She listed the reasons against it. She knew nothing of his family or his life. He was a criminal, albeit a charming one. And he loved elsewhere.
And on her side, if she took one lover, it would be easier to take a second, once the first lost interest. And then a third. And some day, she would awake to find she had no lover, no husband and no reputation. If she wished for marriage, she must not begin by settling for less.
Yet it was hard to think beyond the moment. She could have his help and his affection, should she but ask. He might leave some day. But she remembered the feel of his hands upon her, and the rushing in her that was unlike anything she had ever felt for Robert. He might leave and she might find another. But who was to say that her next husband could arouse such passion in her? If she did not give in to him now, she might never know that feeling again.
Her teacup trembled in her hand. Very well, then. She would ask him to be careful of her reputation, but she would yield to him as soon as he asked. And no one need ever know of it, but the two of them.
And then she stared down at the front page of her paper. A hanging. She stared down at the article, reading with horrible fascination. The man had been a burglar, stealing purses from a rooming house. The gallows mechanism had failed, and his body had dropped scant inches, leaving him to dance out the last of his life for nearly an hour. And the whole time his wife and children had stood, at the foot of the gibbet, pleading for leniency, or at least a quick death. The crowd had not wanted their fun spoiled and had mocked them, laughing and pelting them with offal until they had run from the scene. And the woman had lacked even the money necessary to retrieve the body for burial.
She imagined the man, spasming out the last of his life in front of a cheering throng while his family stood by, helpless. And then she imagined Tony, dancing for the hangman, and standing below him, crying her heart out and unable to help.
But if she kept to her current plan, it would be even worse. Then, she would hide in her house, afraid for her precious reputation, leaving him to die alone and friendless. And she could read in The Times, the next day, how he had suffered for the amusement of the crowd. She would hate herself, to her last breath, knowing that the man she loved had suffered, and she had done nothing to help.
Her hand jerked as a shudder racked her, and the tea spilled on to the paper, blurring the words.
‘Your Grace, there is a gentleman come to call.’ Her maid was holding a salver.
‘I am not at home to Lord Barton.’
‘Not Barton, your Grace. Mr Smythe.’ Susan had guessed the identity of her visitor, and was grinning in anticipation.
Constance stared in fascination at the card upon the tray. She wanted to go to the parlour, grab the man by the hand and pull him upstairs with her. If she asked him, he could help her forget Barton, Freddy and the horrible thing she had just read. For a few hours. And then she would have to come downstairs and face reality again. A tryst with Mr Smythe would be lovely while it lasted. But what future could there be in it?
Only the one she had just seen.
‘I am not at home. Not to anyone. If you need me, I shall be in the garden, but whoever else may call, I am not at home.’
She tried not to rush as she took the back stairs, far away from where anyone at the front of the house might see or hear her. Stopping in the tiny still room by the kitchen, she found a bonnet and basket, and her pruning scissors. It would all be easier in the garden, surrounded by her flowers and herbs. The sights, the smells, the taste. Everything made more sense there.
She stepped out into the sunlight, feeling the protection of the high brick walls on all sides that muffled the sound of the city. Here, there was only birdsong, the faint trickle of a fountain, and the fragrances of the plants. She ran down the path that led to the wrought-iron gate and the street, to the small bench hidden in the shade of a tree.
She sank down upon it, and let the tears slide down her cheeks again, now that she was safe where no one could see her. Her shoulders shook with the effort of containing the sobs. She did not want to be alone any more, and there was a man willing and full of life who could take the loneliness away. It was so unfair, that the one thing she wanted could lead to a pain and loneliness greater than anything she had felt before.
It had been hard to watch Robert die, but he had been older, and they had known the time would come. But Tony was likely to die a young man, suddenly and violently. And despite it all, she wanted him beyond all reason, aching with it.
And she heard a sigh and a faint rattle of the gate. She looked up to see Smythe, hands wrapped around the bars of the gate, observing her.
She wiped her face dry on the back of her sleeve. ‘Mr Smythe! What are you doing here?’
He was nonplussed to be discovered. ‘I beg your pardon, your Grace. I…I…I did not mean to spy on you.’
The stutter surprised her. When he came to her at night, there was no hesitation, only resolute action. But now, he seemed almost shy when talking to her. He was a different person in daylight. But then, so was she, or she would have opened the door for him when he had come calling.
She tried a false smile, hoping it did not look too wet around the edges. ‘You did not mean to spy, or you did not mean to be caught spying?’
He released the gate and held out open hands, and there was a flash of the smile she recognised. ‘I did not expect to find you here. I was told that you were not at home.’ There was the barest hint of censure there.
‘And yet you came to the back of my house. Were you looking for something?’
He leaned his forehead against the iron of the gate. ‘I often walk by on this street. And you must admit, the view of the garden is most restful. I greatly admire it.’ He stared wistfully in at her.
She gave up. At least, if he were near, she could touch him and reassure herself that the fancy she’d been spinning was not yet reality. She rose. ‘You might as well come in, then, and have a better look.’
Without further invitation, he took a few steps back, and ran at the gate, catching a bar easily and swinging his body over the spikes at the top with inches to spare, landing on his feet on the other side.
There was an awkward pause.
‘I meant to open that for you, you know.’ She hoped the reproof in her voice hid the thrill of excitement that she felt in watching him move. He was still very much alive, and it did her heart good to see it. She sat back down, arranging her skirts to hide her confusion.
‘I am sorry. It was most foolish of me. I am sometimes moved to rash actions. Rather like spying on you in your garden a moment ago, and then lying about my fondness of flowers to gain entrance.’
There was another awkward pause.
‘Not that I am not fond of flowers,’ he amended. ‘And yours are most charmingly arranged.’
‘Thank you.’ She patted the seat on the bench beside her, and he came towards her. His stride had the same easy grace she saw in the ballroom and in the bedroom, and she tried not to appear too observant of it. ‘Do you know much of flowers?’
He smiled. ‘Not a thing. I can recognise a rose, of course. I’m not a total idiot. But I tend to take most notice of the plants that provide cover when I am gaining entrance to a house.’ He touched the bush he was standing beside.
‘Rosemary,’ she prompted.
‘Eh?’
‘The shrub you are touching is rosemary.’
He plucked a sprig and crushed it between his fingers, and the air around them was full of the scent. ‘For remembrance.’ He held it out to her.
‘You know your Shakespeare.’
‘If you knew me, you would find me surprisingly well read.’
‘Is