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me, and you know that.”
    Mary tamped down her anger. She couldn’t afford to let it divert her. “So you say,” she said, with icy courtesy. “But I don’t require protestations of devotion or apologies just now.”
    “I see.”
    “Wil you be able to pretend that you do not recognize me at the Palace?”
    A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of obstructing your path.”
    “Thank you. I’m very grateful.” She buttoned her coat – not that she remembered having unbuttoned it
    – and reseated her hat, careless of how it might look.
    In an exquisitely polite tone, he then said, “May I offer you the use of my carriage? It’s a most unpleasant day for a walk.”
    Oh, how she hated the high moral ground when it was occupied by others. “It’s very kind of you, but I shal find a hansom without difficulty.” And such social niceties made her heartsick. Better never to speak to James at al than talk to him in this way.
    “As you wish.” He avoided her eyes as he held the study door – a gentleman to the last. “Good-day, Miss Quinn.”
    The wintry sleet came as a rude shock after the warmth of James’s study. Mary stalked southwards, trying not to shiver as a swift wind picked up, driving the rain against her skin with stinging force.
    Natural y, there was no hansom cab in sight. And in her anger, she’d left her umbrel a in James’s front hal . Perhaps it was the cold, but the idiocy of their parting suddenly shocked her. She and James had always been passionate – both in rivalry and in partnership. But they needn’t leave things so raw.
    They would never be casual friends, but she could, at the very least, retract her angry accusation. She stopped, half-way down Torrington Place, and retraced her steps, summoning her courage once more.
    Mary knocked again and ignored Mrs Vine’s raised eyebrows. “Is he in the drawing room?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “No need to show me up.” Mary whisked inside and was half-way up the stairs before Mrs Vine could finish her sentence. She rapped twice on the drawing-room door and barged in. “James, I owe you an apology. I was—”
    The words died in her mouth as she registered the scene before her: an extremely lovely young lady of about twenty, with shining red-gold curls, wearing a satin dress that must have cost more than Mary’s entire wardrobe. The beauty was sitting in an extremely casual posture on the floor, teasing a kitten with a feather. A second gentleman, with the same reddish-blond hair as the lady, sprawled in an armchair. And James lounged on the floor beside the girl, his back to the door. Al three were genuinely startled by the intrusion.
    After a long, awkward moment, the two men scrambled to their feet. James’s expression was unreadable, the other man’s quizzical. The young lady, however, remained where she was, openly staring at Mary.
    “I – I beg your pardon,” muttered Mary. Al her courage, her sensible intentions, dissolved instantly in the beam of the young lady’s startled blue gaze.
    “My mistake.” She shut the drawing-room door and plunged down the stairs. She ignored Mrs Vine’s smug expression. Ignored, too, James’s voice cal ing after her down the stairs. She clattered out of the door and into the square, forgetting her umbrel a once again. Luck was with her, at long last: an unengaged hansom clipped by.
    A moment later, she was Palace-bound. Ten minutes to cry in peace.
    And then she would never cry over James Easton again.

    Seven
    Monday, 13 February
    Buckingham Palace
    Amy Tranter took so long over her morning toilette that she was late for prayers – a grave offence under Mrs Shaw’s regime. For punishment, she was sent outside to beat rugs with Mary. In Mary’s view, performing this task was a boon – even if the air was far from fresh, it was pleasant to be out of doors and away from the constant domestic clatter. But Amy’s round, pretty face was creased and sulky even while