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"And this arrived for you, too, Miss Susannah, in the post. From a Mrs. Frances Perriman in Barnstable." She extended a gloved hand holding a letter.
    Susannah had no idea who Mrs. Frances Perriman in Barnstable might be, but the letter was indeed addressed to Miss Susannah Makepeace. And Susannah felt so alone in the world that she decided that Mrs. Frances Perriman, whoever she was, was her new best friend.
    She reminded herself that the last shining thing in Pandora's box was Hope.
    She gave Amelia another deliberately enigmatic look, and split the seal on the letter.
    Dear Miss Makepeace,
    I hope you will forgive the presumption, as we have met but once, and then when you were only a little girl. But I am your poor deceased father's cousin, and I have heard of your new circumstances. I would like to invite you to stay with me, if you haven't another situation, and I've enclosed enough fare for a mail coach…
    And so it appeared that she did have a family, of sorts. "I shall be living with my aunt in Barnstable," she told Amelia triumphantly.
    Thaddeus Morley pushed aside a heavy velvet curtain and gazed out onto St. James Square, watching for the hackney that would bring his visitor. He saw only a few pairs of fashionable men and women promenading beneath a sky sullied with the smut of London's daily life, and the statue of William the in, snowcapped with bird droppings.
    He dropped the curtain and let his hand fall to his side. His cat immediately drifted over and bumped its head against it. Perhaps he smells the blood on them . His mouth twitched in self-mockery at the thought. Such melodrama. In a moment he'd be muttering "Out, out , damned spot" like that barmy Lady MacBeth.
    Besides… there had only been two deaths.
    Still, blackmail letters arrived nearly as often as ball invitations lately.
    He smiled again. Perhaps a good meal would steady his thoughts; he seemed a trifle prone to hyperbole today. There had only been two blackmail letters.
    Nevertheless, one would have been too many.
    "Puss, puss, puss," he crooned, running one of his broad, blunt-fingered hands—hands that betrayed to the world that he was but one generation away from the peasantry—over Fluff's silky body, to make him arch and purr. Something about the arching and purring suddenly brought to mind Caroline, the author of the first blackmail letter, and an unexpected sweep of regret and irritation stilled his hand.
    One night, years ago, at a party held by the Earl of Westphall, he'd collected Caroline, much the way one might gather up useful things in preparation for a journey. He recognized darkness and weakness and need in other people, and sank into it, like a tree sinking roots deep, deep below the surface of the ground in search of water. He'd seen it in Caroline. It was, in fact almost integral to her astonishing beauty. And once… well, once he had felt a twinge of something when he was with Caroline. "Perhaps this is love," he'd thought wonderingly.
    More likely it had only been gas.
    But Caroline—perhaps inevitably—had left him almost two years ago. He hadn't kept her chained, after all, and any wild creature might venture out when the door is left open. She'd chosen to wander out of doors with a handsome American merchant.
    Perhaps she'd left the merchant, too. Something had clearly gone wrong with him, or she wouldn't now be resorting to blackmail.
    Morley thought she of all people would have understood why blackmailing him would be a terrible mistake. How ferociously, ruthlessly, quietly he had fought for everything he now had. How ferociously he would fight to preserve it.
    But then again, Caroline wasn't clever, and rarely thought past a given moment. He'd run her aground soon enough.
    The bell rang. He waited for Bob's heavy boots to come up the stairs to his sitting room. He called all of the men Bob; it seemed simpler; it reminded them of their place and imposed a sort of anonymity. This particular Bob had proved his