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accounts doesn’t matter,” he continued. “When going to war, first the troops settle into their encampment.” Opening his arms, he said, “Welcome to your new home.”
    “She’s staying here?” Lazarus demanded when Bronwyn fell into stunned silence.
    “We need the good widow close at hand,” Marco explained. “She’d rile up too much scandal if any of us went trooping through a hotel room or boardinghouse. Scandal can be the enemy of subtlety.”
    The flat wasn’t that far in quality from the boardinghouse, but she still needed a moment to adjust herself to the idea of sleeping here. At least temporarily.
    “If it’s scandal you’re avoiding,” Lazarus interjected, “then she can’t stay here. On account of the fact that it’s where I live. An old soldier like me won’t be in Debrett’s, but even I know that an unmarried woman can’t share a roof with an unmarried man. And pretty unmarried women aren’t an exception.”
    “You won’t be staying here, you ass,” snapped Harriet. “I will.”
    Was that jealousy Bronwyn heard in the other woman’s voice?
    “And where the bloody hell am I supposed to go?” Lazarus demanded.
    “You’ll be at my place,” Marco said wearily. “But you’re keeping your boots on the whole time. I don’t want my rooms smelling of your feet.”
    “Like roses, they are,” the soldier answered with a grin. “Roses with bunions.”
    Harriet made a face, and Marco shook his head, yet all Bronwyn could do was watch the interplay between these strangers. A wave of loneliness washed through her. She’d been so isolated and for so long, even before Hugh had died. But these Nemesis people were friends of a sort, united by a common purpose. She was the outsider suddenly thrust into their midst.
    “Can you show me to my room?” she asked Harriet as she picked up her luggage. She needed to get away from the reminders of what she’d lost.
    To her surprise, Marco plucked the valise and violin case from her hand, and headed for the staircase. That certainly couldn’t be proper. But the world had gone so topsy-turvy, she couldn’t hold anything to the standards of what she’d known. So she followed him as he silently climbed the stairs.
    “How do you do that?” she asked his back. She wasn’t a big woman by any stretch, but the steps creaked beneath her feet.
    He seemed to know to what she was referring, because he answered without looking back, “A combination of talent and training.”
    She wondered what sort of work required a man to train in the art of moving noiselessly. Was he a thief? It made sense, given the shadows in his eyes and the sleekness of his movement. But the Nemesis operatives claimed to be lawful. Or somewhat lawful.
    At the top of the stairs stood a hallway, covered by a battered carpet. A handful of doors lined the corridor. Marco pushed one open and gestured her in. It was a narrow chamber with an equally narrow bed. The window looked out onto a drab yard where someone had attempted to grow a garden and failed.
    Aside from a washstand, the other piece of furniture was a small writing desk. Idly, she opened the drawer, and pulled out a copy of Hardy’s Return of the Native. She opened the cover.
    THIS BOOK IS BOLLOCKS—JD , someone had scrawled.
    Whoever JD was, they shared the same opinion of the book.
    “I prefer Haggard, myself,” Marco offered, setting down her valise and violin case.
    She returned the volume to its drawer. “Gaskell for me, even though she’s not au courant .” She traced her fingers over the worn surface of the desk, its top gouged from countless pens. “I had to sell all of my books when Devere took everything.” Even North and South, despite her fervent wish that her own Mr. Thornton might appear to beat the men taking her books.
    Turning back, she saw that Marco’s face had gone expressionless. “There’s water in the ewer. Freshen yourself up—we’re going out.”
    “Where?”
    “To Devere’s