Perhaps some of her admiration was plain in her expression, because the defensiveness eased out of Genevieve and she smiled ruefully, a little at herself.

Genevieve seemed such a formal name for such a woman, almost an earthy woman, one with such a vivid reality. In the lamplight Hester could see the shadow her lashes cast on her cheek and the very faint down on the skin.

Had Angus called her Genny?

Genny… Ginny?

Was that where it all came from, the explanation for her acutely observed understanding of the people of Limehouse and their like, and the terror of poverty? Was it a dreadful familiarity which set her determination, that at almost any cost she would not allow her children ever to be cold, hungry, frightened and ashamed as she had been? The squalor and despair of the Limehouse slums was huge in her memory, and no present comfort would ever expunge it. Perhaps she was the girl Mary had spoken of, who had escaped Limehouse to marriage?

“Yes,” Hester said quietly. “Yes, I see. I am sure Monk will do everything he can to prove Angus's death. And he is extremely clever. If he cannot do it one way, he will find another. Don't despair.”

Genevieve looked at her, hope in her eyes, and curiosity. “Do you know him well?”

Hester hesitated. What was the answer to that? She was not sure she even knew it herself, much less that she was prepared to share it. What did she know of him? The areas she did not know were vast, cavernous; perhaps they were even areas he did not know himself?

“Only professionally,” she replied with a tight smile, leaning back in her chair, away from Genevieve and the quick perception in her face. Her mind was filled suddenly with the memory of those few moments in the closed room in Edinburgh, of the feel of his arms around her and that one passionate, sublime kiss. “I have seen him work in other cases,” she hurried on, knowing her face was hot. Could Genevieve see how she was lying? She thought so. “Do cling onto hope.” She was talking too much, trying to turn the subject. “At least it seems he has learned the truth. He will find a way to prove it, sufficient for the authorities to-” She stopped.

Genevieve was smiling. She said nothing, but her silence was eloquent and full of pleasure.

Hester felt trapped, not by Genevieve but by herself.

“You came from Limehouse, didn't you?” she said quietly, as a matter of confidence, not accusation. Half of her knew it was an attack to defend herself.

Genevieve flushed, but her eyes did not evade Hester's, nor was there anger in them.

“Yes. It seems like another life now, it was so different, and so many years ago.” She moved a little and the lamp light changed on the planes of her face, throwing the strength into relief. “But I won't let anything drive me back. My children will not grow up there! And I won't have Lord Ravensbrook feed them and clothe them, and dictate what manner of people they shall be. I won't let him hug them, to fill Angus's place.”

“Would he do that?” Hester said slowly, picturing Ravensbrook's dark, patrician face in her mind with its arrogance and charm.

“I don't know,” Genevieve confessed. “But I'm afraid of it. I feel terribly alone without Angus. You see, he understood me. He knew where I came from, and he didn't mind my occasional mistakes…”

A whole vision of fear and humiliation opened up in front of Hester. With a breathtaking vividness she perceived what it would be like for Genevieve at Ravensbrook House night and day, watched at every meal, observed and quite soon criticized. Not only would Ravensbrook himself notice all the tiny errors in even the most carefully produced etiquette or grammar, but perhaps even worse, so would the staff, the careful butler, the supercilious housekeeper, the giggling maids. Only possibly Enid would not care.

“Of course,” she said with intense feeling. “You must keep your own home.

Mr.-' She was interrupted by a brisk knock at the door and the housekeeper walking in, her face grim, the keys at her belt jangling.

“There is a person to see you, Miss Latterly,” she announced. “You had better use the butler's pantry. Mr. Dolman says as he doesn't mind. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Stonefield.”

“What kind of a person?” Hester asked.

The housekeeper's face did not change in the slightest, not a flicker of her expression moved.

“A male person, Miss Latterly. More than that you will have to find out for yourself. Please be advised we do not allow the female staff to have followers, and that also applies to you while you are resident here, whatever your purpose.' Hester was stunned.

But Genevieve felt no such restrictions.

“Miss Latterly is not a servant, Mrs. Gibbons,” she said smartly. “She is a professional person who has given her time freely out of regard for Lady Ravensbrook, who might well have died if it had not been for her treatment!”

“If you can call nursing a profession,” Mrs. Gibbons retorted with a sniff.

“And it is the good Lord who heals the sick, not any of us, Mrs.

Stonefield. As a Christian woman, I'm sure you know that.”

Thoughts flashed across Hester's mind about the virtues of Christian women, beginning with charity, but this was not the time to enter into an argument she could not win.

“Thank you for bringing me the message, Mrs. Gibbons,” she said, baring her teeth in a gesture that bore little resemblance to a smile. “How kind of you.” And with a nod to Genevieve, she rose to her feet and left the room.

The butler's pantry was two doors along the passage, and she went in without knocking.

She was startled to see Monk standing there looking almost haggard. His face was pale and there were lines of strain unlike anything she had seen in him since the Grey case.

“What is it?” she asked, closing the door behind her, her stomach sinking with dread. “It can't be Stonefield, can it? It… it's not Callandra.”

Pain almost dizzied her. “Has something happened to Callandra?”

“No!” His voice was strident. He controlled it with an effort. “No,” he repeated more calmly. His face was full of emotion and he was obviously finding it extremely difficult to frame the words to tell her.

She forced back her impatience. She had seen both shock and fear before and she knew the signs. To have affected Monk this way it must be something very dreadful indeed.

“Sit down and tell me,” she said gently. “What has happened?”

Temper flared in his eyes, then died away, replaced by the fear again. The very fact that he did not retaliate chilled her even more. She sat down on the drab, overstuffed chair and folded her hands in her lap, under her apron, where he could not see that they were clenched together.

“I have been accused of assault.” He said the words between his teeth, not looking at her.

“And are you guilty?” she asked levelly, knowing his rage and his physical strength. She had not forgotten the body in Mecklenburg Square, beaten to death, and that Monk had once feared he had done it himself.

His eyes widened, glaring at her, his features twisted with outrage.

“No!” he shouted. “God in heaven, no! How can you even ask?” The words choked him. He looked as if he could never forgive her for the question. He was shaking with fury, his body so tensed he was even now at the edge of violence, simply to release what was becoming unbearable.

“Because I know you,” she answered, feeling increasingly that perhaps she did not. “If someone angered you enough, you might-“

“A woman!” The cry strangled in his throat. “Assault a woman? Force myself on her?”

She was stunned. It was so absurd it was almost funny.

Except that he was obviously serious, and profoundly frightened. Such a charge would ruin him, she knew that only too well. Her own professional existence also rested on reputation, and she knew how nearly she had once lost that. It had been Monk who had fought for her, worked night and day to prove her innocence.