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4
     
     
    “Ready to go back, then?” asked Brady from the driver’s seat of the Hewitt’s glossy black brougham as Nell approached, buttoning on her gloves.
    “Not quite. I need to speak to Mr. Harry before I go.”
    “Take your time, miss,” he said in his raspy brogue. “I’m not mindin’ all this heavenly sunshine, I’ll tell you that.” A jovial Irishman of middle years, Brady was one of the few Hewitt retainers with whom Nell enjoyed genuinely cordial relations.
    “The thing of it is...I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming upstairs with me.”
    “To see Mr. Harry?” he asked in a tone of puzzled amusement.
    “Yes.”
    Brady’s smile dissolved as he got it: Nell didn’t want to be alone with Harry Hewitt. He didn’t ask why, to Nell’s relief. She liked Brady. She didn’t want to have to concoct some specious rationale for dragging him along, but she would, rather than tell him the truth. Viola Hewitt had already lost one son to Andersonville and another to the lulling embrace of Morphia. It would kill her if she were to find out what had transpired between Harry and Nell last May—to be forced to confront the beast lurking beneath her son’s urbane façade.
    *   *   *
    Harry Hewitt met Nell’s eyes through the glass-paned door of his opulent, sun-washed office as she waited with Brady in his secretary’s anteroom.
    His burnished gold hair oiled just enough to impart the perfect patrician sheen, Harry sat perched with a cigar and a glass of whiskey on a corner of his marble-topped desk. He was nattily attired as always, in a slate-colored morning coat and paisley cravat, which he wore drawn through a signet ring so that it hung straight down his chest, rather than bow-tied—a fashion introduced by the eccentrically elegant Mr. Dickens during his reading tour last year and emulated by no one in Boston, to Nell’s knowledge, aside from Harry. He was groomed to a high polish, the only flaw in his appearance being a small scar on his left eyelid—its provenance known only to Harry and Nell—which caused that lid to droop ever so slightly.
    On a coat tree in the corner there hung a cashmere overcoat, one of those awful new homburg hats, a silver-handled walking stick, and a long, pearl gray gentleman’s scarf of heavy silk twill embroidered with Harry’s distinctive, vine-framed double-H monogram. About a dozen others, in a rainbow of hues, were hung on pegs on the wall. Harry’s scarves had become, along with his unique vests and cravats, something of a sartorial signature. In Boston, one said “Harry Hewitt” the way the rest of the world said “Beau Brummel.”
    Harry’s secretary, the balding and bespectacled Carlisle, was announcing Nell’s request for an audience and holding out Viola’s folded letter with
To Whom it may Concern
written on the front in the violet ink of which she was so fond. Harry barely glanced at the letter. His gaze shifted from Nell to Brady, and back again. A corner of his mouth quirked knowingly. Too late, Nell realized her mistake in bringing along a protector. She’d learned long ago not to let dangerous men sense her fear, but such hard-won wisdom was difficult to retain, given how tame and privileged her life had become.
    Carlisle continued to offer the letter, but Harry made no move to take it. He raised his glass to Nell, his eyes hard, his smile grim, and tossed back its contents in one gulp, then shook his head to Carlisle and waved him away.
    “I’m sorry, miss,” said Carlisle when he rejoined them, “but Mr. Hewitt is terribly busy this afternoon, so I’m afraid he won’t be able to—”
    “Tell him I’ll catch up with him sooner or later.” Nell snatched the letter from his hand and left.
    *   *   *
    “Home now, miss?” Brady asked as he handed Nell into the big black brougham.
    She settled into the front-facing seat, arranging the folds of her skirts, feeling the contours of the two letters in her pocket: Viola’s