Cony shyly handed Alan a folded and wax-sealed letter that had been waiting on the silver tray by the door.

"She lef ya this, sir," Cony told him. "I 'spect you'd be wantin' a brandy'r somethin' warmin', sir?"

"Aye, thankee, Cony. I'd admire that," Alan said, drawing a well-preserved William and Mary chair he'd found at a second-hand shop closer to the fire to read it. Alan Lewrie had gotten too many notes or letters from women to imagine that it was good news. Which explained his waiting until he had a brandy in hand and one sip in his belly for fortification before he broke the seal and unfolded it.

"Ah," he said after a first, quick, perusal. Cony was thankfully busy in the other room, putting a warming pan into his bed and building up the fire in the second fireplace so Lewrie could retire and undress without turning blue from exposure.

If it had tears splashed on it, it couldn't be more plaintive. This wasn't the first time Alan had so shamefully ignored her, he read, and he had to admit Dolly was right. There were so many other things to do in a city as great as London. So many interesting people to hear speak, edifying exhibits to visit. Theatres, dramas and comedies to gawk at. Oranges to be bought and hurled at poor players. So many young women to bull.

She is getting a little long in tooth, Alan told himself. His putative mistress was getting on for thirty. There were the first hints of wrinkles around her mouth, kissable as it was. The first crow's feet around her peculiarly dark green eyes, bright as they were still. Or perhaps, it was because she was available for his pleasure so little of the time.

In the beginning, when he'd run into her at a supper dance back in the summer, it had been intriguing to have her again, to pick up where they'd left off on Antigua. And having her free, with another man to pay her keep, and enjoying her between the magistrate's visits, with one ear to the hallway and the latch was exciting, too.