She watched, and eventually a small carriage moved across a bar of moonlight: even the horse looked silver in the cold glow.

Two carriage lamps were burning like bright little eyes, as if they and not the horse were finding the way.

She sighed. Probably someone who had taken too much to drink, and would be overcharged by the driver for his folly.

Her hand was still beneath her breast, and she could feel her heart beating with sudden disbelief. The carriage was veering across the road towards this house.

She stared down, barely able to breathe as the door opened and a white leg paused uncertainly on the step. The coachman was gesturing with his whip. It was like a mime. The passenger stepped down soundlessly onto the pavement. Even the gold buttons on his coat looked like pieces of silver.

And then Richard was beside her, gripping her waist, and she imagined she must have called out, although she knew she had not.

He looked down at the road. The sea officer was peering at the houses, while the coachman waited.

“From the Admiralty?” She turned toward him.

“Not at this hour, Kate.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll go down. It must be a mistake.”

Catherine looked down again, but the figure by the carriage had vanished. The bang on the front door shattered the stillness like a pistol shot. She did not care. She had to be with him, now, of all times.

She waited on the stairs, the chill air exploring her legs, as Bolitho opened the door, staring at the familiar uniform, and then at the face.

Then he exclaimed, “Catherine, it’s George Avery.”

The housekeeper was here now, muttering to herself and bringing fresh candles, obviously disapproving of such goings-on.

Catherine said, “Fetch something hot, Mrs Tate. Some cognac, too.”

George Avery, Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, was sitting down as if gathering himself. Then he said, “Honourably acquitted, Sir Richard.” He saw Catherine for the first time, and made to rise. “My lady.”