Clara looked blank. “Is that so bad?”

“My dear! He married far above himself, and he drinks like a fish. What do you say to a man who has a drunk for a near friend?”

“There was ever so much fuss when Mr. Lenox stopped that man at the Mint from stealing all that money-do you remember? The murdered journalists?”

“He probably murdered them himself,” said Bess in a complacent tone. Whether it wanted to or not, she was determined to watch the world slide into iniquity.

The amateur detective-for such he was, and would own it much more proudly than someone like Bess, who thought it a betrayal of his birth, would prefer-paced across the marble floor of the hall. It was otherwise empty, too early in the afternoon for people to be at their tea. Clara thought gloomily of all the hotel’s other residents, out buying lovely dresses and drinking lovely wine and seeing lovely gardens.

In truth, she knew far more of London and its society than her aunt ever could, and now she pulled out her trump card. She rather liked the look of Lenox, and adored the style and beauty of his new wife. “Wasn’t he just elected to Parliament, Aunt?” she said sweetly.

Bess dismissed this with a scowl. “Oh, anyone is in Parliament these days, Clara, it’s a disgrace. No, what matters is that for all his adult life he has been a detective. It’s the lowest thing I ever heard, I swear.”

Clara was only half listening, however, because her own mention of Parliament had recalled Harold to her again. Parliament was his ambition, and whatever he wanted she did, too, passionately.

It was hopeless, she repeated to herself. Utterly hopeless.

And for the silliest reason! It wasn’t because he didn’t reciprocate her affection. He did, which made her heart flutter to contemplate.