“These’ll do dinner for us,” she said briskly, swirling through the kitchen and putting the dish into the larder. She continued talking to herself absentmindedly about what would do for which meal, how much flour or potatoes they had left, and if the onions would last. They had used a lot of onions lately to flavor very plain food.

She had been preoccupied recently. Charlotte thought it had to do with Sergeant Tellman. She knew he had been at the house the other evening, even though she had not seen him herself. She had heard his voice and deliberately not intruded. Having Tellman sitting in the kitchen, exactly as if Pitt were still at home, made her sense of loneliness even more overwhelming.

She was happy for Gracie, and she was very well aware, rather more than Gracie was herself, that Tellman was fighting a losing battle against his feelings for her. Just at the moment she found it difficult to make herself seem cheerful about anything. Missing Pitt was hard enough. The evenings seemed endless when she was not listening for his step. There was no one to tell about her day, even if it had been entirely uneventful. The high point might have been something as trivial as a new flower in the garden, or a piece of gossip, perhaps a joke. And if things somehow went wrong, perhaps she would not mention it, but the knowledge that she could made all the irritation seem temporary, something that could be ignored. It was odd how happiness unshared was only half as great, and yet any kind of misfortune alone was doubled.

But far worse than loneliness was her anxiety for Pitt, the ordinary day-to-day worry as to whether he was eating properly, was warm enough, had anyone to wash his clothes. Had he found somewhere even remotely comfortable and kind to live? The real misery in her mind was for his safety, not only from anarchists, dynamiters or whoever he was looking for, but from his secret and far more powerful enemies in the Inner Circle.

The clock chimed and she was dimly aware of it. Gracie riddled the stove and put more coal on the fire.

Charlotte tried not to think, not to imagine, and during the day she was quite good at it. But at night, the moment her mind was blank, the fears came rushing in. She was emotionally exhausted and physically not tired enough. She had never been to Spitalfields, but she pictured it all too easily, narrow dark streets with figures lurking in doorways, everything damp and flickering with movement, as if it were only waiting to catch the unwary.

She woke too many times in the night, aware of every creak in the house, of the empty space beside her in the bed, wondering where he was, if he were awake also, feeling his loneliness.

Sometimes the fact that she had to pretend she was all right for the children’s sake seemed an impossible task, at other times it was a discipline for which she was grateful. How many women down the centuries had pretended while their men were away at war, exploring unknown lands, at sea carrying goods over the oceans, or simply had run away because they were feckless and disloyal? At least she knew Pitt was none of these things and he would return when he could-or when she could find some answer to why Adinett had murdered Martin Fetters that was strong enough so even the members of the Inner Circle would have to believe it and the world in general would have no doubt left.

She closed the newspaper and pushed her chair away from the table just as Daniel and Jemima came into the room, eager for breakfast before going to school. There would be plenty to do today, and if not, then she would find it, or create it.

The kitchen clock rang a single chime. It was a quarter past eight. It had rung eight o’clock and she had not heard it. John Adinett would be dead now, his body, broken-necked-like Martin Fetters-being removed, ready for an unhallowed grave, and his soul to answer for his acts before the judge who knows all things.

She smiled at the children and began to prepare breakfast.

It was just after ten o’clock and she was sorting out the linen cupboard for the second time that week when Gracie came upstairs to tell her that Mrs. Radley had called-except that that was unnecessary, because Emily Radley, Charlotte’s sister, was only a step behind Gracie. Emily looked devastatingly elegant in a dark green riding habit with a small, dark, hard-brimmed hat with a high crown, and a jacket cut so superbly it flattered every line of her slender figure. She was a trifle flushed from exertion, and her fair hair had come loose and had gone into curls in the damp air.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked, surveying the piles of sheets and pillowcases strewn around.

“Sorting the linen for mending,” Charlotte answered, suddenly aware of how shabby and untidy she looked compared with her sister. “Have you forgotten how to do that?”

“I’m not sure that I ever knew,” Emily said airily. As Charlotte had married socially and financially beneath her, so Emily had married correspondingly above. Her first husband had possessed both title and fortune. He had been killed some time ago, and after a period of mourning, and loneliness, Emily had married again, this time to a handsome and charming man who owned almost nothing. It was Emily’s ambition which had driven him to stand for a seat in Parliament and eventually to win it.

Gracie disappeared downstairs again.

Charlotte turned her back and resumed folding pillowcases and piling them neatly where they had originally been.

“Is Thomas still away?” Emily asked, lowering her voice a little.

“Of course he is,” Charlotte replied, a trifle sharply. “I told you, it’s going to be a long time, I don’t know how long.”

“Actually you told me very little,” Emily pointed out, taking one of the pillowcases herself and folding it neatly. “You were rather mysterious and sounded upset. I came to see if you were all right.”

“What are you going to do about it if I’m not?” Charlotte started on one of the sheets.

Emily picked up the other end. “Give you the opportunity to pick a quarrel and be thoroughly beastly to someone. It looks as if that is what you need this moment.”

Charlotte stared at her, ignoring the sheet. Emily was being bright, but beneath the glamorous surface there was anxiety in her eyes-and no humor underlying the smart retort.

“I’m all right,” Charlotte said more gently. “It’s Thomas I’m worried about.” She and Emily had shared in many of his past cases, and Emily knew the passion and the loss that could be involved. She was no stranger to fear, and she already knew of the Inner Circle. Charlotte could not tell her where Pitt was, but she could tell her why.

“What is it?” Emily sensed that there was more than she had been led to believe before, and now her voice was sharp with anxiety.

“The Inner Circle,” Charlotte said very quietly. “I think Adinett was one of them-in fact, I’m sure he was. They won’t forgive Thomas for convicting him.” She took a shivering breath. “They hanged him this morning.”

Emily was very somber. “I know. There was more in some of the newspapers about whether or not he was really guilty. No one seems to have any idea why he would do such a thing. Doesn’t Thomas have any clues?”

“No.”

“Well, isn’t he trying to find out?”

“He can’t,” Charlotte said quietly, looking down at the linen on the floor. “He’s been removed from Bow Street and sent… into the East End… to look for anarchists.”

“What?” Emily was aghast. “That’s monstrous! Who have you appealed to?”

“No one can do anything about it. Cornwallis already tried everything he could. If Thomas is somewhere in the East End, where nobody knows, anonymous, at least he is as safe from them as he can be.”

“Anonymous in the East End?” Emily’s face showed only too clearly her horror and all the dangers her imagination foresaw.