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C amellia unboxed her mourning clothes. She was familiar with grief. After all, she had buried both of her parents. Yet her brother’s death hit her harder. It hurt more. She was losing everyone .

After letting out the seams of all her black gowns, she discovered that only one silk dress could be remade full enough to fit.

It was threadbare at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs, which embarrassed Manfred.

He was always turned out well, even if it took hours for his valet to ready him.

He told her she must have new dresses made.

Although she was loathe to put her overlarge body into the hands of a dressmaker who would guess her secret, she had no choice.

If people were going to talk, they would talk.

Manfred managed to attend Neville’s funeral, but it was so difficult an outing, she suspected it would be the last time he left the house.

His condition was worsening. It was not only that his physical infirmity hampered him, but his frustration made him moody.

Little things angered him. Often, he grew annoyed that she had not anticipated one of his needs.

Other times, he scolded her for fussing over him.

He didn’t like to let her out of his sight.

He asked her daily, if not twice daily, how long it would be before the baby would be born.

Camellia walked about in a cloud of despair. The hours crawled by. She thought at times that Manfred’s immobility must be contagious because she had no motivation to do anything. She felt cursed.

Then, a week after Neville’s funeral, she and Manfred were in the parlor downstairs, waiting for tea to be served. It seemed they spent most of their days waiting for time to pass. She heard Tonbridge’s church bells. In the middle of the afternoon. Ringing and ringing.

“What can it be?” she asked, moving to the window.

Of course, she could see nothing interesting from the window. And Manfred’s only reply was a grunt. But the bells did not cease, so she finally sent Edward into Tonbridge to ask what was happening. He returned winded and flushed, with the scent of ale clinging to him.

“Milord, Milady, the war is won!” His eyes shone. “There was a tremendous battle. Boney is done for. Wellington destroyed him!”

“I knew he would. God bless Britain!” Manfred said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Yes, thank God!” Camellia murmured. She feigned gladness, but in fact, she was almost blinded by fear. There had been a battle? Did Major Taverston take part? Had he survived?

If only she could see him once more. Even from a distance. Just to assure herself he was alive. Because she was losing everyone.

*

As the weeks passed, Manfred grew more irascible. He insisted he would not be confined upstairs as Neville had been. So Camellia assigned Edward the task of escorting him up and down the staircase. Manfred protested, but she would not budge.

He forgot conversations. Or else he wasn’t listening when she spoke.

She felt burdened and hated herself for her impatience with him.

But she had spent a quarter of her life caring for others and she was tired.

It felt strange to think that the one person who had made her feel cared for, in little ways, was Major Taverston. Or he did, until he did not.

Camellia entered Manfred’s library, bored enough to seek out a book of his to read.

But she paused, seeing him slouched in his desk chair.

Stepping closer, she saw he held something clutched to his chest. Closer still, she discovered it was a lady’s glove.

Her heart stuttered. It was not her glove.

It must be Elizabeth’s. Poor dear Manfred. She must be kinder.

She tried to tiptoe out, but he called to her. “Camellia? Come. It isn’t your fault.”

“My fault? What isn’t?” She returned to his side, seeing he’d crumpled the glove and was attempting to stuff it into the top drawer of his desk. He looked groggy. He blinked slowly, then his gaze focused.

“Nothing. I thought…I suppose I dreamed you…the baby. It was a girl.”

She sighed. Of course, a girl would not be her fault . But before she could respond, Manfred started weeping. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Manfred.”

“My dear, what will become of you?” Tears continued to spill. “Promise me that you won’t make any bargain with Alexander.”

“Your cousin?”

“He isn’t to be trusted. If he invites you to stay here—”

“I won’t, Manfred.” She shuddered. Whatever he’d been dreaming must have been a nightmare. “I promise I won’t.”

He raised his hand slowly to wipe his eyes. “My dear, you will have to go to the earl. To Iversley. He is known to be an honorable man. Explain to him. He will ensure the major takes responsibility.”

“Good God, Manfred!” Her throat closed. “I don’t want his brother forcing him. What kind of marriage would that be?” A marriage like that of Mr. Cooper’s unfortunate sister.

“If I die—”

“This is not something we need worry about. We have years before we need worry.” Yet she knew this wasn’t true.

Her husband’s eyes filled with tears once more.

She tried to speak reassuringly. “I can go to Marianne. To Lady Stirling. She has said I’m always welcome.

” Marianne’s latest letter announced she had been delivered of her fourth healthy child.

A baby girl. How wonderful it would be to be able to welcome the birth of a girl.

“And there is no reason to worry now. Another month and we may well be rejoicing over our son.”

*

Crispin stood ashore in Tor Bay with a spyglass. He watched the HMS Northumberland sail away until it was a speck on the horizon, and then gone. The ship was finally en route to St. Helena with Napoleon, his entourage, and his guards aboard.

Good. There could be no escape from St. Helena.

Whistling tunelessly, Crispin walked the half mile to the sparse, tiny chamber in the sailors’ inn that had been his home for the last month, finished packing his valise, and wrote a quick dispatch to Wellington.

His last. The operation had been smooth.

The wily old general had not slipped from their grasp.

His exile was assured. And Crispin was done.

He thanked Wellington for the confidence placed in him. Then he resigned.

Next, he used his knife to pick out a few stitches at the edge of the mattress on his bed.

He reached in to retrieve the code book Colquhoun had given him, and sat down to construct an encoded dispatch, this one to the spymaster, which said essentially the same thing—except for the thank you.

Although in theory, Colquhoun reported to Wellington, the duke’s supervision was a myth.

Colquhoun had given Crispin additional instructions which had come from higher up.

Most likely from Sidmouth, the Home Secretary.

Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was far too decent a man to assign anyone this sort of task.

Napoleon’s prison ship was a source of infinite curiosity.

While it sat in the harbor, sightseers and well-wishers ventured near in boats of all sizes, everyone straining for a glimpse of the one-time emperor.

Most were annoying rather than dangerous, but the general had a following, even in England.

“Steps were to be taken” to prevent anyone from helping Napoleon to escape.

If he nevertheless managed the feat, he must be killed.

And, of course, the assassin would have to disappear.

Perhaps to Canada, Colquhoun had suggested. Though India could also be arranged.

Killing Napoleon would not have weighed very heavily upon Crispin’s conscience. Not after witnessing the devastation the man’s ambition had caused. Nevertheless, he was relieved it hadn’t been necessary.

He put the code book into the stove and watched it burn, stirring the pages until nothing remained but ash.

After scrubbing his hands thoroughly, perhaps more thoroughly than need be, he tucked the letters into his bag.

As soon as he reached Exmouth, he could pass them off to a courier who would see that they reached the intended recipients in Paris.

Feeling unburdened, Crispin trotted downstairs, bypassed the dining room, said goodbye to his host, and stepped outside where a post-chaise-and-four awaited him.

His intention was to travel by easy stages to London.

Three days. Perhaps four. He hoped to sleep through most of it.

Preferably without the plaguing nightmares.

It was early August. He would arrive, he hoped, after the end of the London Season.

He didn’t want to get swept up in the Marriage Mart, especially not at the very end of it when the unchosen misses grew desperate.

Unfortunately, Parliament was no longer in session, so Jasper and Vanessa might have left the city.

Probably Hazard and Alice also. He supposed Reg and Georgiana would be in Cambridge.

And Olivia and Benjamin would be at their cottage at Chaumbers.

Homecoming was different when his siblings were dispersed into three different homes.

If no one was in London, he would head for Chaumbers as soon as he sold his commission. Never again. Never again would he lend his arm to such slaughter.

He tossed his valise into the carriage, then climbed inside. He rapped on the roof to signal the driver to go.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming. Or where he had been. They all thought he was in Paris with Wellington. They’d be very glad to see him, whenever he found them, but not half so happy as he would be to see them.

Crispin leaned back and closed his eyes. Thank God he hadn’t had to disappear.

*

There was no one at 8 Grosvenor Square except the servants who maintained the place when everyone else was gone.

Crispin had known there was a strong possibility no one would be there.

Nevertheless, he felt unreasonably miffed.

He assured the housekeeper she needn’t air his rooms. He would be returning to his set at Albany.

He walked to Picadilly, avoiding carriages, men on horseback, pedestrians, pickpockets, and hawkers of flowers and hatpins.

He inhaled the scent of London’s summertime squalor, and told himself he enjoyed the smell of home.

Still, an unanticipated prickle of unease came over him as he crossed the courtyard of Albany and put his key into the lock of his set of rooms.

There it was. Empty as Christ’s tomb. The furnishings were all draped in white linen dustcovers, giving the room the eerie appearance of a graveyard.

This was not something he had done before leaving.

He suspected Vanessa would have seen to it.

He stepped inside and started to uncover a chair in his parlor, but shuddered and stopped.

He could not bear the thought of spending his first night back in London alone. Especially in this place where he had been closer to death than he’d been at Waterloo.

But where might he go?

Hazard. Hazard and Alice could still be in the city.

He left his apartment and walked to Hazard’s townhome.

The street was much quieter here, its residents more refined.

He knocked. The door was opened by a narrow-faced porter who informed him the viscount and viscountess were not at home.

The pronouncement was definitive and quick—the man did not bother to take Crispin’s card and see if Hazard was at home to him —so Crispin believed the pair were truly gone.

Which left what?

He had other friends in London, but the thought of walking around knocking on doors, begging for company, did not appeal to him.

Unfortunately, he’d left England before Jasper had had the chance to submit his name for membership at White’s.

He supposed he should return to 8 Grosvenor Square, have one of the kitchen maids cook something for him, then stay the night in his old rooms.

Or, he might go to George Street and see if the Hindoostanee Coffee House was still there. He could get a good curried rice. Decide from there.

He stood on the side of the street outside Hazard’s house tapping his fingers on his hip, ignoring the occasional passers-by.

How ridiculous. How could he be so indecisive over something that mattered so little? He’d go to 8 Grosvenor Square. At least there, the servants knew him.

*

Crispin spent a week in London, trying to reacclimate himself to his old life, but he was having a difficult time remembering what that life was.

He knew his old self didn’t wake thrashing and crying out in the middle of the night, dreaming of the battlefield—the piled-up bodies of men and horses, some still twitching in their death throes—the circling crows and scrawny dogs—the scavenging peasantry, who would hurry a soldier along to his Maker if it helped them to snatch a brass button.

His old fearless self would have returned to Albany, not quailed at the thought of so much solitude.

He had tasks, so he performed them. He spoke with an army agent and filled out the papers to sell his commission.

He bought a pianoforte and arranged to have it shipped to his cottage in Binnings.

He visited an employment agency to advertise for a valet and a cook.

And he went to Jasper’s tailor to order three new jackets and a half dozen shirts and trousers.

For fun, he put them on Jasper’s account.

He felt industrious, but very much alone. The aloneness was his own fault, so, finally, he wrote to his siblings, telling them he was in London, then waited for a response. Three days later, he had a letter from Jasper.

We are coming to London. DON’T GO ANYWHERE.

For the first time in a long time, Crispin felt himself smile.