There are rooms in the attic for valets. What do you pay him?”

“I’ll pay him. He is my spy. And don’t imagine you can bribe him. He is irreproachably honest.”

Crispin tried to scowl and protest, but a wave of dizziness swept over him. Evidently, the quaking of his legs was obvious, because Hazard said, “Sit down. I’ll get the tea.”

He didn’t argue. He sat. Hazard took off his own coat, laid it on a chair, then disappeared into the next room. He reappeared several minutes later with a cup of lukewarm, weak tea.

“That is the best you could do?”

Hazard shrugged. “I have not cultivated the skill.”

“You can’t boil water?”

Hazard stepped to the grate and stirred the coals. Then turned. “How sick are you? You look like hell. Should you have been out walking?”

“Why are you still in London? Aren’t you going to spend Christmas in Gladnorshire with your…friend?” He loaded the word with innuendo.

Hazard replied evenly, “That was my initial intent. Until Alice said I should go, and she would go to Chaumbers. As it is our first Christmas as man and wife, I thought it better to spend it together.”

“I suppose you cannot get a child on her if you are half the breadth of England apart. Are you disappointed she would not go with you to Lord Chesterfield’s?” He snorted. “Tell me, how is that supposed to work? It’s hard to picture.”

Hazard gave him a dark look. “Recall, if you will, that you are speaking about Alice.”

Crispin’s gaze fell first. He’d meant only to turn the conversation away from himself. “You’re right. And I apologize.”

Hazard flicked his hand. “You’ve always been a bit of a turd.”

Crispin laughed. Then he drank up his tea and set the cup down.

“Do you want another?” Hazard asked. When Crispin shook his head, Hazard walked away from the grate to the umbrella stand. “This is what you ventured out for?” He reached for the books. Crispin grimaced as Hazard lifted the bundle and untied it, then unwrapped the first book.

“ Devotions upon Emergent Occasions? ” Hazard glanced up. “Donne’s treatise on death?”

“I would say rather his treatise on eternal salvation.”

Hazard opened the book and skimmed the first page. “‘We die, and cannot enjoy death, because we die in this torment of sickness.’”

“It suits my mood.”

Hazard set it down and picked up the other. Crispin started to protest, but realized it was better to make little of it. Hazard peeled off the paper.

“Aretino’s The Genuine and Remarkable Amours ?” The book was a detailed chronicle of the author’s sexual adventures. Hazard threw back his head and laughed. “Only you would link these two books together. Or perhaps you and Donne.”

He had thought they both might be instructive. “I am building my library. I have great hopes for its variety.”

“You are off to a fine start.” Hazard pulled out his watch. “And I am late. I’m supposed to escort Alice to a lecture. Will you come to supper tomorrow night?”

“No. I will be reading.”

“I’ll send James over tonight.” He retrieved his greatcoat and donned it. “With blood pudding and boiled beef. Eat something, will you?”

“I am eating.”

“Then get better. Don’t make me send for Jasper.”

*

Camellia invited Marianne and Lord Stirling to Tonbridge for Christmas. She wanted better company than her brother and Manfred, who never talked of poetry and novels, or teased her about her fear of high places, or whistled or played the pianoforte while she sang.

Seducing Major Taverston had been the worst mistake of her life.

And now, she needed to talk to Marianne. She had a question that she couldn’t put in a letter.

She felt well. Physically well. Her mood was steady. She was not overly tired. She ate what she pleased and never felt sick in the mornings. The only strange thing was her courses were late. She tried not to dwell on it. She’d missed courses before, and it meant nothing.

More concerning was the fact that Neville had never quite recovered from the trip to Tunbridge Wells.

He had developed a cough that kept him up nights.

He told her she should go to London and visit her friend if Marianne could not come to see her, but she wasn’t about to leave him, ill, over Christmas.

Besides, if she were to go to London, Marianne would insist upon taking her around to all the sights and parties.

What if she were to cross paths with the major?

Did he ever think of her? Did he ever think of her without contempt?

The week before Christmas, Manfred came for supper and cards at his usual time. As per his habit, he brought with him their mail from Tonbridge.

“A letter for you, Camellia,” Neville said, passing it over the table.

“A reply from Marianne!” She took it and walked a few steps away, breaking the seal. It was a no. Marianne and Philip could not come. Camellia skimmed through the regrets. Then stopped.

You see, I’m increasing again, and Philip does not think I should travel. Not even the short distance to Tonbridge. It was a surprise to us both, as you might imagine. But la! Maybe this one will be a girl!

The words swam before Camellia’s eyes, and she sat down swiftly.

“Bad news?” Manfred asked.

“Only,”—she cleared her throat—“only that Lord and Lady Stirling can’t visit at Christmastime.”

“I’m sorry,” Manfred said. Neville made a pitying noise.

“It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. Because her question had been answered. Sometimes, “whores’ tricks” did not work.

You asked about your friend, Major Taverston.

He did come to London after leaving Tonbridge.

He was quite a man-about-town for a while.

Philip pointed him out to me one evening at the theater.

You can’t say you never noticed how good-looking he is!

But now Philip says he’s turned recluse.

I believe he’s still in London. Rumor has it he’s at the Albany.

But I don’t know if anyone knows for sure.

“Neville, I think I will go visit Marianne, after all. After Christmas.”

“Good. We will be fine here. You should go.”

Camellia folded the letter and set it aside. Major Taverston had better be in London. It appeared they were going to be shackled to one another after all.